“Of course it’s impressive. It’s a whole-ass car,” he says.
“Honestly, I’d rather have a muffin.”
“Bullshit.” He slams the down button on the elevator.
Truman barks.
“I know, she is stubborn and delusional, isn’t she?” He tugs one of the dog’s silky ears. “If I offer you a muffin or a car, you’re taking the car. You won’t admit it because you're just being contrarian.”
“Yeah, it's obnoxious, isn't it?”
“I'm not being contrarian. I'm right, and you're just wrong,” he shoots back.
“A car is a worse gift than a muffin at this point in my life. Cars need insurance and vacuuming and a parking spot. A muffin, I eat it, I enjoy it, then I don't have to think about it until I step on the scale.”
“I’m not buying you a Starbucks muffin,” he grumbles as the elevator lets us off at the lobby. “They smell like dog food.”
I wave to the doorman.
“Don’t wave at him.” McCarthy swats my hand.
“He’s a human being, and step five is you’re supposed to be nicer to your employees and staff so that they have good things to say about you if60 Minutesstarts prying into your life.”
“Don’t worry, miss. I already know what a terrible person he is.” Anton is cheerful.
“He’s salty because I beat his ass at poker last week.” McCarthy leans on the concierge desk while Truman begs the doorman for pats and maybe a bite of his breakfast sandwich.
I fume. “You can’t be gambling with your doorman. How much did you lose, Anton? McCarthy’s going to pay you back.”
I glare at the unrepentant billionaire.
The doorman smirks at McCarthy. “Pay me back? So you’re going to meow at Mrs. de Vries?”
“You had him humiliate himself for you, McCarthy?” I screech. “This is a new low, even for you.”
“Imeow, right?” The doorman is wearing a shit-eating grin.
“I’ll apologize rightmeow.” McCarthy puts a hand on his heart.
“This isn’t funny! Anton, you should find a new job. You don’t have to deal with McCarthy’s sick games.”
Anton protests. “Hey! This is a good gig, lady. I make six figures.”
“You what!”
Anton smirks. “It’s because I’m cute.”
“Damn, I’m in the wrong profession.”
“And all I have is an associate’s degree.” Anton grins.
“She has an MBA. She’s a little salty about it. Her degree isn’t exactly panning out financially,” McCarthy says, leaning in toward Anton.
“Don’t worry, miss. I beat Mac occasionally,” Anton assures me.
“I’m fairer to you when you lose,” McCarthy argues.
The doorman’s grin broadens. “Last time Mac lost, he had to have dinner at the Aldridges’.”
