“No.”
I fluff up the tree and tsk at him. “Elijah. Do you actually expect Santa to bring you toys with this kind of attitude?”
“I sure don’t.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “But you believe in Santa.”
“I do?”
“That’s the word on the street.”
“Did Paxton tell you that?”
I nod. “Don’t tell him I told you he told me.”
It looks like he’s almost going to smile. And then it looks like he’s almost going to cry. But then he stares at my mouth and snarls again. “He thinks I believe in Santa because I lethimbelieve in Santa. You didn’t tell him about Santa, did you?”
“No, sir, I did not. I have a strict policy about not discussing Santa with kids one way or another when I’m working parties. I learned that lesson the hard way.”
“That’s the only way to learn lessons,” he says in a tone that implies he learned a lesson the hard way about me.
“Agreed!” I say, smiling. I am not going to participate in a passive-aggressive conversation about how we have both learned our lessons about each other, because I have clearly evolved into a more mature human than he has. I turn on the battery-operated lights and place the tree on the upper left corner of the desk. That’s when I notice a bound script labeledUntitled Christmas Project by the Shark Brotherson the desk in front of the computer. “Am I supposed to read this as part of my temp job?”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Oh, great. Then I’d rather?—”
“But if you would like to read it, I did always appreciate hearing your perspective on scripts and films when we were in class together, back in the day.”
“It’s funny you would say that because you never once told me you appreciated my perspective. You, in fact, ridiculed me for having thoughts and opinions that opposed yours.”
“Despite my incredibly witty jabs at your wrong opinions, I did appreciate them.”
“Despite your attempts at witty jabs, I could in fact tell how much you worshipped me.”
“I worship no one. Are you going to read it or not?” He squeezes his stress ball again, and I stare at those veins that are protruding from the tops of his hand again.
Well, well, well. I might just have Mr. Oscar-Winning Grumpy Bossypants over the proverbial barrel here… “If you want my script notes you will have to pay me extra.”
“More than a hundred dollars an hour?”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Is that a problem?”
He stares at my arched eyebrow. He takes in both of my eyebrows. I watch as his eyes sweep across my brows several times. He bites his lip. He snarls again. “Fine. I will pay you cash for the script notes, and you will sign this NDA.” He swipes a pen from a metal pen cup and scribbles something on a pad of letterhead note paper.
Picking it up, I read what he wrote aloud: “I, Cleo Jones, do solemnly swear not to tell anyone anything about The Untitled Christmas Project by the Shark Brothers. Ever.” I don’t even laugh, because I’m in negotiation mode. “Fine.” I take the pen from him and sign my name. “Idosolemnly swear. But you will have to pay me one thousand dollars for my time and a one-page summary of my thoughts, plus any comments I may make on this copy of the script.”
“Deal,” he says, grinning. “I was going to offer three thousand.”
“Jokes on you because I would have done it for five hundo.”
“Don’t sayhundo.”
“You’ll have to pay me an extra hundred dollars if you don’t want me to sayhundo.”
“Not doing that. Bring the script and a pen and a pad of paper into my office,” he says, striding into his office. “Please.”
10
