Page 9 of Great Service from Top to Bottom

Reynard halted, halfway to sitting down in his leather chair. “Is something wrong?”

“Uh, no, I just . . . I was expecting something different.”

“Different how?” He sat, and flicked on his computer as an afterthought, his attention now firmly on me.

“Oh, I don’t know, something a bit . . .” What was the right word? I didn’t want to offend him. “Bigger?”

He spread his hands. “This room is adequate for my needs.”

“Yeah, but . . .” He was Lord Victor Reynard. Tech magnate. He owned this company. Why was he in the basement, tucked under the stairs like an afterthought? “You’re a billionaire.”

He side-eyed the room, as though looking at it anew. “You don’t like it?”

“No. It’s fine.” I sat on the little couch, and the cushions gradually deflated under my ass. This couldn’t be his real office, right? “You’re messing with me again, right?” I chuckled. “Oh, Victor, that new sense of humor of yours. I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”

“Messing with you?”

I pinched my lips together. “Never mind. It’s lovely.”

“Is it the couch? You don’t like the couch? I’ll buy another.” He jabbed his computer’s keyboard. It blipped back at him, connecting a call. “Joyce, order a new couch. Adam doesn’t like this one.”

“What?” My chuckle came out strained. “No, it’s fine. Lovely in fact.” I bounced on it and the cushions puffed. “See.”

“Is there anything else your special friend Adam doesn’t like?” Joyce’s nasal voice filled the small room, sounding irritated. She really did not like me.

“Adam?” Reynard prompted.

“Erm. Nope. Everything’s fine.”

“It’s fine.” Reynard repeated.

“Although . . .”

“Yes?” Joyce snapped. “It’s not as though I have eighteen appointments to arrange before midday, but you go right ahead Adam, and tell me what I should do for you.”

I cringed. “Oh, it’s nothing. Never mind.”

“Adam?” Reynard urged. “Clearly, it’s something.”

“Some wall art? That’s all. A little picture to brighten up the space, maybe? Just a thought?”

“Did you get that, Joyce?” Reynard asked.

“Would Adam like me to paint it before or after I’ve arranged the rest of your day?”

“What?” I exclaimed. “No, I meant buy it, don’t paint it.” Who did that? “Just a basic, standard print of a cat or something? You know what? It’s fine, don’t worry. Forget I said anything.”

“Are you sure?” Reynard asked.

“Yup.” I tucked my hands under my thighs. “Very sure.”

Reynard hung up, leaned back in his chair, and eyed me. “You are clearly trying very hard not to speak what’s on your mind. Tell me, I won’t be offended.”

“It’s just that Cain Towers was all shiny, and Gideon took us to a fancy floor near the top, and I kind of assumed you’d have like a suite or something? A big shiny office? Maybe with one of those magnetic ball doo-dahs that click-clacks back and forth?”

“Magnetic ball doo-dahs?” Reynard repeated, straight-faced.

Oh, this wasn’t going well. I was pretty sure I’d offended him, but it was really hard to tell since his stoic, mask-like face was impossible to read. “They might not be magnetic?” I said, my voice small. “Could be . . . erm . . . gravity?” I really needed to stop speaking. “Or momentum? I guess.” Those last few words came out really small.