“No. But he at least will have top shelf liquor, and if I am to schmooze as Chickadee suggests, well… I will need better alcohol than these two—” He points to Harvey Fembroke and Rachel Corlano—the other two invites in his inbox. “Are willing to provide.”
“That’s Friday night…”
“Yes," he says plainly.
“Like three days.” I blink.
“Do you have plans?” he asks.
“No.”
“Good. Because now you do," he says.
“Mr. Pierce…”
“RSVP. Tell Parker we will be there.”
It is the way he says that word.We.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I’m just…
His.
I hate it. But I like it, too.
“Yes, Sir," I say as I head over to the table and pop open my Chromebook.
I get lost in emails. His inbox magically populates every time I think I have sorted through employees and services and journalists and reporters…
It is never-ending.
I only look up when I see his hand swiftly closing the lid, noting his gaze.
“I believe your shift is over," he says smoothly.
I look at my watch. It’s only four-fifteen.
“It’s barely four-thirty.”
“I think you have done enough today, don’t you?”
I shift in my seat as he looks down at me.
“Is that a trick question?” I ask. “Is it atest?”
“No,” he says, his fingers trailing over the lid absentmindedly.
“Then yes. I think I have done plenty," I say.
“Are you hungry?” he asks carefully.
I think about my answer, settling on the truth.
“Yes.”
Sloane nods for me to get up.
“Then perhaps we can kill two birds with one stone.” He smirks.
