A lock of dark, wavy hair falls over his forehead as his nose scrunches. “Has anyone ever told you that you suck to work for? Because you suck to work for. You’re terribly rude.”
“You could always quit,” I suggest, baring my teeth. It’s an empty offer. We both know good and well he isn’t going to quit. For as much as I “suck” to work for, I paywell, and he has better benefits than anywhere else would offer him. A month paid vacation every year—and that includes the first year. The highest insurance tier a person can have, and I personally pay any co-pays or uncovered expenses outside of it. What I lack in bedsidemanner I more than make up for with money and benefits.Lotsof money and benefits.
I may suck to work for, but I don’tsuckto work for.
And that’s not even touching on the familial expectations that centuries of the Valor lineage working for the Swallow lineage have created. A Valor works for a Swallow, and a Swallow treats them well. That’s the deal, and it has been for ages. I simply interpret treating them well a little differently than Birch might prefer. A him problem, not a me problem.
“I’m not quitting,” Birch huffs. “But only because your kitchen is better than Malcolm’s.”
And because Malcolm won’t have him. Birch has tried enough times to convince my brother to poach the talented chef, bribing him with homemade frozen pizzas—loaded with an offensive amount of olives, that amount being more than zero—and the promise of even better in fresh meals. Malcolm simply has no desire to take the chef on in his household. He’s content showing up here to pick up his pizzas whenever he runs low without having to bother with keeping a whole extra person in his immediate care.
Birch isn’t wrong, though.
“My kitchen is better,” I concede, pretending I’m too illiterate to read between the lines of his sad, unrequited workplace desires. I am trying to get the man to help me, after all. Better not provoke himtoomuch.
He runs a hand along the dark marble countertop between us, sparing a glance at the industrial kitchen we’re standing in. During renovations, I had the contractors defer to Birch on how it should look and function, which means the room is exactly to his wants and desires. He could not have a better kitchen. Ergo ipso, he could not have a better boss.Ergo ipso, he should show his appreciation by coming up with something better than a shrugged “I don’t know” as advice for how I can woo his sister.
Mm. Yes. Reminding Birch of his incredible work environment isn’t the worst idea if I want to put him in a more beneficial headspace. I didn’t renovate the house’s one thousand square foot kitchen for no reason. I did it to leverage the space against Birch’s manymoods.
Normally, I wouldn’t put up withmoodsfrom my staff. Normally, I’d fire them at the first whiff of an attitude. Maple says I can’t fire her brother, though, even if such a circumstance would likely result in him having the job he actually wants. Malcolm would take pity on him in an instant.
According to Maple, though, it’s not about Birch being fine whether I fire him or not. It’s about the fact that no one besides him knows how to make omelettes the way she likes—or the wayIlike, as she often reminds me.
Fortunately for the bratty chef, wereallylike omelettes.
And so, Birch stays safe from my whims and wrath. Even though he’s completely useless to me outside of his work, and his attitude problem actually makes himlessthan useless. Perhaps if he could help me court his sister, I would feel differently. As it is…
“You can’t think of anything?” I ask, scowling at the man. “Anything at all?”
Birch throws his hands up in the air, juggling my mental well-being on careless fingertips. “Like Itold you. If I were her, you and I would be on our honeymoon right now. The minds of women are as much a mystery to me as your belief that olives are poisonous to the body. I can offer no insight whatsoever.”
Right.
Useless.
Absolutely, infuriatingly,useless.
“I’m lowering your Christmas bonus by one hundred dollars,” I snipe. “You may earn it back with a particularly decent croquembouche.”
I sweep from the room to the sound of his outraged snarls and stomp back to my office. If he wanted a chance to air his grievances, he should have said something of interest to me while he had my attention. Since he didn’t, he can give his curses to my back.
When I get to my office and fall into my desk chair, the spreadsheet taunts me with its blank cells. “It’s not likeyou’redoing any better than me,” I snipe.
The cursor blink, blink, blinks.
I slam the computer’s power button with my finger with a growl and glower at the screen as it shuts down.
“Stupid,” I mutter. “You’re all so flaggingstupid.”
I slump.
We are all. So. Flagging.Stupid.
Chapter Eight
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Maple
