He put the pen down and met my eyes. “Which is why I feel like we can talk about this and then move past it, no hard feelings, no need to make a big deal out of it, you know what I’m saying.”

I felt hopeful that he was just going to reiterate the fact that I shouldn’t make noise after 9 p.m. when I’d been out carousing with my coworkers. I could handle that, especially if it meant we never had to talk about it again.

“Absolutely,” I said. “I agree one hundred percent.”

“Great.” He sighed. “I tried to tell Carson that it wasn’t personal, that you were just new to being a team player and needed to get used to it.”

“I’m sorry.” I held up my hand. “Carson? What does Carson have to do with it?”

Miguel gave me a confused look, and I got the uneasy feeling we hadn’t been talking about the same thing. I mean there was no way Carson had anything to say about my singing as he’d already left in a snit when that happened. Besides, what business was it of his?

“Carson told me that you tried to humiliate him in front of your coworkers at happy hour on Friday night,” he said.

My eyes went wide in surprise. Of all the things I had expected him to say, that was not it. Still, I needed clarification. “So this is about Carson and happy hour and not something else?”

Miguel nodded then he gave me a side-eye. “Was there anything else?”

“Nope.” I shook my head. “Not a thing.”

“Good,” Miguel said. “So about Carson—”

He began but I interrupted, “I’m not really sure what you mean that I tried to humiliate Carson. I mean, he joined us late and, frankly, was a bit rude. He drank some beer and took off.”

“He seemed to think that you’d had too much to drink and it turned you mean,” Miguel said.

“Mean?” I repeated. I was caught totally off guard. I had never been accused of being mean in my entire life. Hello? Pleaser, here. Even when justified, I can’t manage to be mean.

Miguel continued, “He said you tried to belittle him by repeatedly and belligerently demanding that he climb up on the table and twerk for free beer.”

“What?” I cried.

“Did you say that, Annabelle?”

“Yes, but—”

“So you can see how that would be inappropriate,” he said. His tone became stern when he added, “You are the senior creative director, and Carson is your senior art director. You can’t single him out in front of the others like that.”

I blinked at him. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The urge to hotly defend myself was strong, but this was Miguel, my friend, and I was certain he would hear me out.