Page 24 of Play Me
“She can poke at me all she wants because she’s doing the boss’s bidding. But I need to figure out how I can even the playing field. Because if one of us is going to quit, it’s not going to be me.” I glance around the apartment, thinking, until my gaze settles on the mound of boxes in the corner. “Bingo.”
Grinning, I type out another message.
Me: I’m going to need you to come over Tuesday evening.
Astrid : Over where?
Me: My apartment.
Astrid : Why would I do that?
Me: Because you’re my assistant, and I need assistance.
I wait, but no response comes. “Didn’t like that, did you?”
Me: I have about thirty boxes I need unpacked.
Still no response.
The idea of having her here is about as attractive as fighting a wounded badger, but if I’m going to get her to either remove herself or keep a distance, then I have no choice. I have to make this so unbearable that she can’t stand it.
Astrid : Don’t choke on anything. That would be a tragedy.
Me: Have a good day, sweetheart.
I chuckle, knowing that pissed her off, and power down my phone. She’s going to fire back at me, and I’m not giving her the pleasure of getting a read receipt. And I don’t know how to turn that feature off, either.
Satisfied, I take in the bags of groceries on the counter. There’s a chance they’re laced with arsenic—and I wouldn’t put it past her to go that far—but the toxicology report on my cadaver would point directly at her, and she’s too bright not to know that. Besides, she’s only doing this to brownnose Renn, and the food is already here.
I may as well reap the benefits of it.
“She’s doing her job, and I need to focus on mine,” I say, heading to the kitchen. “That’ll be easier with a full stomach.”
I busy myself with putting the cold items away and thinking about how I’ll handle Astrid tomorrow. No matter what happens, I can’t let her think she’s going to call all the shots. That would be an epic failure on so many levels. But something tells me that she’s not going to want to show up here on Tuesday, and that might just be enough to get her to back off.
I hope.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Astrid
Gray saunters through the archway into the Royals performance center, one hand in a pocket and the other running along the top of his head. With a bag slung over his right shoulder and a pair of sunglasses hooked in the front of his crisp white T-shirt, he’s fresh and relaxed.Unrushed.
A wedge of irritation lodges itself in my throat, and I fight the urge to release a mouthful of expletives. He could’ve at least had the decency to show up breathless or in a half jog—something to imply that he cares that he’s wasted my time. We do have a job to do, after all.
I push away from the table I’ve inhabited for the last half hour with more force than necessary.
“You’re late,” I say, irked that this doesn’t seem to bother him.
“It was ten minutes. It’s not that serious.”
Excuse me?
“There are two things you should know about me.” I snap my clipboard off the table. “One is that I operate under the premise that if you’re not ten minutes early, you’re late. And being lateconveys a lack of consideration for other people’s time.” I lift a brow. “In short, it’s rude.”
“I could’ve left an hour ago, and it wouldn’t have made any difference. I was stopped behind an accident three miles from here.” He lifts a brow. “Besides, don’t act like you’ve never been late before.”
