Sin (Vegas Nights 1)

She mock-gasped, pressing her hand to her chest as she looked at me. “Are you…working?”

I hit her with my best death stare.

“Kidding. Boss.” She grinned and handed me a folder. “I’ll ease you back in gently.”

“Are we using lube?” I asked, looking at the folder labeled ‘Paychecks.’ It was the one thing I’d done when I hadn’t been here—but only because the accounts were all in my name and Abby physically couldn’t sign off on anything.

“There’s been a lot of overtime this month. Your bank account will probably need it.”

It was good to be back.

Kinda.

***

Four hours sorting out my father’s office, and I didn’t feel like I was any closer to organization than I was when I’d walked through the door. I hadn’t known it before, but he’d apparently favored a ‘shove it in the folder’ method of filing papers instead of using the filing cabinets along one wall.

All but one were empty. There were five.

I couldn’t figure out how I’d never noticed it. Then again, I didn’t have time to figure it out. I was too busy sorting out and correctly filing years of paperwork.

I’m sure this method worked for him and there were copies probably filed with the lawyers and bankers and accountants and everyone else, but it didn’t for me. I needed some form of order.

And curtains. The office desperately needed new curtains, because the ones that were once dark red were so old, the color was now hinging on pink.

I sipped my iced tea and surveyed my work so far. The top of the desk was clear, and I’d already placed an order for a new desktop computer. Turning on the dinosaur that was currently atop the desk was probably going to be the most daunting task—who knew if it would even work? If it didn’t, I’d have to find some tech genius to pull off all the data, and I didn’t have time for that.

I didn’t know where to look, either. Was that the kind of thing I could ask on Facebook? Maybe Craigslist?

Ugh.

Feeling sorry for myself again wasn’t going to cut it. I needed to snap out of this and fast. I couldn’t run a business as long as I had this woe-is-me attitude. If my dad could see and hear me, he’d laugh and tell me I was made of stronger stuff than fluff and self-pity, and he was right. He always was right.

Except about filing important papers. Then he was very, very wrong.

Another cursory glance around the office had me lamenting the fact I was an only child. This would be a lot easier if I had a sibling to share this with.

Not self-pity. Just a fact.

A knock sounded at the door right as I blew out a long breath. I used the desk to pull myself up off the floor before shouting a “Come in!” to whoever was on the other side of the door.

It creaked open to reveal twenty-four-year-old Rylie Fisher. My dad had hired the young redhead two months before he’d died. She was only part-time because she was still in school studying for her Masters, but from what I knew of her, she was pretty good at her job.

“Hey, Rylie. What’s up?”

She returned the gesture and held up the phone. “Hey, Ms. Lloyd. You have a call. He’s on hold.”

A tingle ran over my skin when she said “he.” There was only one man I’d called lately, besides my uncle. “It’s Dahlia.” I smiled. “Who is it?”

“Damien Fox. Again.”

Well, shit. If even the part-time employee was saying it was him again, he must have been more persistent than Abby had given him credit for. “If you wanted to bring me a present, I recommend chocolate next time.” I grinned and took the phone from her. “Thanks. I’ll bring it out when I’m done.”

Rylie laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

I waited until the door had clicked shut behind her, dampening the noise of the music from the bar downstairs, and took the call off hold. “Dahlia Lloyd.”

“Ms. Lloyd,” came the answering voice. It was deep and smooth and very, very masculine. “Damien Fox. It’s wonderful to finally talk to you.”

I couldn’t say the feeling was mutual. So, I didn’t. “How are you, Mr. Fox?”

A light chuckle traveled down the line, and I had the feeling he knew exactly what I was thinking.

“I’m well, thank you. I’m sorry to hear about your father. How are you?”

“Better now I’m home,” I answered. “I can’t possibly imagine what you’re calling about, so why don’t we skip the rest of the pleasantries and get right to the point?”

“I received the message you left for me at some ungodly hour of the morning.”

“Ten years of Bible class ensures me that even God is up and cooking his breakfast by ten a.m. I believe Satan is the lazy one.”