“I’ll get on it right now.”
“Thanks.” We disconnect, and another email from Cecil slides in, asking for more information that’s already in the document. It’s like he’s building a paper trail for an eventualI told you so.
Not today.
I copy, paste, and send the relevant sections back, wasting time I don’t have, but refusing to give him ammunition.
Natalia knocks. I glance up, hoping I appear less frayed than I feel.
“Special delivery.” She holds up a brown paper bag with The Ship Mate logo.
“Must be from my dad.” I peek inside and find a lobster roll, side salad, two bottles of electrolyte water—one plain, one peach. But the real tell is a slice of chocolate truffle cake.
Natalia smiles. “Mr. Webber did good.”
“Mmm,” I murmur noncommittally. Then as soon as she leaves, I text DK.
Me: Got your lunch. You went all out. Thank you.
DK: Don’t worry, I was discreet. How’d you know it was from me?
Me: The truffle cake was a dead giveaway.
DK: I hope it passes the chocolate snob test.
Me: It absolutely does. It’s been a morning. This was just what I needed.
DK: Anything I can help with?
Me: Beat up Cecil Newman for me.
DK: I don’t know who he is, but I’m on it.
A grin spreads across my face.
Me: I appreciate that. But I can handle him myself.
DK: No doubt. What did he do?
Me: He’s a councilman who thinks I should be barefoot in the kitchen with a brood of kids.
DK: I apologize on behalf of all asshole men. Which leads me to ask if you’ve put me in that camp?
Me: Rayne showers?
DK:...
Me: You get points for clever messaging.
DK: I thought your slogan was clean and catchy. Couldn’t leave it unchecked.
Me: I get it.
DK: Are we good?
Me: Yes. Thanks again for lunch.
DK: Enjoy it.
