by Emilia Finn
Grabbing my briefcase and snatching my phone and keys, I turn toward the door that leads to the hall, and stop when I find Beckett waiting with a playful smile. “What?”
It’s probably a red flag that I already feel on guard as far as this man is concerned. He’s a joker, he’s silly, and he enjoys tormenting people. Me, especially.
“You did good, Tabby. May I call you Tabby?”
“I’d prefer you didn’t.”
Unoffended, he chuckles and steps aside as I make my way through the door and into the waiting room. “Are you always grumpy, or have I just caught your not-your-best-self since meeting you?”
“I’m always grumpy,” I answer easily. “I like law and order and sensibility. And you…” I turn at the door and study my new boss. “You seem to really enjoy the chaos.”
“Well, that can’t be true.” He follows me outside and turns back to lock up. “I hired you, didn’t I? Certainly, that means I crave the quiet and organized.”
Unbothered and unconvinced, I shrug and watch on as he turns the key in the locks. “Whatever you say.”
“You’re lucky I have to run out,” he murmurs while he finishes up. “Or else I could go on forever. I’m the king of I know you are, I said you are, so what am I?”
“Shocking,” I roll my eyes. “I’m going home to eat, then I’ll be back tomorrow so we can continue this riveting debate.” Turning on my heels, I step away and head toward my car. “I’m dead on my feet, and somewhat still in shock about how today turned out. I was fully expecting to finish my binge of that new Ashton Kutcher show. Now you’ve put me behind.”
“How dare I call and offer you the very job you applied for?” Beckett pushes his hands into his pockets and meanders toward the truck with the trailer hitched to it. “Catch you tomorrow, Tabby Cat.”
“Yeah.”
Too exhausted to call him out on the lame nickname—Jen’s nickname for me—I unlock my car and slide into the front seat. Swinging my briefcase to the back, I slam my door shut, only to stop and stare out the windshield at the piece of paper sitting beneath my wipers.
My brain is sluggish, my reactions even slower, but after a moment of hesitation, I open my door again and draw the attention of Beckett just as he opens his door to slide in.
He stops at the truck parked an easy twenty feet from mine, with one foot on the step and the other on the ground as he calls out, “What are you doing?”
“There’s something on my windshield. You’re fine.” I wave him off, then snag the small piece of paper. “You can go.”
Dropping back into my seat, I groan at the exhaustion that overwhelms my body, making it hard to merely function. Unfolding the paper with slow movements, I see the words first. A handwritten scribble. My brain knows what it says, but it takes a moment longer for my consciousness to understand.
Bitch with the bad hair. Karma takes care of cunts like you.
Drawing a deep breath, I shake my head and scrunch the paper. I toss it to the floor on the passenger side and make a plan to forget all about it, but as I reach out to drag my door shut, I’m stunned to find Beckett standing over me, his hand on the doorframe, his brows drawn close together.
“Shit!” I cry out when his presence makes me jump. “You scared me.”
“What was that letter?”
“What letter?”
He purses his lips and tilts his head. “The one you just tossed on the floor. Don’t make me climb across your lap and instigate a sexual harassment claim so soon.”
I narrow my eyes and look again at this man’s large frame. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“No?” Without another word, he crouches and crams himself into the space between me and the steering wheel.
He’s too large, too heavy, and much too wide, so the horn lets out a long hooooooonk.
“Okay! Stop.” I smack his shoulder blades in panic. “Get out.” I smack him again. “You’re crushing me.”
“Don’t ever lie to me, Tabitha.”
Beckett pulls back and kneels just outside of my car, but he has the letter, and with large hands, steely and unshaking, he unfolds the scrunched paper and rolls his eyes. “‘Bitch with the bad hair’? That’s not nice at all.”
“My hair was a topic of heated contention on the day of the interviews.” I reach up and finger the loosened locks that have escaped my ponytail. “Turns out I need to spend three hundred dollars a month on fake blonde to be worthy of a job here.”
