Page 5 of Nerdplay
“On that basis, you’d think she’d stay inside.”
“She has more drops in the cute bucket than the smart bucket.”
I push away from my desk and stand, happy to have an excuse to go outside and stretch my legs. “I’ll take the trees near the parking lot. You take the copse.”
Gloria sets a blueberry on my desk. “Incentive.” She disappears before I manage to reach the door.
I head outside with the lure, scanning the tree line for a sugar-glider shaped outline. As I reach the parking lot, I notice an unfamiliar car rolling to a stop. An Audi coupe.
The driver’s door opens and out steps a tall man, maybe six-four, in a very nice suit. At least I assume it’s very nice, based on the price of his car. He’s conventionally handsome, if you’re into that sort of thing, which I am not. Give me Kylo Ren’s sexy awkwardness over pretty blond boy Luke Skywalker any day of the week. He looks like the professional guy they send to serve divorce papers, yet also good-looking enough to be the stripper version.
Wait. Do people hire strippers to impersonate service processors?
I push my glasses to the bridge of my nose. “Hey, do you see a bat? Not the kind you swing, unless you’re abusive, in which case, you should be barred from adopting an animal, or quite frankly, from breathing.”
Versatile Handsome Man glances skyward. “Aren’t bats nocturnal?”
Smart, hot, and driving a car with all four of its hubcaps? Clearly, he’s a jerk. The universe wouldn’t bestow too many blessings on one person, unless that person is Pedro Pascal.
“She’s nocturnal, normally, but Buffy’s not a bat. She’s a sugar glider. I assumed you wouldn’t know what that is, so I thought it was easier to call her a bat.” I look up. “No offense, Buffy, wherever you are! I know the difference!”
His eyebrows pinch together, like he’s trying to decide if he should continue to converse with this deranged individual.
“If you’re here for camp, you’re early, but you should know we’re not a business-attire establishment. We’re not even business casual. We are full-on casual.” I snap the elastic waistband of my terry cloth shorts.
His gaze lowers to my abdomen, and I suddenly feel self-conscious, which is strange because I haven’t experienced self-consciousness since the onset of puberty.
In my peripheral vision, I catch a blur of movement as Buffy swoops down to land on the overdressed visitor’s shoulder. To his credit, he remains as still as a statue, which tracks because he looks like he’s been chiseled from stone; I’m talking the fancy granite you choose for your kitchen countertops when you have an unlimited budget, not that I would know. My countertops are laminate.
“Congratulations, you found Buffy, or more accurately, Buffy found you.”
He doesn’t seem as pleased by the development as I am, possibly because of the trail of excrement that now streaks his suit jacket. I quickly remove Buffy from his shoulder before he offers to send me his dry-cleaning bill.
He stares at me with a dazed and confused look on his face, as though this is his first time being christened by a gliding possum, which it probably is. I mean, what are the odds?
He finally recovers his voice. “Are you Courtney Abernathy?”
“I am.”
“Charles Thorpe, from Melvin, O’Reilly, and Gaines LLP.” He hands me a business card.
I glance at the card before tucking it in my back pocket. “How can I help you, Charles Owen Frederick Thorpe the Fourth, Esquire?” What a mouthful. His parents must be Very Self-Important People.
“I’m here on behalf of our client, LandStar.”
He has to be kidding me. “You work for James Riggieri?”
“I do.”
Buffy seems skittish, so I switch her to the deep nether regions of my shorts pocket. “And your client James Riggieri asked you to pay me a visit?”
“He did.”
“Riddle me this, Mr. Esquire. Why would Riggieri send his lawyer when I’ve shot down all his previous proposals? It’s not like there are documents to sign.”
“He decided to try another angle.”
“What’s the angle?” I point to his shirt. “Does he think that tie might bore me into submission?”
