“Afterthe sweater incident?” Wren scoffed before hissing, “Hey, don’t smack me with wet nails.”
“Fine, I’ll wait until they’re dry andthensmack you.”
The sweater incidenthappened when Maddie had tossed my handwash-only sweater into the washing machine.
A machine set on heavy-duty.
Then she’d dried it on high.
My favorite sweater had come out as a shredded, shrunken top perfect for anAmerican Girldoll having a grunge moment.
“We were in high school,” Maddie defended herself.
I looked up from the unanswered text. “Oh, so you always separate your clothes now?”
“No. But I’d do it for yours.”
“That effort is appreciated but unnecessary.” I tried to decide how much to share before admitting, “It’s nothing. He was asking me to dinner.”
Wren’s eyes widened. “That’snotokay.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
Her warning was accurate, but not for the reason she thought. Tripp wasn’t being inappropriate.
I was sure there would be bad days and ones that had me on the verge of quitting. That was how all jobs were, even great ones. But he’d already shown that he was a considerate and, honestly, far too lax boss. If I let myself blur any lines, I would fall into the same pitfall his other assistants had.
Not that I’d be using his name to party and get laid. That wasn’t a concern. But he would view me as a friend rather than an employee.
If we had any hope of this working, he needed to feel comfortable giving me orders.
“It’s not like that,” I defended.
Surprisingly, Maddie didn’t jump to agree with Wren. Her sad eyes were aimed at my phone. “Don’t tell him I said this, but I feel bad for Tripp. He’s really lonely.”
I’d already assumed the same thing, which was all the more reason not to give in to his nightly invites.
I started to answer him before deleting it and drafting another dozen attempts. I finally landed on a response that reinforced that wall I needed to keep tall and strong.
Me: Do you need anything, boss?
TC: Have a good night, Greer.
Holy shit.
His house has been destroyed.
Maybe robbed.
And he’s possibly murdered.
I parked in the circle at the top of Tripp’s long driveway and questioned whether I should get out or just call the cops to handle the welfare check. It wasn’t a dramatic, over-the-topquestion, either. I honestly wasn’t sure if going inside would be disturbing a crime scene.
Because that was exactly what the outside looked like.
The scene of a destructive crime.
The secluded house in the hills was beautiful with its angular architecture and gleaming windows. On a good day, it would make for the perfect backdrop for a photo spread.
