Page 277 of Small Town Firsts
Mondays always went better with coffee. This Monday definitely required it.
“Since I was soegregiously late, I suppose I can help you out this once, because whoa, grumpy pants without your java, huh?”
I didn’t appreciate her emphasis on my words. Nor did I like her calling megrumpy pants. But I did enjoy getting my way through whatever means possible.
“Excellent.” I clicked off.
I had barely replaced the receiver when the line rang again. How was a person supposed to get any work done around here?
“Yes?”
“Do you say goodbye? Hello?”
“You don’t need to say hello, I heard you just fine.”
“I was asking if you say goodbye, hello, or any common pleasantries really. I mean, do you know me yet? No. You just expect me to sit down and be a faux April.”
I couldn’t stop my quick laughter. “Hardly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t think I can be as good as April?”
I blamed my lack of coffee, extremely long sexual drought, and general discombobulation for the picture that formed in my mind of Miss Moon on her knees beneath my desk.
I shifted in my chair. “I don’t make such value judgments, and it doesn’t matter in any case, as your employment here will end in,” I consulted the gold clock on my desk, “four days, seven hours, and seven minutes.”
“Wrong. It’s nine minutes.”
“Are you saying my clock is wrong?”
“I was late, but don’t make it worse than it was. I risked my life to get your stupid donuts. Do you care? Doesn’t seem like it. Do you have any heart at all?”
Interest piqued, I took another look at my gifted greasy bag. “You brought the donuts?”
“No. They’re fritters.”
I hung up on her. Rather gleefully, in fact.
She didn’t call back. I wasn’t disappointed.
Much.
I focused on expanding my quick hit notes from a client meeting I’d had on Friday afternoon. My tendency was to jot down first impressions then fill in the details later. I’d barely made it halfway down the page when my email dinged.
“Why are you fucking dinging,” I muttered, slamming the mouse against the desk as I ignored the email in my box from Miss Moon.
Someone had altered the settings on my email—probably April, for her own amusement—and I was going to rectify it this instant. If I could figure out just how Ryan was bypassing the very clear “no notifications” toggle switch in my mail program.
Another ding sounded. And another. Then it was like a freaking ding fest, my computer nearly shaking from the endless barrage of them.
I picked up the phone and pushed the button for April’s direct line.
“Good morning, thank you for calling Shaw, Shaw, and Shaw, Attorneys at Law. Rather pretentious, don’t you think? You’re all Shaws here, so why name each of you separately? Were all of you unloved as children?”
“Can I help you?” I asked between gritted teeth.
“Uh, you called me?”
“I called you to avoid reading your eighteen emails.” Another one came in as I was speaking. “Do you have them on automatic send or something? One word per missive?”
