Page 2 of Strictly Yours

Greg frowns as he points at the shelf on the column. “You forgot your passport.”

Shit.

I go bright red as I grab it and stuff it into my pocket.

“Go,” Willow warns him. “Now.”

Greg drops his head with a sigh and shuffles away.

“Have a great trip!” I call out to him. He doesn’t turn around.

Hopefully, some sun and Mai Tais will lighten him up a bit or my sister is in for a rough two weeks.

“I left all of the detailed instructions for Munchies on the kitchen counter,” she says, playing with my hair. “If you have any questions, you can call me day or night.”

“I’ll be fine. And so will Munchies.”

“Thanks for doing this,” she says, giving me one more hug. “Don’t forget to get the key at my office first.”

“Why didn’t you leave it with a neighbor?”

She snorts out a laugh. “This is New York, Amber. We don’t talk to our neighbors.”

I try to stop the frown from forming on my face. That sounds awful.

“I told the front desk you’ll be coming by, so they’ll let you up no problem. Just try to stay out of the path of Mr. Strickland.”

“Your asshole boss?”

“He’s not an asshole,” she says with a sigh. “He’s just…”

“Grumpy, strict, mean, overbearing, intimidating?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Just… Don’t engage. Grab the key and leave.”

“I’ll be fine,” I say with a smile. “Mr. Cranky Pants won’t scare me.”

“I don’t know about that,” she says with a wince. “He scares everybody.”

“It’s almost eight o’clock,” I say looking at my watch. “He’ll be long gone by the time I get there.”

“I doubt that,” she mutters under her breath, a haunting look in her eyes. Geez, she looks like she has PTSD from working with this guy. What has he done to her?

I spot Greg by the security entrance with his hands on his hips, muttering angrily to himself, and I cringe, hating that I’ve made their vacation start off like this.

“You should go,” I say with a grin. “Before Greg has a panic attack.”

She laughs and then hugs me again.

“Take this,” she whispers as she reaches into her purse and pulls out a wad of cash.

“No,” I say as she shoves it into the pocket of my jeans. “Absolutely not.”

I try to take it out, but my sister has a steel grip on my wrist. She’s still got her volleyball strength from all those years on the varsity team.

“You’re doing us a service,” she says, staring me down, “and weinsiston paying you.”

“Willow, I don’t…”

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