Chris:Grace was buddy-buddy with She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.
Josh:She’s probably just putting up with her because she signs her checks.
Eric:You’re too paranoid. Grace isn’t like that.
My father certainly had thought so.
I loosened my bow tie and leaned against the edge of my desk, sipping a scotch.
Grace promised she wasn’t going to screw you over.
She cared about her business and her friends, that much was clear. I needed to do the right thing for my business and make sure Grace only had good things to say about me the next time she ran into Nancy Holbrook and Horace.
I rubbed my hands together.
“Tomorrow,” I told myself, “we’re turning over a new leaf. We will commenceOperationPut Grace on Team Chris.”
* * *
I hadn’t expectedto put my operation into play so early in the morning, however.
The upbeat music woke me up, and I fumbled around for my alarm clock.
“What the hell?” I muttered, swinging my legs off the bed, draping the comforter around me as I stumbled down the hall, wincing at the pulsing music.
“Lift that thigh high!” Grace’s grandmother called out as she spryly copied the moves from a nineteen-eighties Jane Fonda workout video. The parrot was also hopping around, trying to mimic the aerobic exercise moves. Grace was having a much harder time. She was huffing and puffing in yoga pants and a tight crop top that gave me the type of view I wouldn’t mind waking up early every morning to see.
I rubbed my eyes.
“I must still be drunk,” I said.
Grace saw me standing there and screamed, wrapping her arms around herself.
Her grandmother continued to do her high kicks, her spandex-clad leg going all the way up to hip height.
“Grace, you would have an easier time of it,” her grandmother yelled over the music, “if you didn’t sit in a chair in front of your computer all day.”
“One of us has to keep a roof over our heads!” Grace shrieked.
“And that someone would be me,” I said, walking over to drape the comforter around her, one, because she did seem uncomfortable and was turning red, and two, because I wanted my comforter to smell like her.
Her grandmother paused mid high kick, gave Grace a look, and jerked her head in my direction.
Grace made a face then said, “I was going to have breakfast made when you got up.”
I gave her a slow smile.
“You were going to cook breakfast for me? But I’m the one who owes you a favor.”
“Don’t get too excited,” she grumbled. “It’s not anything fancy. The overnight delivery options were limited.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Grace!” her grandmother said. “Grace and I are descended from hardy German stock, and Grace is going to cook you up a filling German breakfast.”
“Hence the five a.m. jazzercise,” Grace explained, gesturing to the TV. The comforter slipped a bit, revealing a strip of creamy midriff between the waistband of the skintight yoga pants and the crop top.
“I’ll just get changed,” Grace said, flinging the comforter at me.
I buried my face in it, breathing in her scent as I took it back to my bedroom.
