Page 23 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

Now that I’m not fired, I’m not sure what I’ll do for tomorrow’s call, but it seems far too risky to do it myself again. I’m thinking about hiring our unemployed actress friend, Karin.

I spend the day doing user stuff with IT when I’m not working on my Instagram strategy, but I keep thinking about Mr. Drummond’s strange reaction.

Unorthodox? It was totally mean. Does he like that sort of thing? Is the man some sort of masochist?

When I really think about it, there’s a lot about him that doesn’t add up. For example, why is a man who seems to hate people so hell-bent on saving them? Why is he so resistant to fun lifestyle images on the website? Why does he never smile? Why does he run the place like such a prison?

Mia is cross-stitching when I get home. Cross-stitching funny sayings is one of her major new passions. On the coffee table in front of her is a brown paper bag; from the aroma, I can tell that it’s pad Thai from the place down the block.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask, stripping off my coat.

“I was planning it this morning as a consolation feast. But now it’s a what-the-fuck celebration. Because, what the fuck!”

I grin. “Can you even?”

“Not even!”

I rush into my room to change out of my sad sack and into yoga pants and a long T-shirt. I’m excited about pad Thai.

When I get back out there, she hands me the cross-stitch she’s working on, stretched across the round holder. “For you.” It has a beautifully stitched image of a unicorn, and it says,Because I’m a sparkly unicorn, motherfuckers!

“Oh, Mia. I love it!”

She takes it back. “It’s almost done. And then I’m going to frame it. And then you can have it. To always look at.”

For when you move back to Fargo.

But she doesn’t say that part.

We pull out bowls and wine. I open my container and a puff of fragrant steam comes out. I dump it into my bowl and tell her about the scene at the reception desk.

“Did you nearly faint?”

“Rrmm-hmm,” I say, mouth stuffed with delicious noodles.

“Unorthodox,” she says.

“Four more days,” I say. “I can do this.”

“Are you ready to do a repeat performance tonight?” she asks.

“What? Of the call? Are you kidding?”

“You have to,” she says.

“No way,” I say, twirling up another steaming forkful of rice noodles. “I was thinking about saying they quit on me and I’ll get Karin to just do it for the next four days, just do a normal wake-up call. Just get me through to the bonus. Though she can stay on if she wants. She might like it as a side gig. She needs the money.”

“Wait, what? You can’t quit the calls!”

“Why? Karin needs the money. If she won’t do it, somebody else will. I should’ve thought of it in the first place.” Mia and I know tons of needy actors and musicians, being that we both worked in Manhattan restaurants. It’s how we met.

“You can’t just say the mean wake-up service quit after one day,” Mia says.

“Why not? I can’t help it if they’re flakey.”

“Don’t rock the boat. He liked the mean wake-up call. You have to do it again.”

“I can’t,” I say. “I just couldn’t.”

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