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And that’s how we ended up in a shouting match so loud security was called to referee.
Compromise is – to no surprise – still our biggest struggle; however, I like to believe we’ve made progress.
He paid off my debt, so I pay to have cookies delivered to his office weekly.
He bought me a new car, so I pay for detailing services when we’re not at the estate.
He paid for our penthouse and the furnishings, so I decorated it in nerd memorabilia.
Our style could easily be labeled as chic Comic-Con.
Upon entering the office of Raquel Lane, our boss, we’re immediately given a lifted index finger to instruct us to wait until her call ends to speak.
Calen immediately twitches me a glare in warning knowing there’s a sarcastic snip right on the tip of my tongue.
Maybe it’s rude to get lippy with the woman who decides on how many zeroes get to be on your paycheck, but I think it’s rude to take a phone call when you’re expecting employees that you’ve summoned.
“What sort of extension can you provide?” Her sun-kissed fingers fidget with the ends of her stringy hair. “No, I understand that. It’s just-”
The pressing of her lips tightly together indicates she was the one interrupted, an action that threatens to have the corners of my lips curling upward.
I hate her.
I – honest to Spock – come in every day hoping she’s been fired.
Look, I know everyone tends to hate their boss in some fashion.
I’ve had enough jobs, in enough places, with enough different types of individuals to know as well as understand this, but Raquel is different.
Like send her to the seventh circle of hell reserved for those that participate in shark finning and purposely make babies cry level of different.
Out of all the people who work for her, it’s me she gives the most shit to.
Calen gets his shirt soaking wet during the day, takes it off like some sort of merman Magic Mike, and she praises him for his dedication to the institute.
The rescues get a little excited during playtime, my shirt gets drenched, and she chews my ass out like I was trying to start at wet t-shirt contest on the clock.
Initially, I thought it was just double standard bullshit – you know hot guy gets away with murder, hot girl gets penalized for simply existing, type of nonsense – but when I witnessed her gushing over Stephanie Edwards – a chick who can’t even remember to wash out the food pails – I realized nope.
It’s just me she hates.
Why?
Could be because I don’t “need” this job like others.
Could be because I’m happily engaged and she’s in the midst of a bitter divorce.
Or it could simply be because The Captain of the sky blessed me with great tits while she had to pay for hers.
“Understood,” Raquel murmurs into her cell prior to ending the call. Afterwards, hazel eyes I hate looking into meet mine. “Where’s Steven’s daily status report?”
“In progress,” I professionally reply, folding my hands politely in front of me, executing the less defensive based technique I owe Evie for teaching me.
“Why isn’t it completed?”
“Protocol dictates we wait until after an injured creature has finished feeding,” Calen swiftly explains, tone calm and even. “We are simply following procedure.”
“You always do, Connelly,” she coos in his direction before glaring in mine. “And if I were to ask you for a quick assessment regarding his temperament? Could you provide it, Winters?”
