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“We close at six on the weekdays,” I tell him. Just in case his privileged ass has forgotten that most peopleworkduring weekdays and need to get home for the evening to do it all again the next day. “If you want to come back around six-thirty, we can discuss your—opportunity.”
“Six-thirty sharp. See you then.” He nods, his smile gone, and heads back out the door.
Whoa.
It’s weird that he looks more like a guardian angel than a swinging dick.
That’s how I know my mind is going to very weird places.
Although maybe that has more to do with the way his suit fits over his broad shoulders like it was made for them.
He’s a handsome devil, I’ll give him that.
Even his business card is nice and flashy. Lacquered, gold embossed, and it has that extra weight that whispersmoney.
Bad puns aside, Big Fish really knows how to make a splash.
I purse my lips as I tilt it so the lettering catches the light.
Higher Ends International, huh?
Whatever that is.
Sounds expensive.
Sounds successful.
The name makes me wonder if whatever he’s up to could be a good opportunity.
But I know not to get my hopes up. I’ve met guys like Dexter Rory before. Rich men who think they’re entitled to the entire world just for breathing.
Nana didn’t raise a dummy. Whenever a big, easy opportunity knocks, there’s always a catch.
There must be.
I just need to figure out what this one is before it sticks in my skin like a rusty hook.
* * *
By the timeclosing rolls around, I need a hairband to keep my frizzy hair in check.
My whole head goes to war with the summer as soon as the humid months hit.
My cheeks are red from whizzing from one side of the store to the other, only stopping a few times under the creaky ceiling fan to take the sweat off my neck.
My accounts still aren’t done, and we had such a late influx of customers I’m still recovering from whiplash. Long summer nights and no school means older kids come pouring in for their sugar fix less than an hour before close.
I scuttle through cleanup and flip the sign on the door, switching off the lights on the front. I notice a couple letters burning out in BOWL.
Another repair.
Awesomesauce.
Maybe the money slated for the computer will have to go toward the lighting after all.
I rub my hand over my throbbing face and lean back against the door.
And there, striding through the late crowds of people shopping and heading home, is Mr. Big Punctual Fish. It’s not a minute past six-thirty.