“Fucking women,” he huffs. “Ya know, I never understood why females say and do the things they do. Why are chicks so fuckin’ mean to each other?”
I scoff and turn the key in my ignition. “Because men like you pay attention to the loudest bitch in the room. Duh.”
I push him back with a hand on his annoyingly muscular shoulder, then I close my door, though I wind my window down. “Forget the letter. She’s mad about losing her job, but that’s not on me, so I refuse to accept her bad mood about it. And you have half an hour to get home, shower, and change, then get to Pinocchio’s before you’re officially late. Tardiness is ugly and beyond rude, Dr. Rosa.”
“I won’t be late,” he responds with a quirked grin. “The party never starts till I arrive.”
“Geez.” I set my car into reverse and shake my head. “I’m leaving.”
“Talk to you later, Miss Lawrence. Awesome first day. You saved my neck.”
“Uh huh. I know.”
Before I can pull away, my phone trills in the passenger seat and flashes Mark’s name.
“I’m going,” I tell Beckett. “My boyfriend is calling, so I’ll talk to you tomor—”
“Your ‘boyfriend’.” Beckett pushes to his feet and adds the finger quotes to his words. “Uh huh. Like I said.” He adds the fingers again, “I ‘believe’ you.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“‘Nothing.’” Finger quotes. “I’m supportive of all your untruths.”
“What untruths? He’s literally calling right now!”
“Uh huh. I said I ‘believe’ you.” Finger quotes.
“You’re not even using these,” finger quotes, “correctly! What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Oh look. Your ‘call’ rang out.” More. Effing. Finger quotes. “Good timing. Now you have an excuse not to answer the fake call in front of me.”
“I’m done.” Checking my rearview mirror and catching sight of Beckett’s truck and attached trailer, I reverse my car and squash the temptation to ram straight into the side of the bigger vehicle’s glossy black paint and gleaming chrome wheels. “Goodbye, Dr. Rosa.”
“Goodbye, Tabby Cat. Catch you later.”
“Yeah.” I force a listless wave and back into the street, then pushing my car into drive, I putter toward home amid an exhausted daze. Then reality sets in.
I got the job.
I got the job!
Listlessness makes way for renewed energy and a small dance in my seat, then my phone chirps once more, so I snatch the device up and mash my finger against the screen.
“Mark?”
“How was your first day, babe?”
“It was awesome!” My smile stretches my face and pushes my cheeks up so they narrow my vision. “Oh god, Mark. It was crazy and chaotic, and the mess left behind by the last administrators is extensive. But it was fun too, and rewarding, and cleaning up the craziness is my thing, so when this ship sails smoothly, everyone will know it was because of me.”
“Is the boss still a jerk?”
“No. Yes.” I tap a hand to my steering wheel and giggle.
I’m not a giggler! But here I am, elated about how today has gone.
“He’s chaos, Mark. The boss is the reason for the chaos, and strangely, I think he likes it. He wants help to organize the craziness, for sure. But underneath it all, he likes that his world is unpredictable and loud and busy. He’s a joker. One of those obnoxious types who thinks they’re funnier than they actually are, but when I a
llowed myself to forget his jerkwad behavior from my interview day and gave him a clean slate to work with, I realized that his humor is… well…” I slow when I pass the restaurant named Pinocchio’s. “He’s still not all that funny. But he’s less offensive.”
“Promising,” Mark chuckles. “So you’re going back tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. He performed a hysterectomy today, Mark. A full hysterectomy! This isn’t some silly little nail-clipping and dog grooming practice. It’s the real deal! And soon, I’ll be in that operating room with him.”
“But if you’re in surgery with him,” Mark counters. “Who will be the chaos-coordinator your new boss so badly needs?”
“Well…” I cross the intersection and make my way toward my apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe by then, I’ll have trained someone else.”
“It’s your first day, and you’re already training someone else in your mind.” He laughs. “Only you, Tab.”
“Shush. What are you doing right now?”
“I’m in traffic. Heading to dinner with Guthrie, then when I can claw my way outta there, I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted,” he yawns. “I wasn’t made to work hundred-hour weeks.”
