Page 7 of His Temporary Assistant

My stomach growled as I gave the swing one last long look as it drifted in the slight breeze.

Later, I promised myself.

Dinner and Scotch first. A shower after that. Then I’d come out here and hope the creak of the swing could drown out my restless thoughts.

I went inside and poured my drink before heading out to grill on the back half of the porch. Soon, the scent of sizzling meat and vegetables filled the air, and the Scotch settled warmly in my belly.

Everything seemed a little easier when the edges disappeared.

When I’d sated my hunger and cleaned the kitchen—God knows I didn’t ever leave a dirty dish behind—I finally found my way to the swing. That shower was sounding better and better, but I needed the crisp breeze against my skin. The air was tinged with a hint of woodsmoke now.

Finally, I could fully unwind in peace.

So, why did I pull out my phone and scroll to a document I had deliberately not looked at all week?

Possibly boredom. Maybe self-destruction. Or my endless desire to prepare for what lay ahead.

As if I even could.

There wasn’t much on the page. Three references on the bottom, starting with April Finley. Her name and address on top.

Ryan Goddess Moon.

Alone in the darkness, I laughed out loud. I’d wondered if her last name was fictitious before. Now I knew it had to be.

Or my name was really Preston Lovechild Shaw.

The apartment she listed was a couple miles from here, closer to Syracuse and just outside Kensington Square, where my office was located. Well, wasn’t that handy?

Yet April had warned me she probably wouldn’t be on time. How late would she be if she lived farther away?

Luckily, not my problem. I had enough of them.

Her job history was sparse. She had some experience at an insurance agency. A brief position as the front desk greeter for some hotel. A few lines about her past as a “curator of crystals and metaphysical goods” for an eclectic shop.

Currently, she was part of a podcasting duo. But it got even better. Her show was about “exploring your inner earth goddess through Tarot, palmistry, auras, and astrology.”

The name? Tarot Tramps.

I laughed again, hard enough my side cramped.

Then I zeroed in on the cell number listed beneath her address. A quick check of my phone said it was nearing ten pm. Way past a reasonable time for a work-related text.

Or any sort of text with a woman who’d pissed me off so much with her additional accent mark rejoinder that I hadn’t deigned to reply all week. Mainly because I was impressed. She’d sent volley after volley back at me when normally, people deferred to whatever I said.

I was used to that treatment. Expected it.

Ryan Goddess Moon did not give one good crap what I expected.

I typed in the number and a quick text. The time, the method of delivery, and maybe even the message was inappropriate for a future associate. But she’d inadvertently made me laugh on a night when it seemed out of reach. So, I owed her my kind of thank you.

PMS: Where did you come up with the name Tarot Tramps?

I’d grown so used to her rapid-fire email responses that I figured she would text the same way. Then again, it was late in the evening on a Friday.

Some people had social lives. She might be on a date. With her boyfriend. Or husband.

My shoulders tightened. So what? I was just asking a simple question. She could respond if and when she chose.

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