Chapter 30
If beer isn’t the answer, your question sucks.
Back at work a few days later, I find myself slamming the phone down.
“What did the phone do to you?” Phoebe asks as she walks out of her office and sits on one of the chairs in front of my desk.
“Stupid clients and their stupid prejudices.”
“You certainly cleared things up for me.”
I snarl at her. “Since when are you snarky?”
She ignores my question. “Are you going to avoid the question all morning?”
“Don’t you have work to do?”
“Not really. Things are slow. Apparently, February is not a popular month to cheat your insurance company.”
“Why don’t you go play hide the cannoli with Ryker then?” I must be desperate to avoid her questions if I’m suggesting a little love in the afternoon to distract her.
She giggles while her cheeks flame. “Ryker’s leaving in ten minutes to go chase a skip.”
Great. Phoebe and I will be all alone in the office then.
“You and Grayson looked snug as a bug at the wedding on Saturday.”
And now you know why I’m not excited to be stuck alone with her in the office. I don’t want to talk about my ‘relationship’ with Grayson with her. I’m not ready to dissect my relationship with anyone. Least of all myself.
I decide to misdirect her by answering her initial question. “A potential client canceled her appointment.”
“Why? Did something happen?” She leans closer. “Did she find her husband in the act with his secretary?”
“Why is it always the secretary?” I shake my head. “But no. She does need PI services just not our services. When I told her Hailey was on her honeymoon, she became belligerent.”
“Belligerent?”
“You know aggressive, confrontational—”
Phoebe holds up her hand. “I know what the word belligerent means. Why was she belligerent?”
“She doesn’t want a PI who is recently married. She started ranting about happily married women being horrible people who could suck her dick.”
“I thought it was a woman?”
I don’t get a chance to answer before the door opens and a delivery man steps inside. “Phoebe Adams?”
Phoebe sighs before getting to her feet. “Let me guess. You have a package for me.”
After she signs for the delivery, he leaves, and she sets the box on my desk. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
She motions to my desk. “Knock yourself out.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. I rip off the wrapping paper to find a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. Phoebe’s brand of vodka. She’s a bit of a vodka snob who’s addicted to vodka martinis. Ryker tried to switch her onto American vodka, but he failed – big time.
“How much do they think I drink? At this rate, I’ll have enough vodka to drink until I’m old and gray.”
“Like you will ever go gray.”