Page 48 of Hate You More

Even his Montegrappa fountain pen—a graduation gift—peeks from beneath a pocket-size copy of the United States Constitution. It might be a prized possession, but as his friend and an observer for some years, I know he prefers to take notes with a cheap-ass plastic Pilot.

I also know he has packets and packets of spares in one of his drawers.

I sometimes miss sharing an office with him, though I don’t miss the first building we rented. Rattling windows and a concrete walk-up. Perma-stained coffee cups and space heaters that made the electrics trip. Those early days were manic and as scary as fuck, but we were all in it together. Now, though, we’re separated by walls. We still hang out, but things have changed. The pressure, I guess.

“What’s up?”

I pivot at the sound of his voice. He looks tired, and I should feel bad for adding to his load, but frankly, I don’t have that luxury. Table is my baby. It’s practically my name above the door, and there’s not a lot I won’t do to keep it that way.

“I have something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Every time you start a conversation with that opener, I age in dog years.”

“Story checks out,” I retort, narrowing my eyes as though to study him. “Have you thought of Botox? Maybe a peel?”

“Fuck you,” he says in the tune of a happy thank you!

“Maybe you should book yourself a spa day.”

“Yeah.” His mouth quirks. “That’s exactly what I need. A spa day.”

“Spa day in Bali?”

“I can see that going down well with the board. Next item on the agenda, the recent share price volatility. You guys good to deal with that while I take the jet to the tropics for a little me time?”

“Think I might come with you,” I say, dropping into one of the chairs facing his desk.

“You should. You’re only the CEO. Nobody needs you.”

“See, that’s what I thought.”

“Also, you could look after the kid while I have my massage.”

“We’ll hire a nanny. Or take yours.”

“Quit stalling and spill.”

“I need a favor,” I say, leaning forward to straighten the pleat in my pant leg. Then I brush off a pelt of nonexistent dog hairs.

“You mean a command dressed up as a suggestion.”

“You’re saying I’m manipulative?” Reaching up, I run a finger over my eyebrow. “Then how come I still live?”

“Because I regularly remind Hannah that pretty people do, in fact, go to jail. Also, fuck you. You know exactly what you’re doing. We’ve just known you too long to fall for your schtick. Charming, my asshole,” he mutters not quite under his breath.

I sit suddenly forward to tap an invisible microphone. “Let it be noted for the record that I have never tried to charm the counsel’s asshole.” I sit back again.

“Thank fuck.”

“Because you know I’d make you want it.”

He puts up a hand as though to shield his eyes. “Stop talking about my asshole, and put away the goddamn smolder.”

“Fine.”

“What did you break, Troy?”

“Not your asshole.” Unfolding my legs, I cross them at the ankles and thread my fingers together, resting them across my middle.