Shrugging off my guilt, I put my attention back on my kickass sandwich. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Greta’s tapping on her phone.
A moment later, she breaks the silence, and it’s such a relief, I almost gasp for air.
“Has Josh texted you at all today?”
I shake my head but take out my phone anyway.
A meme from Ship that has a picture of a noose above the wordsNew Hartley, Merrimen, and Volkl Dress Codein the text group we share with Donny.
ASchitt’s CreekGIF of Moira saying,Is this what everyone’s wearing?is Donny’s reply.
Nothing from Josh.
“Nope. Haven’t heard from him.”
I shake my head at the messages from the guys and open my camera. I try to capture the giant oak in the frame, but the tree’s so big, a wall of twisted bark is all I can fit into the shot. Sure, I could get up, walk back into the sun, and find a better angle, but, frankly, I don’t feel like moving. With the kind of work we are doing, you have to rest when you get the chance.
I glance over at Greta, a slice of apple between her fingers, the ground-grazing oak branches making a lattice of leaves and blue sky behind her.
Waving my phone at her, I grin. “Mind if I torture some lawyer friends with a picture of my new definition of lunch meetings?”
She laughs, busting out a truly lethal smile. “Go ahead.”
Turning, I raise the phone so that the shot captures me, Greta, Russell, and the sweeping branches beyond.
I caption the picture with,Business executives at lunch,and press send.
I’m biting into my killer sandwich again when my rapid-fire text notifications let me know that Ship and Donny have feelings about it.
Donny: You dick.
Ship: I hate you. But holy shit! Who is THAT?
Donny: Don’t tell me that’s your business partner.You, Zach Rousseau, do not deserve luck like that.
Ship: Nope. Good genes, dream job, AND you get to look at her all day? Fuck, no man.
Donny: Meanwhile, I look like the lovechild of Steve Buscemi and a garden rake. With a Vitamin D deficiency. I’m never getting laid again.
Ship: Did I mention I hate you?
With a nervous glance, I make sure Greta can’t see my screen. But she’s not even looking. Instead, she’s packing up the remnants of her lunch. Sweat has broken out on my temples, and it’s not from the heat index or the curry spices.
Me: It’s not like that. She’s Josh’s girlfriend.
I hesitate for a minute and then quickly type.
Me: And she’s not my biggest fan.
Donny: If you’re trying to make us feel sorry for you, I have a dick you can suck.
Ship: You mean there’s a woman out there who ISN’T susceptible to your charms? Are we at the End of Days? Surely this is the first horseman of the apocalypse.
I snort and I’m about to fire off a blistering insult to both of them when Greta’s voice—much too close—jolts me out of my skin.
“Who’s not your biggest fan? Are you talking about me?
ChapterFour
