Page 24 of Devilish Bully
We need to take a flight to Florida. Should be back by this evening, but just in case.
Is it possible for me to catch a separate flight home if things run late? I need to be back home by 9.
Okay.
Okay as in ‘yes?”
No. Okay as in just “OKAY” Miss Clarke…
So now he’s back to being impossible?
I toss my phone into my purse, and Myra pouts while she helps me pack a few outfits.
She hasn’t uttered a word to me all day, and I haven’t tried to make her. She has every right to be pissed, and I’m at her mercy for forgiveness.
“I put in an application for you at my school,” she says. “If they call you for an interview, I need you to promise that you’ll take it.”
I look up from my makeup bag. “You did what?”
“The base pay is one hundred and ninety thousand a year, and there are bonus clauses,” she says. “They’ve got great health insurance and retirement stuff, and best of all, my tuition would be free.”
“Wow.” I can’t help but smile. “I had no idea.”
“Because you haven’t had any time to yourself to search, I know.” She shoots me a sympathetic look. “I figured I should try to help.”
“I appreciate that, Myra.” I pull her close for a hug. “I’ll definitely go for an interview if they call.”
“If they don’t, you’ll have other options,” she says. “I’m putting in applications for you at other places, too.”
I hug her even tighter. “I love you so fucking much, Myra.”
“I love you too, Aunt K.”
When I arrive at work,Lucian isn’t sitting at his desk.
Instead, there’s a checklist of “Things you need to do before heading to the private airport at noon.”
And instead of signing it with his name, he signed it with “Okay.”
THE ACCOUNTANT
KENDALL
I might as well be invisible on this plane.
I’m stuck in the front row across from a board member—Bob, I think—and all he’s done is flip through his yacht magazine and occasionally beg me to look at it.
At the back of the plane, Lucian and Penelope are huddled with the other board members, talking strategy like they’re on stage at some conference, while Brian scribbles notes as if the world depends on it.
Why am I even here?
I slide on a pair of reading glasses and bury myself in the damn quarterly report that refuses to make sense until the plane descends into Miami.
The moment the pilot opens the door, I sling my bag over my shoulder and hurry down the stairs.
Ahead, the private airport screamsPearson Industrieswith a giant “Welcome to Florida” banner. The second I step inside, blue and white balloons tumble from the ceiling, confetti pops, and strangers beam at me like I’m the guest of honor.
“Well, hello there!”
