Page 634 of End Game

Social content.

A few location-specific variations.

Fine.

Normal.

I did not realize “a few location-specific variations” meant nine separate managers would each have an opinion about whether the phrase “trusted local service” properly reflected their individual market identity.

Apparently Colorado Springs has very strong feelings about adjectives.

My cursor blinks beneath a comment that says:

Could this sound warmer but also more authoritative?

I stare at it for entirely too long.

Then type:

Absolutely.

Because what the fuck does that mean, Greg? is probably not billable language.

Micah passes behind me carrying a bowl of something toward the kitchen.

His hand brushes over the back of my neck as he goes.

I lean into it automatically.

“Food?” I ask.

“Eventually.”

“That is not an answer.”

“Prep.”

“That is also not food.”

He turns enough to give me a look. “You ate lunch.”

“Hours ago.”

“An hour and twenty minutes.”

I narrow my eyes. “Whose side are you on?”

“Time's.”

From the couch, Griffin snorts.

He's sitting with one ankle crossed over his knee, half watching some home-repair video and half pretending he isn't monitoring the shelf hardware spread across the coffee table in front of him.

Apparently we need another shelf.

I don't know why.

I wasn't consulted.