“Too….?” Maverick prompts from across the room, elbows on his knees.
“Too frumpy, okay.” I say, scowling. “She’s scattered, she’s frumpy, and she lost her fucking shoes
tonight. We spent half a goddamned hour looking for them.”
Ransom’s lip twitches. “Where were they?”
I groan, lean back on the couch, and throw back the rest of my whiskey, savoring the burn as it
blazes a path to my empty stomach. “They were in a planter in the lobby.”
Laughter erupts around the room. “It’s not fucking funny. That’s time I’ll never get back. I spent
half an hour looking for the world’s ugliest shoes. And the woman has no fucking sense of direction. I
swear to Christ she’d get lost in a paper bag.” How does she function in the world? Who the hell’s
been looking out for her? Because she sure as fuck needs a keeper.
“She seemed really sweet. Yeah, frumpy. But sweet,” Nick offers. His tie is pulled loose, a few
buttons on his shirt undone. “If she can do the fucking job, then I don’t really see the problem.”
“Seriously? Marketing is about image. What image do we want to project to our customers, to our
suppliers, to the community? Because her image screams hippy housewife.”
“You sound like an ass,” Jonas says flatly. His tone takes me back, drying up the words about to
come out of my mouth. “Is she good at her job?”
“It’s only been a day,” I mutter, staring down at the empty glass clutched in my hand.
“Are you saying you have no idea what she is capable of?”
The glass in my hand makes a cracking noise, and I loosen my fingers immediately and place it
carefully on the glass coffee table in front of me. I straighten my cufflinks, then raise my eyes to look
at Jonas standing at the bank of windows. He’s immobile, his clenched hands betraying his frustration.
I’ve seen it plenty of times, but to have it directed at me makes my chest hurt.
“She spent a few hours with the team today…she’s good,” I admit quietly.
“Then you have no reason to ask her to leave. Right, Mav?” he asks, looking at our brother.
Maverick, the only one with a legal degree in the room, nods. “That contract is pretty clear-cut.
It’s an easy out for either party, but if you’re asking her to leave because of the way she dresses, then
Jonas is right, you’re an ass, and you’ll make us out to be assholes by association.”
Jonas nods, satisfied. He knew the answer, but he’s smart enough to get backup when it comes to
family fights. “I don’t dress according to corporate standards, but I am still perfectly capable of doing
my job. Why couldn’t she?” Jonas asks.
