Page 86 of Loathing My Boss
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Whencrisis strikes…
Viktor
After last night, I didn’t think things could get any better. But, here I am, driving back to Canter Creek Ranch for the last day of our writer’s retreat with Crisis. And she isglowing.
“IfI get published, do you think I should go indie or trad? I’m pretty sure the trad validation appeals to fragmented pieces inside me, but—” She pauses to take a bite of her sausage, egg, and cheese bagel from Honeycomb. “—indie has more control. I like control.”
I rub her thigh while the vehicle eases around a curve. “It’s up to you. We have enough pull in the industry to access top of the stack for reliable agents, so trad production times might not be as long once you match with representation. We also have enough resources to foot the upfront costs associated with indie.”
“I don’t know if it’s wise for me to become a millionaire through marriage,” she muses. “Who knows what I’ll do withthatkind of power?”
She’d buy every last thing she seeks to own from small businesses and donate to charities for fish, probably. “I’m not concerned.”
“When are you ever?”
Smiling, I glide my fingers up, and down, circle her kneecap, reminisce. “I was concerned last night.”
Heat blazes in her face. “What part of last night concerned you?”
“I wasn’t sure I’d survive leaving you alone in your bedroom.”
“Big baby.”
She really can’t get a handle on my age, can she?
Lifting her chocolate milk, she sips. “You can maintain your celibacy until the wedding. Promise. I believe in you.”
The wedding.
I have never smiled so wide before in my life. “Speaking of, when is the wedding, sweet pea?”
“We’ll find out once I get my hands on my laptop again and open a fresh Canva Whiteboard, now won’t we?”
A murderboard. Just for us. And ourwedding.
My cheeks start to hurt. “Yes, I believe we will. Are you going to skip out on horseback riding, the last motivational meeting, or both in order to start on your Canva murderboard?”
“First of all, sir, it’s awedding board. And, second of all, I’m not interested in being part of what keeps a poor horse walking through trails all day today, but I wouldn’t mind supporting Odessa. I need to let her know if she ever needs a PA in the future she shouldn’t call me, because I’ll be too busy taking care of my geriatric husband.”
I squeeze her leg, silently hoping she will actually be too busy making excellent use of herchildbearing hips. The very idea of starting a family with her…introducing a little one to my brothers, to Sunset…it does things to me.
Marvelous things.
I open my mouth to ask if she’ll be adding a five- or ten-year plan to herwedding board, and where exactlybabies might fall on it, but an explosion stops me.
The car veers, thumping, as the popped tire makes itself known.
Letting go of Crisis, I grip the wheel and ease off the gas. Taking a chance on the vacant nature of these backroads, I ride down the middle of the lanes in order to stay straight while we slow. Pressing the brake, I manage to get us safely stopped in a dirt patch beside a rail, overlooking a sheer drop scattered with trees.
My breath releases.
I turn to Crisis.
Eyes closed, she cringes.
“Sweet pea,” I whisper, “are you all right?”
