nuzzled her face against the fur of his chin and he immediately began to purr.
“Precious thing,” she murmured. “You smell like clean clothes fresh from the dryer.” Reluctantly, she placed the kitten back into its warm nest and gently stroked the top of his sister’s head. The little cat wriggled a bit in her sleep and the black line of her mouth curved into a contented grin, but she did not open her eyes. Cooper turned to Angela. “I can’t believe you got me kittens! That’s a pretty high-risk gift! What if I was allergic or didn’t like cats?” she teased.
“Please! Your Grammy’s practically a reincarnation of Noah. You could never turn away a homeless animal.” Gloating, Angela crossed her arms. “And I knew you and these furry treasures needed each another. Mr. Farmer will keep an eye on ’em today and I’ve got a carrier for you to use to bring the sweet darlin’s home, but I imagine you’ll be off to Food Lion durin’ your lunch break. Good thing you got that raise and can support your new family. Take it from me—gourmet pet food’s more expensive per ounce than filet mignon!”
Cooper caressed the kittens again and then sat still for a moment, watching the rise and fall of their sides as they slumbered. “Thank you, Angela. Aside from my pin,” she brushed her fingers against the silver butterfly attached above her nametag, “this is the most unexpected and wonderful gift ever!”
“Just like the love Mr. Farmer and I share.” Angela smiled dreamily.
Rolling her eyes, Cooper collected the work orders from the floor. “It’s a good thing the office is empty for most of the day. You and Mr. Farmer can flirt with one another right until the whistle blows and no one’s going to overhear your sweet nothings.”
“That won’t be true for long!” Angela replied cheerfully as she examined her reflection in the compact that never seemed to be out of reach. “I’m gettin’ an assistant. I can’t handle the phones, the incoming orders, the inventory, and the books, so Mr. Farmer’s lettin’ me hire a part-time girl to do the stuff I don’t have time for.”
“Are you putting an ad in the paper?” Cooper asked.
“Yep. I only wish I could write ‘cute girls need not apply!’ I’m not lettin’ any hot-blooded young things around my man. I aim to be Mrs. Farmer by this time next year—and I’ll be a helluvalot more pleasant than the other Mrs. Farmer!” With that, Angela sashayed down the hall to her desk.
Over the course of the morning, Cooper visited her favorite elementary school to perform a quarterly service on their leased copier, tweaked the drum of a finicky Hewlett-Packard at the Bank of America, and completed a roller replacement in a laser printer at a podiatrist’s office. She gulped down an Italian sub and an orange for lunch and spent a tidy pile of money buying food, litter supplies, and toys at PetCo. After that, she dashed to Mr. Farmer’s office to cuddle her kittens before settling down in the small Make It Work! conference room to await Bobby Weller, the first of the day’s three interviews.
Cooper reviewed the questions on her legal pad and tried to still the butterflies in her belly. She’d never been on the hiring end of a job interview before and was surprised to find the reversal unnerving. After all, the two new hires would be working on her team, and her decisions would determine the overall success of her department. Not only that, but Cooper wanted to be worthy of the position and the praise Mr. Farmer had given her.
After reviewing Bobby Weller’s application once more, Cooper decided to peruse the Times-Dispatch until he arrived. As usual, the front page was filled with gloom. The text decried a sinking stock market, a senator caught cheating on his spouse, and the emotional funeral service given for the young girl killed in the East End shooting the week before. It was quite a pessimistic montage.
Cooper sighed and turned the page, hoping for a shred of uplifting news, when a column detailing the slaying of a Hispanic man named Hector Gutierrez caught her eye.
Could it be the Hector that made me my fake license? she wondered, her heart thumping more quickly as her anxiety mounted. She read the sparse account of the twenty-one-year-old’s death. According to the reporter, Hector had been shot, execution-style, in the back of the head, and his body had been dumped at a