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As I walk up to our tent, two employees from the bar nod their hellos. Noah doesn’t bother acknowledging me. He’s too busy opening the legs of a collapsible table which seems to be giving him trouble.
“How can I help?”
“Stay out of the way,” he grunts.
The two guys securing the ropes that keep the tent upright give me apologetic smiles and I shrug in return.
“How long has Rowdy’s been taking part in the fair?” I try again.
“Years,” he volleys back. He has yet to make eye contact. Meanwhile, I am the very picture of control. Nothing is evicting me from my temple of calm.
“You guys can go. I’ll get the rest,” he tells the employees. And they do.
“What do we serve?”
I move closer to where he’s working, close enough to accidentally brush the side of his jeans as I push one of the opened tables with a hip to straighten it. His head snaps up and a glare comes with it.
“What happened to Mr. Cheerful Chatty Guy I had to endure back in the truck?”
“We serve baby back ribs,” he says, ignoring my jab. “Burgers and barbecue chicken wings with some side dishes. That’s what we serve.”
“Yummy.” This earns me a near disembowelment with his laser beam eyes. “Whoa.” I hold up a hand. “Let me stop you right there, bud. I’ve seen you in the reindeer underwear your mom got you for Christmas and I know Prancer was your favorite. So save the nasty looks for someone who doesn’t have that image burned into her brain.”
He blinks and goes back to fighting with the table. Except now I get the added bonus of listening to him mutter under his breath.
“We should talk about the business.” He ignores me so I continue. “We need to come to some agreement––get that settled as quickly as possible.”
“Why? So you can run back to your boyfriend?” His voice is the crack of a whip, lashing. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he sounds jealous.
“Ummbasically, yes.”
He shoves the second table to the ground and faces me, shoulders squared. He’s so obviously looking for a fight that I glance around, checking to see if we have an audience. Thankfully, we don’t.
“You think you can learn the new software, how we do inventory, get to know the employees, and look through the books in a few days?” he nearly shouts. “You’re kidding yourself. It’ll take weeks and even that’s wishful thinking.”
Control is starting to get a liiiittle slippery.
“Gee whiz, Undercover Boss. I don’t know but I’m gonna give it a shot.” I look around again and find more than a few people watching us now. “And dial down the noise, will you.”
“This is a joke to you?” For the record, he did not lower his voice.
“Hey––I didn’t ask for any of this. I’m just trying to make the best of the situation. Unlike someone, mainly you, who insists on making it more difficult.”
“If you can’t hack it, all you have to do is say the word,” he goes on, talking over me. “I’ll make excuses to Tim for you, tell him you fulfilled your duties to the will and you can disappear for another ten years.”
Mayday, mayday. Control is not mine. I repeat, control is not mine.
“Disappear? Disappear!”
“It’s what you do,” he adds, finally lowering his voice. His gaze falls on the dusty palms of his hands.
I am speechless with indignation, my temple of calm reduced to a pile of rubble. “Are you implying I disappeared after what you did to me?”
He looks away, his expression only halfway remorseful.
“Wow. You have some nerve. There’s not enough time for me to address how ridiculous that remark is and I won’t be here that long. But since we’re on the topic of your vile behavior…” His hard eyes fly back to me. “Sleeping with your employee is bad for business. We could get sued for sexual harassment, lose the liquor license, and God knows what else. You haven’t changed one bit. You’re still acting recklessly and expecting other people to deal with the consequences of your bad judgement.”
Jaw stiff, eyes flaring, he roughly brushes off his hands on his jeans.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
If he keeps it up, his jeans are going to disintegrate. And although the females in the area would surely like that, I’m not in the mood to defend his worthless honor.
“Are you seriously calling me out––” Slap. “––when you’ve been sleeping with your employee––” Slap. “––for years?” Slap.
“No that’s––that’s…” I pause, temporarily confused while I workout how to refute his claim. “Oliver isn’t…” I mean, technically he is. I pay him as my trainer. Even though I don’t employ him, I pay for his services.
Still, not the same. Oliver would never sue me for sexual harassment. Would he? I’m not in a position of power. Am I?
