Page 70 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire
“Hey, big sis.” Fliss flounced into Zoe’s corner office—a far cry from the cubicle she worked from before she got fired, rehired, and promoted—with all the drama of a leading lady on one of those soapy CW teen shows. A plastic bag with the logo of Zoe’s favorite ramen house dangled over one arm. “Special delivery. And I love the new digs.”
Zoe saved the 3D sketch she was working on and swiveled away from her monitor to eyeball her sister across her sleek glass and chrome computer desk. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”
“Teacher in-service.” Fliss flopped into one of Zoe’s cushy guest chairs. The higher-ups hadn’t skimped on her office furniture, that was for sure. Probably their penance for sticking her with Smarmy Marty. “Hopefully Hinrichs is learning how to make the Mexican-American War more interesting.”
“It’s Mr. Hinrichs. And I take it you’re still having trouble in AP U.S. History.”
“I was hoping you could talk to him for me. Tell him I’m going through a rough time.”
“Are you?”
“Only in his class. He hates me.”
Zoe strongly suspected that if he hated anything, it was her sister’s inability to stop talking. Or her obsession with her phone. “Have you considered paying closer attention in class? Maybe going out less and studying more?”
Fliss made a face at her. “You sound like Mom. Which reminds me.”
She slipped the bag off her arm and put it on the desk. “This is from her. She made me go to Japantown to get it for you. She thinks you’re not eating enough.”
Things had really changed in the month she’d been gone. Her stepmother was acting motherly for the first time in, well, forever, worrying about stuff like homework and proper nutrition.
“I’m eating.” Not enough, true. Her appetite wasn’t the same since she’d returned from vacation. She told everyone she was still recovering from all the pasta and pizza she’d inhaled in Italy.
Liar.
Zoe pulled the bag toward her, opened it, and inhaled. Miso ramen with bamboo shoots, kikurage mushrooms, and pickled ginger. Her favorite. “But I never turn down good ramen.”
“Pretty sure that’s what Mom was counting on when she enlisted me as her errand girl.” Fliss propped her feet up on Zoe’s desk.
Zoe stared her down until she removed them. “You mean it wasn’t your idea to come all the way downtown on your day off?”
“I was heading here anyway. I’m meeting Dylan at the Wharf in half an hour.”
“Dylan, huh?” Zoe teased. “So you got Dad to loosen up on the dating restrictions.”
“We reached a compromise. I can go out with Dylan, but no Corvette. We have to take the Beige Bomber.” Fliss winced at the nickname they’d given the family’s ancient Chevy Impala. “Or public transportation, like today.”
“I’ll bet Dylan wasn’t too happy about that.”
“He wasn’t. But I convinced Dad to reconsider if Dylan goes six months without another ticket. And I told Dylan he needs to slow down and stop driving like a maniac. We watchedRebel Without a Causein English, and he thinks he’s James Dean. I don’t want him to wind up the same way.”
Damn. Her little sister had done good. She’d make a great lawyer. Or a politician. Or any job where she could harness her powers of persuasion. “Nice work. I’m proud of you.”
“I learned from the best.” Fliss turned sideways in her seat, dangling her long legs over the arm of the chair. “You’ve been fighting my battles for me for years. It felt kind of awesome doing it myself. You know, girl power. Fempire. I am woman, hear me roar. All that rah-rah jazz. Not that I had much choice with you six freaking thousand miles away.”
Zoe wanted to jump up, slide across the shiny glass top of her computer desk, and squeeze the stuffing out of her sister. If she was proud of Fliss before, now she was bursting with it.
Not just Fliss, she realized suddenly, but herself, too. Looked like her not-so-evil plan to force her family to deal with their own shit instead of running to her with every minor crisis had worked.
Zoe tried to cling to that kernel of positivity. Her month abroad wasn’t a total loss. Too bad it had left her with a broken heart and an even bigger chip on her shoulder against men in general and one particular stubborn, frustrating-but-sex-on-a-stick Italian.
“What’s that look for?” Fliss asked.
Zoe made a conscious effort to dial back whatever expression her face wore to neutral. “What look?”
“The one that says your dog died and your car got repossessed.”
Zoe masked her surprise by pulling the container of ramen and a pair of chopsticks out of the bag. Had she been that obvious? Here she thought she was putting up such a great front in the weeks since she’d returned home, burying herself in her new job and smiling her way through the occasional family dinner.
