Page 14 of Duty

“For the fifth time,” Haven said to the annoying man on the phone, “it’s fifteen bottles of Patrón, and ten bottles of Jameson.”

“Then why does it say—oh.”

Haven felt her jaw click from how fucking fiercely she was clenching it. Two years of ordering liquor and doing the sheets the same goddamn way each time, and all it took was a change in staff at the warehouse for her liquor orders to be somehow screwed up every single time. It was getting to be a little ridiculous.

“Oh, what?” Haven asked.

“I was … okay, fifteen bottles of Patrón, and ten bottles of—”

“My order sheet was made out correctly, wasn’t it?”

The man cleared his throat, and the volume caused the speaker to crackle in Haven’s ear. “Well …”

Sitting at the desk in her small office, Haven rubbed at the even worse headache now starting to act like it might turn into a migraine if she didn’t somehow handle it quick, fast, and in a hurry. She stared blankly at the wall with a large painting of the New York City skyline—something her father had left behind, and never asked for it back—as she willed the man on the phone to speak, and get this goddamn call over with.

“I may have been reading it incorrectly,” the man finally admitted.

“You do realize that you just spent an hour of my time telling me I filled out the order improperly, and I was possibly going to see charges and fees because of it, right?”

“Yes, well, it was a mis—”

“And even after I repeatedly pointed out to you that my order was correct and done in the way it has always been done, you continued to press that I was wrong.”

“I am very sorry, ma’am.”

Haven gave a tight shake of her head, and rubbed at her forehead once more. “Listen, if this issue comes up again, we’re going to have a problem, or I will find a new distributor to buy liquor from. I’m probably a drop in your bucket, but I’m going to make a safe guess here and say I am not even close to the only business you’ve pissed off lately. Have a good day, sir.”

She cradled the phone on the base, and sighed.

“All worked out, then?”

Haven had all she could do not to roll her eyes at Jackson’s question. He posed it from where he stood leaning in the doorway of her office—clearly he’d been standing there listening for a while. She really needed to start remembering to close the damn door.

“It’s fine,” she said.

“Ah.”

At his knowing tone, she glanced up from her desk to find him frowning, but not looking directly at her. “What, Jackson?”

The blue-eyed, blonde man was tall, lanky, and by all accounts, handsome if you asked any of the girls who worked the poles. And frankly, a lot of women outside of the club, too. Jackson didn’t lack where female attention was concerned.

He just … didn’t interest Haven.

At all.

“You’re still pissed at me about the coffee thing, huh?” he asked. “Sorry, H. I do know how to take no for an answer, but I just thought … well, it doesn’t matter what I thought, right? I get it; no more. We good?”

Haven softened a bit. “It’s not you.”

“Don’t pump up my ego, now.”

She laughed softly. “Really, it’s not you. This is just … work, Jackson. I’m not interested in it being anything else, and the more you ask, then the more I have to reject you. Stop being a glutton for punishment, all right?”

The man grinned. “Well, they do say no pain, no gain.”

Haven cocked a brow. “And you’re not my type.”

Maybe that will do it.