She turns to face her ‘assailant’. I don’t know him, one of the many invited by Richard. He has the pudgy body and soft hands of a desk jockey and an awkward gait as he steps forward. “What should I do? Try to hit you? Try to knock you down?”
Charlotte shrugs. “Whatever you like. You’re the one attacking me.” She raises both hands, palms up, fingers beckoning in a ‘Come get me’ movement. But her posture is casual. She could be admiring the view.
He blunders forward, arms outstretched, heading for her throat.
She barely even has to try. His arms outstretched, she knocks both to the side with one arm and with the other launches a punch that stops just short of his nose.
He jolts back, his eyes crossing down to the fist just shy of his face. “Got it,” he says, then waves back at the gathe
