Page 107 of Twisted Shot
“Well,” Naomi says, stretching her legs out and kicking Mila lightly under the desk. “Maybe this will help. Ashley got canned.”
Mila blinks. “What?”
“Yup. Jaryd let her go yesterday. Major drama. Box of stuff, security escort, the whole corporate walk of shame.”
“Holy shit.”
“Mhm. Apparently her numbers were crap and she alienated two clients in one month.”
Mila lets that sink in. She strenuously dislikes Ashley forbeing the second guilty party in the whole Richard saga, but there’s nothing easy or pleasant about watching someone’s livelihood vanish like a puff of spray tan.
“Want to hear what she said about Richard on her way out?”
“Absolutely not,” Mila says breezily. “But I do want to hear about you and Tall sliding out of the coatroom like a deleted scene from Bridgerton.”
Naomi avoids her gaze, cheeks flushing scarlet. “A lady never tells.”
Mila makes an outraged noise in her throat. “You know every humiliating detail of my love life. The least you can do is tell me why a man with finger tattoos had your lipstick smudged all over his face.”
Naomi winces. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. It was a lapse in judgment. A hormonal malfunction. I can barely stand the guy.”
“You made out with him in a coat closet!”
“I dragged him into a coat closet,” Naomi mutters, face in her hands.
Mila gasps. “Naomi Piccolo. Spill. Now.”
She groans into her palms. “He said something smug, I said something mean, and then I don’t know—his mouth was just there and apparently so was mine, and now I have to live with this knowledge for the rest of my natural life.”
Mila is cackling. “I need more. Was there groping? Button-popping? What did you say after?”
Naomi leans in, expression tortured. “I told him not to catch feelings.”
Mila nearly falls out of her chair. “Naomi!”
“I panicked! And then I accidentally thanked him. Like I signed for a package!”
Mila is wheezing. “You said thank you?!”
“I was flustered!”
They dissolve into giggles, with Mila wiping tears from her eyes.
“I needed that,” she says, reaching for a tissue and blotting at her mascara.
Her phone buzzes on the desk, flashing a Connecticut area code and a number she doesn’t recognize.
“I should take this,” she says to Naomi, already swiping to answer, expecting Theo or Natalie.
“Mila,” comes the warm, sonorous voice of Jim Pearce. “I hope I’m not interrupting. Do you have a minute?”
“Jim—of course,” she says, watching Naomi quietly gather her things and slip out, curiosity written all over her face.
“I’m calling because I have news,” Jim says, voice serious. “The director of the Connecticut Children’s Hospital called me this morning. The board voted unanimously to make the Whalers’ Winter Gala an annual event. And—” a chuckle, “—they insist you be the one to run it. Or, and I quote, the hospital will explore alternate sponsor relationships moving forward.”
Mila blinks and her thoughts scatter, bouncing around the walls of her skull like Gordie Howl with a chew toy. The board had never shown the faintest interest in her. Most of them were crusty, old-money types who barely spared her a glance.
Except for one.
