“It’s my sports team. I can do what I want.” I clutch the phone. “These guys make millions. They know the deal. They can get traded at any time.”
“Okay, have fun when the NHL yanks your hockey team.”
“L-O-L. You don’t know how these sports franchises work. The NHL commissioner works for the owners, not the other way around.”
“Really? Because your GM looks angry.”
“Ooh. He CCed legal.” Hawthorne looks over my shoulder.
“Fine.” I talk as I type. “You don’t want to trade Connor, then let’s take Knox Yandle and bring him to Seattle and send Bedsy and Jack Abraham to Boston and see if the Harborwolves will do a three-way trade to Minnesota.”
“Salinger, do you see what he’s doing?” McCarthy protests.
“You need to stop making impulsive decisions.” Hawthorne tries to grab my phone.
“Oops. Too late. I just bought a new quarterback.”
“I’m sure your football fans are really going to love that one.”
“He lost the last two games. They’re rabid.”
Salinger finally looks up from his laptop. “Yeah, this is what I thought.” He turns his computer toward me.
“Winifred Peterson,” I read. There’s her headshot on the Rainier Investment website.
“Wait. She’s one of your investment bankers?” McCarthy is confused.
“Former.” Salinger turns the laptop back around.
“Oh shit.” Whitman smirks at me.
“She was one of my best investment bankers.” Salinger smirks. “She’d deliver someone’s bloody balls on my desk along with a suitcase full of cash. Then she just quit one dayto start a bakery. At her exit interview, HR asked if she was burnt out. She replied she was bored.”
“Charming.”
“There was a bet in the office that she’d fail. Now she’s got a franchise. I think she’s going for a monopoly in the city.”
“So I’m never ever going to get another bagel in this city. Great.” Whitman throws up his hands.
“Fuck you, Fitz,” McCarthy adds.
“Just for that, I’m asking her out.” Hawthorne smirks.
“I’m warning you. Stop starting shit, Hawthorne.”
“Fitz, dude, you need to fix this.”
Winnie’snot peeking around a doorway to stare at me when I walk into her café.
It’s galette day. The whole place smells like caramelized onion and buttery pastry and delicious bubbling cheese.
She seems slightly nervous when she sees me. She smooths her palms down the apron that’s snug around her waist. Guess buying her café out from under her wasn’t a bad idea after all.
“Creampuff. Queen of pastries.” My grin broadens.
Ignoring the grumbling from the people in line, I waltz up to her. “Now, this is how you greet your favorite customer. I’ll take two of the savory galettes and a sweet one. Peach, in your honor, I’ll add his onto my tab,” I tell the furious customer behind me. “Sorry, but she really wants to grovel for mercy.”
Fury skitters across her face, then it’s gone. “I thought maybe we could work something out. A little quid pro quo.”For a brief second, her fingers flutter along the sleeve of my suit jacket.
