Page 12 of Game Changer

6

William

“Did you step on a dead rat?”Lola Simard, one of my assistants, glances in my direction.

Technically, her job title is assistant, but she knows better, as do the other two women I hired when I started this venture at the ripe old age of twenty-two. All three women were college classmates of mine. I’ve never been short of male or female friends, and this particular trio hit me up for dating advice while we were all attending Harvard.

Their initial plan was to go all in together in business. They had their eyes on a luxury bed and breakfast on the outskirts of Boston. They were going to bankroll that venture with the proceeds of an inheritance, but that has yet to pan out because Lola’s grandfather is still kicking ass and taking names. He was diagnosed with cancer over a decade ago but has shown time and time again that he’s a boss when it comes to winning that battle.

When I offered Lola, Sheila Montgomery, and Aleena Anderson the opportunity to come to New York to work for me, they initially laughed in my face until I explained the full concept of my business and how they’d be compensated.

Flat salaries with a full range of benefits wouldn’t have cut it for them or my conscience, so we agreed to a split of profits. Each woman gets a slice of the big pie, which means the harder we work, the more we pad our bank accounts.

I take the biggest cut, but no one has complained about the money they’re making. Lola, Sheila, and Aleena work on schedules that suit them and take paid vacations whenever they want.

I’ve not only helped my business partners become millionaires in the past decade, but two have found love. Lola is the lone holdout because she’s waiting for a man who will knock her socks off. Literally. Her sense of style is as exceptional as she is. All three women dress the way they want at the office. Sheila and Aleena almost always opt for jeans with blouses or sweaters, but Lola is the one who dresses exclusively in black mini-skirts with colorful T-shirts and matching knee-high socks.

She pulls it off regardless of the season, and with her blue-streaked long brown hair, it’s a look that is always worth a second glance.

I glance down at the suit jacket still draped over my forearm. I almost tossed it in a trashcan a block from here, but then I remembered that Lola would give me supreme shit for throwing out something this valuable without giving her the chance to fix it for me. Whether it’s a computer issue or a fully booked Michelin-starred restaurant when I desperately need a table, Lola always comes through.

“It’s my jacket,” I explain. “Something called Dicey Dip is to blame.”

“Uh, gross.” She wiggles her nose. “Where did you encounter that?”

“Opal Waverly,” I say her name, anddammitif I don’t love the way it sounds coming out of my mouth. I repeat it for good measure, “Opal Waverly.”

Lola circles her finger around a lock of her hair. “I heard you the first time, William.”

I shrug that off. “Apparently, her cousin is a chef and prepared this green dip. Some ended up on my jacket.”

Lola approaches where I’m standing just inside the doorway to our offices. “It’s putrid. It seriously smells like a rat died in an old shoe in a filthy alley after a sewer backed up.”

“Harsh.” Sheila laughs as she comes into view from the left. “I think William’s cologne is fine, although it’s a bit heavy on the spice.”

I know damn well she’s joking, but I’m still eager to come up with a witty reply. That’s part of our dynamic. She playfully comes at me with a verbal jab; I toss back a one liner that puts a smile on her face for the rest of the day.

Before I can get a word out, she stops mid-step to shake her head. Her shoulder-length black hair moves with the motion. “Oh, I get it now. It just hit me. What the hell is that? Someone crack open a window.”

Lola’s already on it as she heads across the open space toward a trio of windows. She tugs on the bottom of one to push it up and open. “It’s something called Dicey Dip. Should I call a bio-hazard team?”

I’d laugh, but I’m considering that approach myself. “I was going to toss the jacket, but I thought you might want a go at it, Lola.”

She pinches the bridge of her petite nose. “You thought of me? Should I be grateful or offended by that?”

Surprisingly, Sheila is the one who grabs the collar of the jacket to sweep it off my arm. “This can’t be harder to get out than the strained pea and beet mash I gave Orson Junior a couple of months ago. It made a hell of a mess on my blouse on the way back up. Poor guy couldn’t stomach it.”

I’m used to hearing about the digestive issues of Sheila’s fourteen-month-old son, so I smile. “Give that kid a kiss on the forehead for me tonight.”

She winks at me. “You know I will. I’ll take a crack at the jacket, William. If I can pretreat the stench out, I’ll drop it off so Roberto can work his dry cleaning magic.”

“If you do that, grab a bottle of the vodka he likes as a bonus,” I tell her.

“And a bottle of that wine I love for myself?” she questions with a gleeful grin. “I’ll deserve it after all that hard work of pretreating this stinky mess.”

She raises the sleeve of my jacket toward her nose but stops short of inhaling the remnants of the dip. “If a restaurant in this city is serving this, it’s our duty to report them to the health department.”

That lures a light laugh out of Lola. “Opal Waverly is the source of that.”

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