think he even checks the emails, it’s just another way to add to my list of busy-work.
The only decent thing I can say about Blakedroid is that he insists on having me picked up and dropped off in a company car. I never have to walk or take public transportation. When I tried to thank him for it, he muttered something about liability issues if I were to get murdered going home so late.
I’ve barely seen Xena, or any of my friends, all week. I feel like the worst dog parent ever. I’m responding to my parents’ phone calls with clipped one-sentence texts promising to call soon, which I never do.
My personal cell phone rings with Isabella’s ring tone, interrupting my mope session. I grab it and answer. “Greetings from Satan’s workshop,” I say to her.
“Is he still riding you hard and not putting you up wet?” She giggles at her cleverness.
“Excuse me,” I say huffily. “A little pity, please? I’m in actual Hell. And since you’re mocking me, you now have to hear how my day went. It started at the butt-crack of dawn with me selecting twenty pocket squares, each of them personally inspected by me to make sure that it had no rips, stains or flaws, and then I delivered them to Henry’s office because apparently Henry coordinates Blake’s wardrobe for him. Then I placed an order for his personalized stationery, a fountain pen, six nibs, and a particular ink that had to be retrieved from the store’s warehouse. By me.” According to the stationery department, it’s the same stationery, pen and ink that his father used. I leave that out of my rant, because it makes Blake sound nostalgic and almost human.
“Fun,” Isabella observes drily. “Tell me more. By which I mean I am begging you to stop. My work stories could beat up your work stories with one hand tied behind their backs.”
“Of course they could, you work in a Manhattan emergency room. The stories write themselves. Anyway. After the stationery, I moved on to making appointments with his barber, his tailor, and his dentist, then made more phone calls to verify meetups with his squash partner and his racquetball partner. After that, I left the store to pick up his dry cleaning and gave it to a messenger to bring to his house, and made a grocery order to be delivered to his house as well. Then I–”
“Any luck finding the doll?” Isabella cuts me off. I don’t blame her. I’m even boring myself.
“Are you kidding? They’re sold out all over the planet. I’m trying to find time to track one down, but I’ve barely had time to pee.”
The door swings open, and Blake walks in holding a tray with cardboard boxes and a coffee cup on it.
My heart practically vibrates with joy. I ignore it. “My waking nightmare just walked through the door,” I say to Isabella, shooting him a dirty look. “I need to hang up now and scream into the void. The void being his vacuous personality.”
Blake lifts one perfect brow. He can’t make me do any extra work today, because the gala is tonight, but he’ll find a way to torture me for that little observation, I’m sure.
Worth it.
Blake sets the tray down on my desk. Today his suit is a blue that must have been selected to match his eyes. The effect is startling, and I stare for a moment too long before looking down at the tray.
“Lunch,” he announces, as if I’ve never seen food before. “Oh, and I got the Miss Manners article you emailed me. Not sure that funeral etiquette is really relevant to anything, unless you know something I don’t.”
“Like how to people? How to have conversations without using the words ‘you’re fired’? I do know that,” I say snarkily. “As for the column, I’m just trying to get you thinking about manners in general. So you can set a good example for your niece, if nothing else.” I pick up the largest box from the tray and examine it carefully. I bring it up to my nose and inhale; it smells of tangy tomato and goat cheese, and my stomach growls. “Is it poisoned?”
He makes a scoffing noise. “I’d hardly pick such an obvious method, would I? I can just work you to death. Or something unfortunate might happen to you in an elevator. God knows when they were last inspected.” There goes that smirk again.