And until the day the restaurant opened, I would continue my role as Trent’s personal chef while I gave my two cents on what needed to go into the elaborate kitchen of the new restaurant.
Just the thought made some of the exhaustion evaporate, filling me with a sense of genuine excitement. I was ready for the next phase of our lives. I looked forward to the idea of exploring a new city with the man I loved.
And maybe, if we were lucky, we’d get to explore a few other things as well.
TWO
ZEKE
“TELL ME WHAT IT IS you’re looking for,” I said around the frustration coming to a rapid boil in my gut.
“That’s not my department,” Everett Knowles the Third—who the fuck introduces himself like that?—said, his snooty tone wearing on me. “I’m merely passing on the information. I was told we need to enhance our firewalls. I found you through a Google search.”
Great. The guy knew how to use the Internet at least. I wanted to ask the smug bastard to explain to me what he thought a firewall was. Fortunately for him, I didn’t have the patience for it today.
With a deep sigh, I sat up straight in my chair and tapped on the keyboard. “I can get by there in a couple of weeks. My schedule’s booked next week, but the week after looks good. Probably Wednesday or Thursday afternoon.”
“Probably?” He sounded skeptical.
Did I stutter? Was I slurring my words?
I didn’t respond because it would’ve ended badly.
“I’m an executive here,” the snooty man said, his tone translating to: I am God in a cheap brown suit. “I don’t have time for probably.”
“How about never?” I suggested, tired of this pissing match. It was obvious the executive at the five-person temp agency thought far too highly of himself.
There was a brief pause followed by, “Okay. Wednesday it is. I’ll let the boys know you’re coming.”
“Should I ask for you?” God, tell me I won’t be working with this jackass.
“Oh, heavens no. Like I said, I’m busy.”
Yep, busy keeping your chair warm with your lazy ass.
“Ask for Peter Jones,” he said. “He’s the one who asked me to call.”
I had to wonder whether or not Peter Jones knew how to use a phone. We could’ve accomplished a hell of a lot more if he did.
I jotted down the name on my notepad. “What’s his number? I’ll call him beforehand to ensure I’m not wasting my time.”
The man cleared his throat as though I couldn’t possibly have said that. They didn’t pay me the big bucks to be some wannabe bigwig’s pansy-assed bitch. If I was going to put forth the effort, I would ensure they knew who was in charge.
“If this isn’t something you’re equipped to handle, Mr. Lautner, perhaps I should speak to your supervisor.”
“I am my supervisor,” I said, keeping my tone firm, the rough edge noticeable. “But if you’d rather call someone else, I’ve got plenty of shit to do. You were the one who called me, remember?”
I could tell you, Chatter PR Global did not hire me for my customer service skills. I was good at what I did—cybersecurity—and the companies I’d already brought on board in the short time I’d been here knew that. However, they learned quickly that I didn’t waste time with the political bullshit. Ask for my supervisor and you’d get my size-sixteen boot right up your ass.
Thankfully, the man wised up and rattled off the knowledgeable one’s number.
“Great. I’ll call him and set something up.”
“Fine.”
I didn’t bother with the social niceties, either, which was why I hung up the phone and leaned back in my chair.
“Tank, I think I’m gonna need some stress relief tonight, boy. Dichotomy’s calling my name. You’re gonna be home by yourself for a bit. Hope you don’t mind.”
My four-year-old yellow Labrador retriever lifted his head from where it rested on the couch cushion.
I thought back to my breakfast conversation with Jamie that morning. I’d reiterated my point several more times before we parted ways, but I got the feeling she was going to defy me. Perhaps I should lock her in the house with Tank. They could keep each other company.
Tank’s nose twitched as though he could read my thoughts.
“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get dinner first,” I told him.
His big head flopped back onto the cushion. Provided I fed him and spent at least two hours a day throwing the ball, Tank didn’t usually complain.
“That’s what I thought.” I picked up my pen and spun it between my fingers.
I spent a lot of time talking to my dog and I didn’t apologize for it. Tank had come into my life when he was little more than a sack of fur and fumbling paws. I hadn’t been in the market for a dog when my kid sister showed up on my doorstep cuddling him close. According to Jamie, she’d found him wandering our grandfather’s neighborhood during one of her weekend trips home from college. I found it damn near impossible to tell the girl no, so I had told the then twenty-year-old that I would allow Tank to be my best friend.
