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“Yes, sir.”
“You sure you don’t want to wait? I’m going to give him a shot and some cream and he’ll be good to go.”
“I’m sure.” Jake nods stiffly and leaves.
“He’s in a mood,” Bill mutters once the door slams shut.
“I’m sure he’s just tired.”
Bill makes a sound and stabs me in the arm with a needle. Then he gives me some anti-itch and cortisone cream to help settle the hives and the swelling. “I’ll get you set up with a new set of allergy tests when we get back to Seattle and make sure we don’t need to be carrying around an EpiPen for you, just in case.”
“Okay, thanks, sir.” I push up off the couch and run a hand through my hair. I try to smooth it out a little more as I head for the door.
“And next time, tell whoever you’re getting friendly with not to eat strawberries beforehand. It’ll save you a lot of discomfort.”
“I wasn’t—”
Bill raises his hand to stop me. It’s not as if I can complete that sentence without outright lying. “Get some rest and stay out of trouble’s way, King.”
I have messages from Queenie waiting for me as I get into the elevator and head back up to my floor. She wants to know how I am and requests that I message as soon as I’m done. I put a hold on that, since I need to talk to her dad before I do anything else.
I decide it’s a good idea to stop in my room first and quickly wash off the strawberry residue and the smell of Queenie before I visit Jake in his room. I have my key card poised over the sensor when the door across the hall flies open. He wasn’t lying about being next to Queenie, and he looks less than impressed.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Jake leans against the doorjamb.
“I’m supposed to wash my face and put some of this cream on, but it can wait.” I desperately want to calm the itch and the discomfort, but based on how unhappy Jake looks, I think it would be a better idea to just bite the bullet. Hopefully not literally. I slip the cream into my pants pocket and take a step in Jake’s direction.
He moves aside and allows me into his room. I notice the adjoining room door. The low tones of music come from the other side. Where Queenie probably is right now.
The door slams shut behind me. I wonder if this is how reluctant MMA fighters feel when they get into the ring with a superior opponent.
Jake crosses the room and retrieves a bottle of scotch from the fridge. He removes the cap and pours himself a glass but doesn’t offer me one. He takes a hefty gulp. Then he stares at the wall for a long time before he finally looks my way. “I asked you to watch out for Queenie.”
“Yes, sir, you did.”
“I trusted you with her welfare.”
“Yes, sir, you did.” I want to scratch my stomach so badly right now.
He takes another massive gulp of his scotch, and I grimace at the memory of that flavor. I really don’t like scotch. “It looks like that trust was misplaced.”
“On the contrary, I don’t believe it was.”
His eyes narrow in suspicion. “I’m not an idiot. I know what the hell was going on. Look at yourself.” He flings a hand out. “You’re a disheveled mess. You know how many times I’ve seen you anything but put together? Never. Until now. I know my daughter, and I am very well aware of the effect she can have on people. It was a mistake to bring her on as my assistant.” He paces the room. “I should’ve known better.”
“With all due respect, I disagree. Queenie is an exceptional woman, and she’s doing a fantastic job as your assistant. Even though this job isn’t something she’s necessarily passionate about, she goes above and beyond at every opportunity. She’s done everything she can to prove that you made the right decision, sir, and she would be devastated if she knew you felt this way.” I glance toward the adjoining door. Music is still playing on the other side, muffled but there.
Jake runs a hand down his face. “That’s not what I meant. I know she’s doing a fantastic job. She’s impulsive and doesn’t always consider the ramifications of her decisions. That’s all—”
“I would like to date her,” I blurt.
Jake’s eyes widen. “I’m sorry, what?”
“With your permission, of course.”
“You want to date Queenie?”
“Yes, sir.” I can’t quite figure out his tone or his expression. “I’ve had a chance to spend time with her, and I care about her. I would like her to be my girlfriend. I planned to ask your permission tomorrow, but then this happened.” I motion to my face, which is probably not a great idea, so I jam my hand back in my pants pocket.
