“Bonjour, LB”—his eyes gravitate to the stack of sketches I’ve got in my hand—“are those for that big meeting you have today?” he asks, his Parisian accent still as strong as it was the first day wemet.
“Yep, and I hope it goes well since I’ve lost perfectly good beauty sleep over thisproject.”
“Bonne chance. I do hope it goes well. And, I’m quite certain you can lighten your workload if you just ask for help every now and then.” He pauses as he walks briskly alongside me while I make my way to the front double doors. “Oh, and I am very sorry about the flowers. I saw them being delivered this morning. I know how muchyou—”
“That’s quite alright, Jules. I’ve got bigger fish to fry now. Can you walk Truffles for melater?”
Jules nods, “Of course I can.” He stops me before I push the double doors open. “Uh, your car is not quite here yet. But it should be pulling up soon. You’ve got a brand new driver today,remember?”
Crap. I forgot all about the new driver thing. Apparently Peter, the driver I’ve had for the last six years, has decided to take a break. I just hope the new driver measures up. He’s got pretty big shoes tofill.
“Well, he’s already late. Not a good sign,” I say, tapping my new shoe against the marble floor as I peer out the glass door. I take my cell phone out of my purse to glance at thetime.
“He’s not late yet. And”—Jules flashes that cynical side-eye that silently warnssarcasm alert—“you can always catch an Uber. Or better still, take yourowncar out for a spin.” He rubs his hands together, his lips parting in a sinistergrin.
Jules has been kidding me for months about driving my own car. But I’ll never get behind the wheel of my caragain.
Ever.
Not unless there is some type of anemergency.
Like anapocalypse.
