“Alright. We can talk in my office,” I say, trying to take charge. Then I look around, realizing I don’t even know if I have an office.
Penn watches, waiting for me to move. I take a tentative step to my left. His eyes narrow as he toddles to the right instead, nearly tumbling to the ground. Another laugh spurts out of me.
He can’t skate for shit. And it’s a crying shame that I won’t beable to spend the rest of my life teasing Real Penn about this outfit.
Even more shameful, though, is how my attention drops to his backside as I follow him past the snack bar. Pathetic skating skills aside, Penn’s ill-fitting jeans are a problem. A very pert, round one, from which it is strangely difficult for me to look away.
My world-hopping hormones must be confused.
The back office is as stupidly extravagant as I expect at this point—all brand-new tech and glow-in-the-dark desks and more unnecessary neon lighting.
Penn and I sit opposite each other at the small table in the center of the room. I set out my glittery notebook and a pink feather-topped pen. He watches, silent, as I pet the feathers, trying to tame them. Like that’s going to make him take me more seriously.
Clearing my throat, I say, “First things first: They need to reduce expenses.”
“They?” His lips twitch. “Wow. Are you so stubborn about hearing my advice that you plan to refer to yourself in the third person?”
“Ineed to reduce expenses.”
He leans back and nods. “Mm-hmm.”
Penn watching me is unnerving. And talking finance is my comfort zone, but usually I’m not discussing the business of my MASH alter ego. “The goal is to reduce operational overhead,” I tell him. “I plan to go over the org chart, and I’ll gather the financial statements, tax returns—”
Penn tugs at his sleeve, the tendons in his arms flexing with the movement.
Wait. No.Since when do I notice Penn’s forearms?
He shifts forward, and whatever cotton is used in these shirts must be premium quality, because it’s working overtime. “You’re looking a little green there, Rubella. Are you okay? Did you eat?”
“I’m fine,” I chirp as a warm flush fills my cheeks. Bridget’s words must’ve gotten to me.Get him to fall in love with you.It’s her fault I’m noticing Penn’s forearms. She planted weird seeds, mixing up my brain waves. “Point is—”
“Point is, this place is no fun,” Penn cuts in. “Money aside, that’s your problem.”
I balk and gesture toward what may as well be the Oz of roller rinks. “Excuse me? Are three thousand neon lights not fun enough for you? Should I hire dancers? A few amateur magicians to perform some afternoon tricks? Maybe we can call it Ab-roll-cadabra.”
He legitimately ponders it. “Not a bad idea.”
I groan. “Maybethiswas a bad idea.”
“I know what I’m talking about,” he insists.
“Oh, really?”
“Really.” He lifts his chin. “I put Curly’s on the map. With a-plum.”
“It’saplomb.”
He sighs. “Look, Wynne. You’ve got competition, okay? Not just Rollerworld, but everything else that steals people’s attention. You need to make this place worth their while.”
Rollerworld. That’s who left me a message today.
“Right. Rollerworld…” I let the word hang there, hoping Penn will fill in the blanks.
“They’ve got a different model, but considering they have two locations, it’s obviously working. Rollerworld might have no personality, and certainly no glow-in-the-dark tables, but their locations are bigger,” he says. “And they’ve got more food options, an events calendar, and a full bar. Which is where I think you need to start.”
“Where?”
“With a bar. A liquor license.”
