“I don’t take drinks from strangers. Certainly not pumpkin spice anything. And who are you, anyway?” She lifted an eyebrow. He had the good grace to look sheepish. Then he opened the cup and sipped from it himself. Cheeky. She liked cheeky flamboyant men.
“Your new secretary.”
That made Paloma laugh out loud. She didn’t say anything, mentally preparing a scathing speech to put him back in whatever place he belonged, when he changed course on her.
“Did you enjoy breakfast at the Tavern?”
“If Victoria needs to send her spies to find out whether I liked her food?—”
“Victoria didn’t send me.” He closed his eyes, and his face turned even more sheepish. “She didn’t send me to inquire about the food. Technically. But since you mention it, should I tell her you found it delightful?”
Paloma laughed again. Well, whoever he was, he did make her morning funnier, that was for sure.
“I liked the breakfast offerings. Service was great, and everything was delicious. Maybe not the pastry, though. It had fondant and coloring. I didn’t try it.”
“Then how did you know it wasn’t good?”
The question stumped her. How did she know? She just did. She quietly shoved the name of who had made it farther to the back of her mind. It had been three weeks. Deryn Crowhartwould leave Dragons soon, and Paloma would not need to remember her at all. Or her stupid fake strawberries.
“It’s not important. What’s important is that you can tell Victoria she’s doing just fine.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate hearing that; however, that’s not why I’m here.” He stopped, and she decided to give him a minute of her time, to listen to what he had to say before sending him along. Being rude to him would not gain her votes. And on a tiny island, every single one counted. Paloma sighed and waved for him to speak.
“The Crow & Cat is in renovation. More like a complete rebuild. It will take closer to a year for it to be restored. While that is happening, Rhiannon Crowhart doesn’t need a full-time assistant. I’ve been with her for seven years. I was her PA in L.A.—hey, it rhymes—and moved with her here. My credentials are impeccable. However, I have a problem?—”
“There’s nobody on this island who needs a PA.” Paloma finished his monologue. She certainly saw his predicament. But it still changed very little. “I am not looking for one. I have a hotel manager. And an assistant manager. Two, to be precise.”
He smiled. The kind smile of a person not easily put off.
“You sure do. But you don’t have a PA who would help you with your campaign for mayor. And you want one.”
That got her hackles up, and quickly. She gritted her teeth.
“I want one?”
Another bashful look.
“You’re a formidable woman. Rich, successful, gorgeous. A dream?—”
He stopped abruptly, and his jaw dropped, panic setting in his eyes. Paloma laughed once more. Damn him, he was funny.
“Yes, yes, a dream, but not for you. You’re a Pedro Pascal kind of guy.”
He exhaled, and they grinned at each other. She regretted how much she liked him already.
“So, as I was saying, you are all that and more, and too important to be listening to gossip and filtering the chaff from the barley or rice or whatever grain they use for metaphors. Plus, I type really fast. And look great. But above all…” He paused strategically. She rolled her eyes. He took the hint. “I have a solution to your Moss problem.”
He looked around conspiratorially. She stood her ground and rolled her eyes again.
“John Moss is absolutely nothing special. From what I hear, he really is nothing but a baggy condom?—”
Paloma recoiled, then grimaced.
“Thank you for such vivid imagery.”
He had the decency not to smile.
“Accurate imagery?—”
