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“Care to share that tale?” Thomas asks.
“I’d rather not.”
As if talking to thin air, Thomas asks, “Mila, do you have any intel?”
The intercom on my desk immediately buzzes to life. “Only that he left on a secret quest this morning, I suspect because he didn’t like what a certain Instagram-famous business lady had to say about his origin story,” Mila says. “If I had to guess, I’d say the meeting didn’t go as he planned and he got his behind handed to him. Then he went to have lunch at a pizza place in Queens—for totally mysterious reasons—and came back looking as ruffled up as you found him.”
“Stop listening to my private conversations,” I bark.
“You pay me to listen to your private conversations,” Mila’s voice comes back from the interphone.
It’s true, I do. In case I need a second opinion, last-minute info, or on the off chance that I’ve missed something important. No one has an eye—or ear in this case—for detail like Mila.
Thomas looks up at me, making puppy dog eyes. “Please, I’ll give you anything you want to hear the full story.”
“Anything? How about you get me out of whatever it is you came to ask?”
Thomas grins. “Anything but that.”
“No deal.”
“I’ll give you my season ticket to the Knicks.”
“Got my own and in a better seat.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll give you an IOU valid for everything except today’s favor. Non-expirable.”
“Nope.”
Thomas hesitates before sighing. “I’ll give you my signed Michael Jordan basketball.”
“You mean my Michael Jordan basketball…”
I lost it in a stupid bet years ago and have wanted it back ever since, but Thomas never put it on the table again. Still, I shake my head.
“Ooooh,” Thomas hollers. “It must be truly awful if not even the MJ card worked. Sorry, brother, you leave me no choice. Mila, is this business lady hot, by any chance?”
“Yep.” The intercom buzzes.
“What’s her Instagram handle?”
“@blakehale.”
Thomas gets his phone out and repeat-mutters the handle as he types, “@blakehale.”
A heartbeat of silence passes, and then a low whistle.
I peek over my desk, but I can’t see what he’s doing. “What are you doing?”
“Just followed her. Mila, do you think Blake reads her DMs?”
I’ve no idea what DMs are, but it sounds ominous enough.
“Someone from her staff sure does, and if they saw a message from a Mercer, they’d probably respond.”
“What do you say, Millicent,” Thomas says, using his nickname for my assistant. “Should I invite her out and ask for her side of the story?”
“Don’t you dare,” I say.
