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I look around and shrug at everyone still staring at me.
He continues, “About three weeks ago Dax and I set up a profile for you on BeANanny.com.”
“That explains the random calls asking for references and telling me how impressed they are with my early childhood skills.”
He laughs. Again, my blood freezes, then boils. I push my cart up a little more. Someone behind me yells about beer. And then a staff member rings that captain’s bell they have over at the little manager booth off to the side.
“Dax is taking it down now. No more au pair or nanny inquiries. I’m serious about the truce. As long as you stop signing me up for different religious affiliations. The Scientology guy would not take no for an answer.”
The noise behind me intensifies as a little kid wails.
I laugh. “Oh no, the Jehovah’s Witness people might be calling, too. But no more. I promise. And I’ll call and cancel all the movers.”
“What movers?” he says harshly, but it comes out like he’s exaggerating to make me laugh.
“This might be one of my better pranks. You know when you fill out the moving form to get an online quote?”
“That’s fucking brilliant. They never stop. Fuck. I’m going to have to change my number.”
“Six moving companies will be calling to give you a quote. But I know who I called. I’ll have my assistant stop them.” I lean on the cart and slowly move it forward. I’m shifting my weight back and forth. A kid behind me screeches loudly.
His voice goes a bit distant. “Do you have a kid?”
I’m a bit offended. “Does that matter?”
“No, not at all, it was simply surprising, that’s all. I know how hard this job is and I know you’re single—” He was concerned I was a single mother. Interesting. Wonder if he comes from a single-parent home.
I interrupt, “You know I’m single, do ya?” I say with a leading tone.
“I have friends in IT as well.”
I laugh very hard. “Fine. No. No kids.” I surrender to the moment.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“You’re always asking me that question. Do you always call from the same place or should I start inquiring about your whereabouts?”
What the hell is this? I’m baffled by all the calls and flirting. It’s odd to free up the plotting and revenge part of my brain, but strange to use it this way.
I say, “Trader Joe’s, buying ingredients to cook Italian food.” I need to bring this back to colleagues. This tiny bit of trust might bite me in the ass.
“And you’re cooking Italian food? Do you know what you’re doing? You do know my last name, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Corelli. Didn’t know I needed to have Italian blood to cook the food of your people for my date.”
There’s a pause and he clears his throat. I can feel the chill through the phone. Then he finally breaks the silence.
“Does he have all of his shots?” And there’s the asshole I know and loathe. Not sure where my fucking brain was turning.
“Yes, and has been apprised of my vicious and vindictive nature.” My tone shifts back to work-enemy mode.
His voice is clipped. “Good. I don’t have the time to warn the decent good-hearted men of Chicago of your true nature. Gotta go. I’ll take the nanny thing down. Have a good date, Harpy.”
“Ciao, Asshole.” I end the call before he can.
Fucker. God, no one makes me this angry this quickly. Why act like a dick? He contacted me. Asshole.
“Ma’am, do you want to check out?”
