Maybe I could pay my interns less, but maybe I could also become a corporate welfare shill that contributed to problems like my parents’.
No, thank you and fuck you very much.
Delilah scribbled her signature on the bottom of something and added it to the mountain of papers on her desk. “I’m not exaggerating.”
Chantilly’s head ping-ponged between the both of us.
I asked, “What’s my net worth again?”
Delilah dropped her Conway Stewart pen and spooned yogurt into her mouth, not bothering to wipe it when a clump fell to her desk. “Not as high as you’d like to think, considering how much of it you give away. I shudder to think of a world run by you. Is fiscal responsibility in your vocabulary?”
Yes, and so is penance.
I bit my tongue.
This fight was a long time coming, but I wasn’t having it in front of Jessica Rabbit’s desperate long-lost cousin.
“You do charity work?” Chantilly fluttered her lashes at me and fingered a strand of hair. “I donated blood to the Red Cross a few years ago.”
I spared her a glance. “Chasmophile, you’re embarrassing yourself.”
Spiky nails the color of blood dug into the upholstered back of the three-thousand-dollar cantilever chair she’d tried to sit on. “It’s Chantilly.”
Delilah set her pen down and watched us with her full attention, amusement lighting up her eyes. “Who confuses Chantilly for Chasmophile?”
Good question. I had no answer.
“If anything,” she continued, “you’d think it would be Chartreuse.”
“Oh, you’re so funny, Delilah. Chartreuse.” Chantilly paused mid-laughter, fingers indenting the chair’s upholstery. “What does chasmophile mean?”
Delilah mocked a patient smile that reeked of condescension. “A lover of nooks and crannies.”
Oh.
Emery.
Always Emery.
She’d worn a shirt that said ‘Chasmophile’ when she went through her Twilight phase, reading in every corner of the house, migrating with Virginia’s movements. Wherever Virginia was in the mansion, I’d always bet Emery sat in the exact opposite end of the house, legs curled up against her chest as she read in a little nook.
And I was about ready to donate my brain to science to cure whatever ailment made it continually think of Emery.
“Delilah,” I began.
“I know that tone enough to know I’m not going to say yes.” She turned to Chantilly. “Cover your ears.”
“What?” Chantilly’s eyes begged me to save her.
I didn’t. “Cover your ears, Chartreuse.”
Delilah talked back to me. I let her. Enjoyed it, even. But she knew not to do it in front of others.
“Relocate a temp from your office to design,” I said as soon as Chantilly covered her ears.
“I don’t think so.” Delilah stapled a stack of papers together with the vigor of a running back diving into the end zone. “We’re busy enough as is.”
“You, perhaps?”
“Ha. Ha. You’re so funny. You have a career in stand up if your hotel fails—and it will if you continue to pay employees more than their positions call for and exceed project budgets.”
For the record, I paid well because the company had started out hiring from a pool of the poor half of Eastridge. The half that suffered most from Gideon’s betrayal. What was I supposed to do? Pay every non-Eastridge employee less?
Delilah leaned down to pet Rosco when he pawed at her shins and continued, relentless, “And in case you’re not joking, and I know you’re joking because you cannot be serious, I can’t afford to relocate one of my temps. I’m already working remotely here, which is a hassle that cuts into my time. Plus, I am busy renewing my contract with my husband.”
“You mean your wedding vows?”
“No, I mean my contract.” She dragged the word out like I was an idiot for not following.
“You have a relationship contract with your husband? Who does that?”
“Lawyers. The asshole wants anal written into the contract this year.”—Chartreuse choked on her Evian. I’d forgotten she was even here—“I want two kids.” Delilah turned to the redhead. “Chartreuse, honey, I said cover your ears. I won’t repeat myself.” She turned back to me. “We’re entering negotiations.”
“How about no anal and no kids?” I suggested, returning to my mounting to-do list. “It’s a win-win situation. He doesn’t have to wipe baby asses, and you don’t have to take anything up your ass.”
“You’re saying that because you don’t want me on maternity leave.”
“You’re the head of an entire department.” I pulled up a folder on my laptop, opening Mary-Kate’s employment file. “Come to think of it, so is Mary-Kate.” I swore as I read. “A year of maternity leave? Are you fucking serious?”
Standard maternity leave in the states ranged from zero to twelve unpaid weeks. Paid leave if you lived in California, Rhode Island, or New Jersey, but we didn’t, so what the fuck.
“You told me to write up the company’s employee contracts. So, I did.” She rested her smug-as-hell face on her knuckles as if she hadn’t just told me the company overspent on employee salaries earlier. “Do you expect women to pop out babies and head back to work, milk leaking from their nursing bras?”
“I knew I should have hired Earl Haywood.” I tucked back a smile, knowing the mention of Earl would piss her off.
“Earl Haywood has a beer belly from drinking at work.” She mimicked his permanent drunk sway. “Plus, his name is Earl. Hay. Wood. But by all means, hire him and watch your company crumble.”
“Um,” Chantilly raised one hand, waving it a little like a preschooler who needed to use the restroom. “Can I uncover my ears yet?”
“No,” I said the same time Delilah said, “Yes.”
Chantilly dropped her hands and shook them a little, like pressing them to her ears had caused an ache. “So… can I hire someone new?”
Delilah arched a brow at me before turning to Chantilly. “No need. Mr. Prescott has agreed to become more hands-on with the project.”
I should have said no.
I should have hired someone else.
I didn’t.
Instead, I nodded because Emery worked in the design department, and I needed Gideon’s location even if I had to pry it out of her unwilling fingers. Plus, I wanted her miserable, and nothing made her more miserable than my existence.
“See you bright and early tomorrow, Chasmophile.”
The cafe across from the hotel served chicken and dumplings that reminded me of the ones Ma made. So, even though I preferred unclogged arteries at seven in the morning, I indulged myself for sentimentality’s sake.
Chicken and dumplings used to be Dad’s favorite. We had it every holiday and for all three meals on his birthday. These didn’t hold a candle to Ma’s, but the dumplings had been cut into the same shape, and if I squinted my eyes and medicated myself enough, I could probably convince myself they were Ma’s. Add in some hallucinogenics, and I’d be fighting Dad for the leftovers.