Catastrophe Queen

Jade: Do I need to hire u a stripper?

Me: For what?

Jade: U need to get laid.

Me: Strippers don’t sleep with you, idiot. Hookers do that.

Jade: K. Do u need a hooker then?

Me: No. I need some self-control. And Aunt Grace to not email me @ work to buy her strawberries.

Jade: Oh God. Did she get a hooker?

Me: You’re impossible. Why do I put up with you?

Jade: I bring u the good wine when ur sad. Do u need the good wine?

Me: I always need the good wine. Srsly, my boss is too good to be true. He bought me lunch today.

Jade: Maybe he’s just being nice. U should try it.

Me: Being nice is overrated. And he probably is, but he’s too perfect.

Jade: ?????

Me: He’s hot as fuck and buys me lunch and wants to get to know me and doesn’t want to get in my pants. What’s wrong with him?

Jade: Is he gay?

Me: I doubt it. But if he is, men have a gift I don’t think they deserve.

Jade: K. Maybe he fancies u.

Me: I don’t think so. Maybe he just bites his toenails?

Jade: Only u could go from something hot to something so gross.

Me: It’s totally probable. He has a tab at a deli on the fancy side of town. The only tab I have is my credit card.

Jade: U have one at HLS.

I groaned. Hook, Line, and Sinker was our local dive bar, and we loved it for the cheap drinks and the world’s best wings. We frequented it far more than I cared to admit, and because the owner, Hank, was a softie, he let us open tabs.

Mine was definitely due.

I made a mental note to pay him the next time I walked through the door.

Me: So do you. Hank knows I’m good for it. But that doesn’t solve my super-hot-boss problem.

Jade: Uve worked there for two days. Settle ur tea kettle, Mal.

Me: Fine. You come meet me for lunch tmrw. See how you feel about him.

Jade: It’s a date. I bet he’s not that hot.

Me: Twenty bucks says you’re wrong.

Jade: I’ve seen ur exes. Done.

CHAPTER EIGHT – CAMERON

I pushed open one of the heavy doors that made up the entrance to my parent’s house. As always, I cringed at the ostentatious show of wealth on display, from the perfectly polished marble floors to the oversized diamond chandelier that hung in the center of the hallway.

If you asked my mother, she wasn’t showing off.

She merely liked shiny things.

I’d told her before that only worked with magpies and toddlers, but she’d stuck to her guns thus far.

For what it was worth, I really did think she just liked shiny things. She also had the bank account to have lots of shiny things.

“Mom?” I called into the silent house. “Where are you?”

“Mrs. Reid said to tell you she’s in the study.” Isabelle, the full-time housekeeper, appeared from the living room to my right with a duster in her hand. “And you’re late.”

I chuckled at her stern look. “I know I’m late. She’s lucky I’m here at all if she keeps sending her friends to buy houses from me.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes and smiled. “And what would you do if she didn’t, huh?”

I reached and took her hand. “I’d be able to have time to romance you, Isabelle.”

She barked a laugh and snatched back her hand. “I’m sure you would, Cameron. There’s nothing like a woman in her forties with a teenage son to get a young man’s motor running.”

“Aw, come on. You could get anyone you wanted.”

“Yeah? Do you have Chris Pratt’s phone number?”

“If I did, I’d set you up myself.” I grinned. “How is Oscar?”

Her face lit up as it always did when she spoke about her son. “He’s doing well! I was wondering… when you’re settled with your new assistant…”

I smiled, knowing what she was going to ask me.

“Oscar needs work experience for extra credit, and he’s interested in what you do. Would you—uh…” She stumbled over her words.

Saving her, I touched her shoulder and smiled. “Isabelle, of course. I’d love to have him with me. How long is his experience?”

“One week. Five days, technically.”

I nodded my head once. “You have my number. We’ll figure it out.” I squeezed her arm.

“You’re a good boy, Cameron. Now scoot before your momma catches you messing around out here.”

I laughed, letting her go back to work, and headed down the hallway to my mom’s study. My shoes squeaked against the impossibly clean floor, and if I looked down, I could see my reflection on the tiles.

My mother was a slave driver.

She’d have a fit if she saw the spaghetti stain on my living room floor that was currently being masked by my coffee table and a well-placed ottoman.

It was also why she wasn’t allowed to my house.

“You have a crease in your shirt,” she said, her shrewd blue eyes raking over me the second I stepped through the door. “It’s unbecoming of a young man.”