“What’ll you do?” I ask with a chuckle. “Hit him with an overhead smash?”
“Maybe,” she says. “So can I talk to him?”
“Nah, he’s at the hospital. It’s his weekend on call.”
“Ah,” Sarah says, before she mercifully changes the subject. “So I had to fire Brooke yesterday.”
“Who’s Brooke?” I ask.
“My personal assistant.”
“Oh, right.” It still blows my mind that Sarah has a personal assistant. “What’d she do?”
“She was selling info to the tabloids.”
“Shit, Sarah, really?”
Sarah nods. “It’s how they found out about Piers and me.”
Over the past week, I’ve seen a couple tabloid articles about Sarah and Piers, with headlines likeSwiss-American Merger?andLove-Love?
The tennis world loves the love puns.
“And you’re sure it was Brooke?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah. She forgot her phone at breakfast, and I saw a text from a photographer. Pretty stupid, huh? I mean, if you’re going to sell out your boss, at least change your phone settings so your messages don’t show on your lockscreen.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah. That sucks.”
Sarah sighs. “Yeah. I mean, they would have found out eventually anyway, because Piers is Piers, but . . .”
“It’s a betrayal.”
“Yep. And it especially sucks because she was good at her job. So if you know anyone who’d like a job as my PA . . .”
“Maybe I’d like a job as your PA,” I say with a laugh.
“Really?” she asks hopefully. “It’s yours if you want it.”
I realize she’s been thinking of that from the start, but she didn’t want to ask outright in case I’d be insulted.
But I’m not insulted. It’s a real job, not something Sarah’s made up because she feels sorry for me and wants an excuse to give me a handout. After all, she was paying Brooke to do it, and the disloyal bitch was selling her out.
Would it be awkward to work for Sarah? At times, maybe, but it could also be a lot of fun. And I think I could do a better job than Brooke was doing.
“The job’s mostly scheduling, and booking travel and hotels,” Sarah continues. “I was paying Brooke sixty grand a year, and covering expenses.”
“Sixty grand,” I sputter. “American dollars?”
Sarah grins. “Yeah, American dollars.”
I’m silent for a moment, trying to convert that to Canadian in my head. But even without the conversion, it’s considerably more than I’m making at the hospital.
“And expenses would be what?” I ask.
“Accommodations and travel.”
Damn. If I were making sixty grand a year, American dollars, and I didn’t have to pay rent? I could actually save some money, and maybe—just maybe—start to get ahead.
