She jogged ahead—then heard the familiar blast of paws on linoleum.
Fast fucker.
Rory waited in the kitchen—the “cookie room.” He demanded one for finishing first in the race to the kitchen.
She gave Rory his cookie, then scooped five heaping tablespoons of generic coffee into a paper filter and poured tap water into the dispenser.
Sebastien cheaped out oneverything—and proudly referred to himself as a miser. The company letterhead just saidSDMbecause it used less ink than spelling outSebastien Dumas Management.
She poured a cup of coffee while singing Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” poorly, opened the fridge, and searched for a container of soy milk with her name on it. She’d bought it herself since SDM didn’t provide employees with “extras.”
But there it sat in the blue bin: crumpled and disregarded.
Fucking interns.
At least they’d recycled it.
Back at her desk with a cup of bitter black coffee, Tyler powered on her computer with confidence.
As a rule she returned her messages within the hour—any longer meant trouble. There were only two reasons for her being unresponsive: the location didn’t have Wi-Fi or she was dead in a ditch. Probably the latter.
“Where to start?” she muttered, smiling at Rory. He looked up at her, hopeful but useless. Even if hewantedto help, he couldn’t. And honestly, she could barely help herself.
Math had never been her strong suit.
Last year, when their receptionist quit without notice, the administrative duties fell into Tyler’s portfolio.
Sebastien claimed it would be a “learning experience,” but really, it was just another excuse for free labor.
She’d given fourteen years to the company and was more than ready to move on. But her boss had made it clear: if she left, he’d make sure her career was over.
And Sebastien always kept his word when it came to destroying people.
Her dad had warned her before she even started her internship at SDM. Paul “Bert” Robertson had known Sebastien since the early Winnipeg club days. Back then, they were rivals of sorts—though the best bands always hired her dad to play lead guitar. Sebastien had to settle for rhythm gigs with second-rate acts.
Now, with Bert’s daughter under his thumb, Sebastien was savoring the power shift.
Hiring her after the internship hadn’t been generosity—it was leverage. Favors were his currency. And now Bert owed him one.
Sebastien wasn’t “good prairie folk” like the Robertsons. He was a Francophone from Quebec City, and trouble followed him like a shadow.
An hour later, Rory perked up from his dog bed, ears twitching.
Tyler froze.
He’d heard something.
A burglar would have been preferable to Sebastien since the thief was sure to be quiet, unlike her boss, her nemesis.
A groan rumbled in her throat as she rolled her chair out of the way and followed her furry friend down the hallway. She laughed at how Rory’s bum wiggled when his little legs hit the carpet.
“Can I help you?” she asked, approaching the reception area.
“Hi,” a cute guy said with a smile.
He stood at her eye level, wearing an oversized black beanie and dark-rimmed glasses.
“It’s me. Cary.”
