Page 127 of Moonlighter
“Then do this for me. Now, or in 18 months. It will help Alex.”
And this is exactly why I hate discussing my inevitable retirement. I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m going to do with myself afterward. But it will not be this. “I want Alex to get all the help she needs. But not like this, Max.”
“Look, I know an office job would be an adjustment—”
I stop him right there. “It’s not the office. It’s your world view. I don’t want to spend eighty hours a week thinking of all the ways the world is about to end. Even if it’s true. That’s not how my mind works.”
My brother sighs. “You’re smart enough for security work. But you’re just not cynical enough. It’s a problem.” My brother drains his coffee, then puts the cup beneath the machine again.
“Look,” I say as he grabs two more pods to make himself a double. “Duff told me he’s worked a lot of overtime this week.”
“Yeah, and I haven’t slept since I last saw you.”
“That was forty-eight hours ago.”
“I noticed.” He hits the button and espresso begins to stream into his cup.
“There’s a way I can help you guys. I want to.”
“Really?” He glances my way, and then he frowns. “Wait. No. You cannot be serious.”
But I totally am.
33
Alex
“I don’t understand,”Whitbread grumbles into my ear. “Why are we vetting two contracts for the same manufacturing job?”
“I’m spreading the risk around,” I explain for the third time. “The factory fire was a wake-up call. Two manufacturers will insure a steady supply.”
“But this is the only part you’re buying two of?” he asks. “That makes no sense.”
Honestly, he’s right. But Whitbread brings out my self-righteous side. “It makes sense tome,” I argue. “The Butler will sell out during Christmas, and I’m not taking any chances.”
“There are things I don’t like about the contract from the Thai company,” he grumbles.
“Then mark it up like you always do. And let me get on with my day.”You grumpy old turd.
“When will I see this second contract?”
“After lunch, I hope. Tomorrow at the latest. Is there anything else?”
He’s silent for a moment, probably because he’s tossing another dart at the photo of me I imagine he keeps on his office wall. “Send it over when you can,” he says, before hanging up.
And just like that, another fun call with Whitbread ends. When we send out the employee satisfaction survey at the end of the year, I hope he doesn’t fill his out.
“Bingley?” I ask the Butler on my desk. “Have I received any more calls?”
“No, my queen! You are free to go to lunch. Your dining companion is a Mr. Xian Smith, and you will lunch together at The Modern on East Fifty-Third Street.” I know all that already. Until Bingley adds: “Table for three.”
“Three?” I ask. “Who’s the third person?”
“Apologies, oh great one. That information is not on your calendar. The reservation was altered just two hours ago by Rolf.”
“Rolf?” I shout.
But he can’t hear me, because my office door is closed. And a glance at the phone shows me his line is lit up. That means I have to heave this very pregnant body out of the chair to go figure it out myself.
