Page 40 of Things We Left Behind
Nolan began a dramatic search of his desk drawers.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
He paused, then grinned. “A fire extinguisher to put out your pants fire.”
“I thought you’d gotten less annoying since you shaved your mustache. I was wrong.”
He’d actually become significantly more likable after he’d stopped dating Sloane, a requirement of his employment with me.
Fuck.
I glanced at my watch.
I hadn’t even made it into my office before my first thought of her. I’d had breakfast with the woman. Why couldn’t I just set her aside and move on to the next thing that required handling? Sloane Walton never did anything I wanted her to. I wanted a life where nothing made me feel powerless, out of control, and until I found a way to exorcise the woman, I would always be vulnerable.
“Just saying. Seems like you’re waiting for her to prove her loyalty, and she’s waiting for you to prove you’re worth beingloyal to. If you two don’t try to meet in the middle, no one’s getting off this fucked-up power trip merry-go-round.”
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about Lina, not Sloane.
“I don’t recall asking you for your opinion.”
“That’s what friends are for. Speaking of, you want some backup with the feds today? I can stand behind you and make menacing faces,” Nolan offered.
“I don’t need backup.” The fewer people directly involved in the Anthony Hugo investigation, the better. When Hugo caught wind of what I was doing, I wanted his attention focused solely on me. “What I do want is the deep dive on Fund It’s partners in ten minutes,” I ordered.
“Already on your desk,” he said, smugly tossing a peanut M&M into his mouth.
It was less fun ordering people about when they’d already predicted what I needed and delivered it.
On a grunt, I left his office and headed toward mine.
“You’re welcome,” Nolan called after me.
Sometimes I wondered why I’d bothered hiring employees. They were all annoying.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Rollins,” chirped a perky redhead who looked more like she should be studying for her driver’s license test than working for one of the country’s most ruthless consulting firms.
I should have worked from home.
Holly was twenty-two years old, the mother of two, and this was what she referred to as her first “grown-up” job. She acted abominably grateful toward me as if the job and salary were personal favors I’d granted her.
It made me uncomfortable and awkward.
“Your hair is…interesting,” I said.
She turned around, giving me an unrequested view of the back of her head. Today she wore her hair in two thick braids that looked as if birds had uniformly worked their way down each one, attempting but not quite succeeding to pull them apart.
“Do you like it? It’s called bubble braids. I have a YouTube channel—”
“I don’t care,” I said.
She let out a girlish giggle. “You’re so funny, Mr. Rollins.”
“No. I’m not,” I insisted.
She waved away my statement. “I just wanted to let you know that I left a little something for you on your desk. You asked me about my lunch yesterday, so I brought you some to try.”
I hadn’t asked her about her lunch. I’d suggested she not microwave fish chowder in the break room because it made the entire office smell like the belly of a crab trawler.