I’ve been doing it for years. Though of course, I don’t say that out loud. “Why dinner?”
“It’s a farewell thing.” Mark makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. “He’s gonna miss me, so he wanted to give me a decent sendoff.”
“Well… that’s nice. Does that mean you’re finishing up sooner than planned?”
Mark scoffs. “Nope. I’m still two weeks out, babe. But I’m doing my best to tie up all these accounts. How’s life with Jen?”
“Great!” Moving past the topic of the soul-sucking job my boyfriend loves, we jump to the sister-in-law he hates. “She’s been really helpful, actually. And great company.”
“She’s leaving when I get there, right?” He makes the sound of a sneer through the phone. “She’s not staying, is she?”
“She’ll stay for as long as she wants,” I retort. I pull into my new parking lot and cut the engine. “She’s my big sister, Mark, so eventually, you’re gonna have to get along.”
“Not really,” he grumbles. “The current system works just fine.”
“The current system is my boyfriend and my sister taking shots at each other every chance they get. Then I’m in the middle, forcing calm and soothing feathers.”
“Wait…” Mark lets silence hang for a beat. “She talks shit about me?”
“She makes her feelings about you known.”
I reach back and grab my briefcase, then twisting in my seat, push through my door and into the cooling air outside. Winter has not long ago ended, so the snow is gone and the icy sidewalks are no more, but the evenings still carry a bite, and once the sun is gone, the breeze is enough to make a woman’s nose sting.
“I’m home,” I tell Mark. “How long until you get to the restaurant?”
“GPS says eight minutes,” he answers. “We’re going to some upscale French place. What do they even make in France that constitutes a fancy dinner?”
“Well…” I stride across the parking lot and move into my building lobby. And by lobby, I mean a wall of mailboxes, a stack of pamphlets no one wants to take, and in the corner, a forgotten umbrella. “Croissants are French.”
“Croissants are for breakfast,” he huffs. “And if you say snails next, I’m gonna hang up.”
Laughter bubbles along my throat. “Okay, uh… soup. I’m pretty certain they have nice soup in France.”
“I’m starving, and you’re telling me that the boss is treating me to hot water and breakfast pastries for dinner? What the hell, Tab?”
I make my way up my first flight of stairs with a goofy grin. My body is cruising on low blood sugar and adrenaline, and for just this moment, the idea of Mark choking down soup is far more amusing than it would be any other day.
“I don’t know what you’re gonna eat, but I’m sure it’ll be delicious.”
In my ear, the beep of an incoming call makes me pull the device away to find Beckett’s name flashing. My stomach jolts, and in the space of a single second, my hands shake.
“Tab? Hey, Tabitha? You there?” Mark’s voice brings me back.
“Yeah. Um, I’ve gotta go. My boss is calling, so…”
“Oh, okay.” Mark is neither pleased nor displeased. He’s simply… adapting. “Alright. I’ll text you later. Good luck with whatever the boss wants.”
“Yeah. Okay. Love you.”
“You too.”
Mark hangs up, so I bring the phone away from my ear for the second time, hit accept on the next call, and stumble up a single step when I find it’s a video call rather than voice.
Beckett’s serious face fills my screen and makes my stomach fizz. “Tabby Cat? I need your advice.”
“Er… okay.” My eyes invariably stray to his square jaw, and beneath the stubble he wears to trimmed perfection, the smallest dimple in his chin. “You need… what?”
“Be careful going up those stairs,” he says when I stumble a second time. “I don’t particularly want a front-row seat to you falling on your ass and breaking your neck.”
“Okay.” I slow my steps and stare into my phone. “What do you need?”
“Oh! Yeah.” He sets the phone down, taking extra care to make sure it’s straight and not falling over, then Beckett steps back in an outfit much the same as today, but fresher—that is, no fur on his black slacks. He wears a crisp white shirt with thin blue stripes, the sleeves rolled to expose his forearms. Then he presents an almost identical shirt, but with green stripes. “Which shirt?”
