“Keep the originals,” he said, straightening up, “file them properly, then destroy the duplicates.”
I glanced around the room.
At the stacks of boxes caked in dust and had an overwhelming sense of absolutely not.
“This is gonna take forever,” I said flatly.
“Stop complaining and just do it,” he replied. “I have things to attend to. Lavender will stop by shortly and show you around.”
“Fine,” I sighed.
He paused at the door and turned back. “Ms. Rodriguez.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t fuck anything up.”
Then he walked off.
“I look forward to working with you too!” I called after him sarcastically.
Asshole.
The second he was gone, I pulled my phone out.
Absolutely not.
We live in the age of technology and I refuse to suffer like this. I know too many people and have entirely too much money at my disposal to be doing manual labor. I hired someone to get the records digitized. Then hit up one of my old friends for a beta run of an organization system he’s been building.
About forty-five minutes into him walking me through the program, there was a knock at the door.
“It’s open!” I called.
In walked a petite woman with big dorky glasses, a soft afro, and a sweater vest that looked like it belonged in a library.
I squinted. “Is that Giorgio Armani?”
She froze. “What?”
“The scent,” I clarified. “Is it?”
“Oh!” She laughed nervously. “I don’t really know. It was a gift from my grandmother.”
“That’s cute,” I smiled.
She adjusted her clipboard. “My—uh—I’m Lavender. I’m supposed to be showing you around.”
“Ohhh,” I said, lighting up. “Marley’s assistant. Yes, yes, yes. You’re late, girlie! Let’s go get some lunch.”
“But—I’m supposed to be showing you around,” she said, already flustered.
“That can wait.”
“Actually, it can’t,” she rushed out. “We’re already behind schedule because you got in late, and if I don’t show you around today then Mr. Sinclair can’t show you the vineyard tomorrow and then he’ll be thrown off schedule and I’ll be?—”
“Babe, slow down! Look. Lavender is it? I got almost the entire summer to learn this place, ‘kay? A meal won’t kill us.”
“But my schedule?—”
