Page 12 of Rude Boss 2

“You already told me you do nothing on the weekends,Mr. DePaul, so how would I be wasting your time, exactly?”

I look at her when she calls me that.Mr. DePaul. She looks at me, smiling. Knowing – knowing she’s getting to me, intentionally aggravating me on purpose. “Why are you messing with me?”

“Because I can.”

“So, let me get this straight…toying with me is a part of your test?”

She hooks her right arm with my left. “Let’s walk.”

The boardwalk is crawling with Floridians. The sweet smell of funnel cake and other sweets is in the air. People are laughing, conversing—this is a happy place. I don’t get out much like this, but the laughter of kids is enough to make a person realize that life shouldn’t be taken so seriously.

While we walk along the boardwalk, I try to relax and let myself be present, but there’s still an overwhelming amount of distress pressing on my mind. I still think about my mother, about how I’m not on good terms with my father. I have to resort to avoiding him just to get on with my days, but at some point, I know I need to face it. And soon. You can’t make peace with people when they’re dead. I’m finding that out the hard way.

Being here with Quintessa sort of does the same. It helps to take my mind off a lot. I suppose I should be grateful for that, even if she is irritating me – just a little.

She stops walking when we’re in front of Charley’s Creamery and says, “We’re here. Ta-da!”

I look at the place and say underwhelmingly, “This is it?”

“Yes. You’re getting ice cream today. When’s the last time you had a good ol’ ice cream cone?”

“I’m not into ice cream.”

“Who doesn’t love ice cream?”

I raise my hand and say, “I literally just told you I didn’t.”

“But you eat Circus Peanuts, but it’sice creamyou have a problem with? Something’s not right about that.”

“Am I not entitled to have a preference? As a matter of fact, I gave you some candy when I was at your apartment. I expect you to give it back if you didn’t eat them.”

She giggles. It’s cute – makes me grin a bit.

She says, “I ain’t giving you nothing back. Now, listen—everybody likes ice cream and you’regoingto try some. On a cone. Your life changes today,sir,” she says, amused at my expense.

“No, ma’am. That’s where I draw the line. Bye.” I walk away from her, heading in the same direction from which we came.

She catches up to me, grabs my hand and pulls me back. There’s no way I can resist that – those soft hands of hers, wrapped around mine, urging me back in her direction. I clutch her hand and pull her closer to me. “Did you seriously ask me to come out here to eat some ice cream?”

“Yes, and you must eat it from a cone.”

“Why specifically from a cone?”

“Because you made fun of me during my interview.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, sure you don’t.”

“How did I make fun of you?”

“You told me I looked like a toddler who didn’t know how to eat ice cream on a cone. Remember that?”

Still holding my hand, she pulls me over to the window at Charley’s and starts placing her order. She tells the woman behind the counter, “I’ll have a double scoop of cookies and cream on a waffle cone and he’ll have—?”

She looks at me. I’m not up for this.

I tell her, “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

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