She hated the way he looked at her, his persistent eye contact that felt too personal for what he was to her. Slowly she followed Much's lead and sat down, even though every fibre of her demanded that she bolt out of the door, and slid the chair backwards as much as she could get away with, putting more space between them.
"Get it over with," she muttered, still clutching her fork. At least she could stab him in the face with it as an escape mechanism.