How small he made me feel.
Yeah, he’s a prick. A self-involved bulldozer of a man who I want absolutely nothing to do with. And, more importantly, any job I take has to be within driving distance. I’ve never been on a plane in my life. I’m not about to start now.
Not even for Miranda Lawson.
Right, I think, sitting up on the sofa. Moving on.
I’m driving back to New York first thing in the morning, so I put together the report for Roger Hamilton, order room service, and pack. Then I eat my dinner on the couch while watching TV.
Just as I’m about to get into bed a few hours later, someone slips an envelope under my door.
I stare at it like it’s full of anthrax. Who would be slipping me notes? At this hour? Here?
Only one way to find out.
I walk with trepidation to the door, open it, and peek out. The hallway is empty and silent. I close the door, pick up the envelope, and pull out a single sheet of paper. It’s handwritten in blocky, blunt print. The first line alone has me gasping.
I owe you an apology.
It wasn’t my intention to insult you, but I think that’s what I’ve done. I’m not very good at treading lightly. Truth be told, I have one setting, and that’s full steam ahead. Sometimes I forget my manners.
Sometimes I’m a dick.
You were right to flip me off, and I can’t honestly say I blame you for walking out. What I can say is that I wasn’t bullshitting you when I said I wanted you on this job. Not to sound like a stalker, but I’ve kept any eye on what you’ve been up to the past three years, and I’m damn impressed. I think you could rule the world if you wanted to, Tabby.
Anyway. Since I won’t ever see you again, I’ll take this opportunity to say I’m sorry. Sincerely. Best of luck to you. I’m sure whatever you’re working on next will be much more interesting than meeting Miranda Lawson.
Yours,
Connor
I stand there with the letter in my hands for what feels like a long time. Then I crumple the letter in my fist. “Nice try, jarhead.”
I throw the letter in the trash.
The drive from DC to Manhattan is just under five hours with no traffic. Since it’s a Saturday and I left with the sunrise, I expected to be home by noon. Unfortunately, there was a pileup on the New Jersey Turnpike, so it took an additional few hours. By the time I get home, I’m crabby and ravenous.
“Honey, I’m home!” I call out as I walk inside.
“We’re in here!” answers a faint voice from the direction of the living room.
My townhouse is in the swanky part of Greenwich Village. I bought it two years ago and promptly tore out all the hideous purple carpeting the previous owner favored, along with the blood-red Victorian floral wallpaper that made my skin crawl. It was like living inside a rotten plum. Now the walls are painted delicate eggshell, the floors are glossy ebony hardwood, and the furniture… I’m still working on the furniture. In five stories with six bedrooms, the only places to sit are behind the desk in my office, on the sofa in the living room, on the floor, or on my bed.
I drop my bags near the stairs to the second level and make my way down the hall. When I get to the living room, I prop my hands on my hips and smile, amused by the scene.
Juanita, my fifteen-year-old neighbor, is sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the sofa with an open bag of Cheetos in her lap and a can of Red Bull in one hand. She’s in her school uniform of white shirt and plaid skirt, but her skinny legs are bare, as are her feet. Her wild mop of curly dark hair is pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. The floor around her is littered with candy wrappers, empty soda cans, discarded bags of chips, and schoolbooks. She has her laptop open on the coffee table in front of her and is watching MMA wrestling, her favorite thing in the world.
Trying to sound stern, I say, “When someone tells you ‘make yourself at home’ while they’re gone, Nita, it’s a euphemism for be comfortable. Not move in and turn the place into Animal House.”
She doesn’t bother to acknowledge that or look over in my direction. “When are you gonna get a TV, man? What kind of weirdo doesn’t have a TV?”
“I’m not weird. I’m limited edition.”
“Tch.”