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“It’ll be three or four hours by the time I’m finished.” He looks at me, head tilted. “Can you handle it, Fiona?”
My jaw works. This man’s an absolute masochist. How he thinks it’s even remotely rational to ask me to do nothing but stare at my phone for three or four hours in a bar that smells like puke, cheap whiskey, desperation, and cigarettes, without at least a glass of wine, is beyond the pale, but fine, I’ve done worse.
Ireallyneed this job.
“I can handle it, Mr. Kane.” I bat my eyelids at him.
He doesn’t like that. “Remember. Don’t come looking for me. The meetingwillbe in this bar, but we are strangers from here on out. The prospective clients don’t know you’re accompanying me, and I don’t want to risk losing their business over something so minor. Do you understand?”
“Understood.” Although I have to wonder why he’d bring me along at all. Maybe Mr. Grumpy-Asshole is afraid to fly alone?
Doubtful.
He turns to go, but stops midway. “And Fiona? Let your hair down. You look like you’re at a business conference. You stand out too much.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “But you told me—” I stop myself before I get in more trouble. “Yes, Mr. Kane.”
He grunts in reply before walking off.
God, the sort of things a pretty face can do for a man. Anyone else and I might’ve gone full-on crazy. The bastardtold meto dress business-formal. But somehow, Gareth gets away with being a total pushy jerk.
I tease out my hair, massage my scalp with my fingers, and order a club soda.
Time to settle in.
I have no clue where Gareth went and I don’t care. There’s a baseball game on TV, which is just about the least interesting thing in the world, and the bar’s starting to get more crowded. I sip my drink, order wings and fries, and start texting anyone that might be around to chat. I start with my mom—no reply—before moving on to Cait.
Fiona: You won’t believe where I am right now.
Cait: Mt. Everest? Are you losing your fingers just so you can text me? I am totally worth frostbite.
Fiona: I doubt you get service at the top of Mt. Everest. And you’re not worth frostbite. Maybe a mild discomfort at best.
Cait: There’s definitely service at the top. You’d be shocked the sort of marvels technology can work.
Fiona: I’m in the middle of a dive bar in Boston “working” right now. I’m actually on the clock.
Cait: Really? For your hot boss?
Fiona: My hot asshole boss, yep. But I’m not allowed to drink.
Cait. WOW. He’s a monster!
Fiona: You have no idea. I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future listening to the most cliché Boston accents discuss sports ball events I don’t really understand or care about. At least I have wings.
Cait: Are they any good?
Fiona: That’s the worst part. They’re awful. And yet I’m going to eat every single one. Remember when I was vegetarian?
Cait: I do remember. When did that stop?
Fiona: When I came to work for Mr. Asshole.
Cait: That’s Mr. Hot Asshole to you.
I grin to myself as I go back and forth with Cait for a while. In college, we were best friends, basically inseparable, at least until she met her now-husband Joshua (not Josh, Joshua). They got super into homesteading stuff, canning food, growing vegetables, wearing recycled whatever, composting, blah blah blah, stuff that I’d actually like and be super into if they didn’t make it some excessive competition. As soon as we graduated, Joshua used money he inherited from his rich grandparents to buy land out in Kentucky, and they’ve been there ever since.
Which means I’m sans-BFF. That wouldn’t be so bad, but I did my undergrad at the University of Pennsylvania, which means most of the friends I made are from all over the country.
