But Ayala wasn’t good at flattery. She never had been. Still, here went her best shot
Ayala wiped her hands on her skirt as she walked into the upscale Lakewood office building, then quickly glanced at her reflection in the glass panels to make sure she hadn’t left sweat stains on the silk.
She scowled at herself. She didn’t get anxious meeting with the top oncologists in Israel. So why did the thought of speaking with some guy who’d had a lucky break selling houses make her stomach so queasy that if she opened her mouth, she was sure her breakfast would jump out?
The receptionist gave her a questioning look and Ayala forced herself to speak.
“I’m, uh, here to meet with Mr. Schiller? Ayala Wexler?”
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