My brows wing up high. “What?”
“I have ten minutes till I’m late, Tabby.” He snaps his fingers and smirks when my eyes narrow. “Which shirt?”
“Is this a serious question?” I demand. “Did you seriously call me right now to ask which shirt you should wear on a date tonight?”
“Yes! Come on, make a decision so we can get on with it.”
“Make your own decision! I’m not your damn mother.”
He scoffs and tosses the green-striped shirt to a bed.
His bed! Oh lord, I’m in my boss’ bedroom already.
“I would never in a million years call and ask my mother about this,” he tells me. “You seriously have no opinion on the matter? This is your job!”
“My job is to take after-hours phone calls and help you make fashion decisions?”
“I mean…” He looks down my body, despite this being a phone call and not an in-person meet. “I know you don’t care about fashion all that much, but still.”
“You jerkoff! I do like fashion.”
“You do?”
“Of course! I just don’t think I need to come to work in something coordinated and perfect.”
“I do.”
“Because you’re a freak!” I crest the stairs leading to my floor and push through my unlocked front door. “Wear the green shirt. The stripes will match your eyes.” I meet Jen’s gaze as she lounges on the couch. “Now stop calling me.”
“Yeah, Mark. Fuck off!” Jen calls out. “‘Bout time you figured this out, Tabby.”
“Oh, who’s that?” Beckett tries to move his phone, as though that’ll help his view. “She sounds lovely.”
“Absolutely not. Have fun on your date. Don’t call me again.”
Unoffended, Beckett flashes a wide grin. “Talk to you later, Miss Lawrence.”
“Yeah.”
Ending my call, I let my briefcase fall to the floor, then my shoulders slump with exhaustion. “What a day.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Jen drapes her long legs over the arm of the couch and flutters her lashes. “And who were you just talking to? He sounded yummy, and he sure as hell wasn’t Mark.”
“If you knew it wasn’t Mark, then why the hell did you tell him to fuck off?”
“Hedging my bets,” she snickers. “Who was
on the phone?”
“My new boss. He’s…” I try to think of a kind word. “Eccentric.”
“Your new boss?” Excited, Jen sits tall, dropping her feet to the floor. “You got a job?”
“Yeah.” Drained, I sit on the couch beside her and let out a deep yawn. “The vet called me back.”
“The asshole?”
“Uh huh.” I fall back and close my eyes. “Beckett Rosa. His new hire was a dud, so he called me a little before lunch and asked me to come in. Now I think I’m stuck for life. He’s clingy.”
Snickering, Jen grabs the top of my head and turns it so I face her direction. When I open my eyes, I find us both slumped on the couch, heads resting on the cushions, cheeks smooshed into our eyes. “You got the effing job? And you didn’t think to call and tell me?”
“Sorry.” I let out a yawn that makes my jaw click. “I got busy fast. I called Mark, but I forgot to call you.”
“And that was possibly the most offensive thing you’ve ever said to me,” she growls. “Is he still an ass?”
“Mark?”
She barks out a laugh so her breath hits my face. “I already know the answer to that question. I meant the other one. Rosa. Last I heard, he was a tool. Now he’s your boss.”
“He seems pretty cool, actually. He’s obnoxious and overly confident. He knows women flock to him, and he doesn’t hold any conversation without adding innuendo or a joke to it.”
“He sounds delicious.”
I snort. “He’s nice, but he’s high-energy. So he’s tiring.”
“And now he’s your boss?”
“Yup.” I close my eyes once more. “I’m his life organizer.” I raise my hands and do the finger quotes—an unfortunate behavior I’ve already picked up. “Work, social, lifestyle planner. I’m to organize his appointments during the day, and apparently, I also help him pick out shirts. Oh, and I make bookings at restaurants for his smutty dates.”
“Jill of all trades!” Jen sniggers. “How old is he?”
“Thirty. His birthday is still a while away, in case you were wondering.”
“And since you’re booking smutty dinners, that means he’s not married. Kids?”