Since not even a place as fancy as Éternité has that kind of privacy option, I do the next best thing. I pull out my tablet and open a note-taking app, ready to get this farce over with as quickly and efficiently as possible. Not even Wyatt is going to stop me from being professional. “So.”
“You can put that away. It’s not that kind of lunch,” Salazar says, his tone entirely too indulgent, and the Tingle of Terror shivers through my body. That particular tone of voice only emerges when he’s about to ask me to do something he knows is unreasonable.
Shit.
Wyatt stares at me like I’m some kind of lab experiment gone wrong, then looks away, muttering to himself. It’s probably something unflattering and mean, because that’s how he rolls.
Dane lets out an impatient sigh. “You didn’t tell her, did you?” he asks Salazar, his voice flatter than a freshly ironed sheet.
“I was busy,” Salazar says.
“You’re semi-retired. And you were supposed to tell her two weeks ago.”
“Tell me what?” I’m getting a very bad feeling about this. Just what the hell does Dane need from me that he needs to go through my boss? A kidney? No. Dane’s too direct and arrogant to bother going through Salazar. He’d just take me to the hospital and tell me to my face.
Salazar shrugs, still looking at his son. “Told you, I was busy.”
Yeah, busy rejecting my itinerary! But what does Dane have to do with this lunch, and why is Wyatt here too, rolling his eyes like this is all a huge waste of time?
Dane sighs again. “Tell her.”
Wyatt shifts in his seat, full of the restless annoyance of a guy stuck in a pointless meeting. He picks up his wine glass and takes a healthy swallow, then taps the menu repeatedly, his mouth tight.
His crabby mood should make me happy, but it doesn’t. It only makes me dread whatever it is that Salazar has done.
My boss isn’t a normal man. He’s the head of the Pryce family, one of the most influential and filthy-richest families in the world. He has no understanding of proper protocol or etiquette or even boundaries. Why would he? He’s wealthy, powerful and damn good looking, the trifecta requirement of people who live entitledly, assuming that’s a word.
“Tell me what?” I ask. “Salazar, what is it?”
“Nothing, really.” My boss clears his throat. “It’s just, well, see… Dane and I had a bet.” He looks around. “I need a scotch.”
The drink appears magically in front of him, two fingers, neat. He takes a swig, then tilts the glass this way and that, watching the ebb and flow of the liquor.
This does not bode well. It isn’t like him to stall.
“What he’s trying to say is, he lost the bet,” Dane says, obviously losing patience. “And you’re going to work for Wyatt for four weeks.”
The words take a moment to sink in. I start to shake my head, feeling sick to my stomach. This has to be a nightmare. A terrible, horrifying nightmare. Maybe it is some kind of delayed, secondhand pot smoke trip, because it can’t be real.
“Why on earth would I work for Wyatt if Salazar lost a bet to you?” It’s the most logical question I can think of.
“Because he bet four weeks of your time, and I already have an assistant,” Dane says as though he’s stating the obvious.
“I’m not working for him!” I say, staring at Wyatt in horror. I fling a hand at him. “You have money. Hire an assistant yourself.”
“I already do have one,” Wyatt says tightly.
“Well then. Problem solved.” I look at the three men. “He doesn’t need me to work for him. Besides, it’s against labor law to force somebody to work two full-time jobs.” If not, I’m writing my congressional rep.
“I’m going to give you four weeks off,” Salazar says, picking up a second scotch our waiter has thoughtfully provided. “With pay. That’s only fair.”
What’s only fair is you not betting my time! But I’m not criticizing my boss in front of other people. I need to wait until we’re in private to discuss the matter. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Yes, it will,” Wyatt says finally, his tone as morose as a man about to choke down a steaming bowl of kale.
“Don’t tell me you hired an assistant for her looks,” I say, even though I’m convinced he did. Mom said he’s divorced. What do single guys who come into lots of money do? Dumb shit. And what do divorced guys who come into lots of money do? Even dumber shit.
And hiring the first hot woman who applies to work for you without checking her résumé falls exactly under “Even Dumber Shit.”