Swap Out(5)

She should have someone to help her, not that she’d probably let him, but at least someone to pull out her chair or open a door, maybe offer to pick up the clothes from the dry cleaner’s or cook her dinner. Just someone to give her a break and help carry the load. I mean, it’s not like I’m hauling those couches and beds on my own, and teamwork was life or death when I was part of Pararescue.

But Zoe doesn’t have that. All she has is me, bitching at her to decide what bedroom set she wants delivered, how she expects me to pull off staging three living rooms in three surrounding cities and have it all done in four hours, and arguing with her about why I’m not going to swap out those area rugs again just because she’s low on caffeine and changed her mind.

Shit, that reminds me.

I pull off the highway, swinging into the drive thru of one of the ten billion Starbucks gracing this planet. And after I place the standard order for a Mocha Latte and creep forward to the window, I check on Zoe again to discover she’s awake: her eyes soft and the corner of her lips pulling up.

I tilt my head, and she barely shrugs one shoulder, a thousand things we don’t talk about settling in the small space between us. It stays there until some kid tells me the total and I tear my eyes away from Zoe, passing him enough cash to cover her drink and taking the cup he hands me. I pass it off to my boss with a wink, then pull away and try to think about anything except for that smile as I drive us toward the dealership.

She’s not supposed to look at me like that. She knows it, I know it, because it’s not part of the deal and it isn’t going to do anything but make life infinitely more complicated. And it’s complicated enough.

I finally get us to her dealership and when she gets out of my car, it’s like she takes the loaded silence right along with her. But I have to admit, I’m still watching the delightful sway of her ass as she walks away from me.

Until my phone rings, her name lighting up the screen.

I answer it and pull out onto the street, a smirk in my tone when I say, “Zoe’s personal chauffeur service, how may I be of assistance?”

“You can stop ogling me like a teenager who just hit puberty.”

Fuck. “Ma’am, I am a professional. I am sure I have no knowledge of the incident you are referring to.”

“Sure you don’t,” she says, and I snort. “Anyway I was going to say I have to go get some inventory paperwork off my desk so instead of heading back to the warehouse to lock it up, you can just go home for the night.”

Sweet. “We don’t need to load up the truck for the stage we have tomorrow morning?”

“You’re going to come in early and do it then. But only after you pick up the truck and go grab the four bed frames I ordered because I need them for tomorrow afternoon. You can put them together after you do the first stage in the morning, or you can build the beds once you deliver them, I don’t care. But don’t forget my coffee in the morning, or let it get cold, otherwise you’ll be looking for a new employer,” she says, then hangs up.

I scoff at my phone, then place it in my cup holder. God, she needs therapy.

And apparently lessons on acceptable social behavior because she’s calling me again.

I answer it, then grit out, “What?”

“I changed my mind, I need you to go back to my office and pick up—”

“No, I’m off the clock. Permanently,” I snap, then hang up on her. I rev my engine a little harder because the faster I can get away from her, the better.

I swear to God, does she think just because she’s gorgeous and signs my checks that she can treat me like some piece-of-trash minion? Fuck that. And normally I’m happy to help her take care of stuff, to fix things and run errands with her, but not when it means she’s going to act like I’m lucky for every whiff of her perfume she graces me with.

I drive like a bat out of hell the rest of the way home, shutting my front door harshly behind me and stomping all the way into my shower. I scrub my skin with the single-minded purpose of losing the scent of white tea and ginger lotion because it drives me crazy that I always fucking smell like her, and it’s just…it’s fucking cruel.

By the time I’m done and pulling on my jeans, my angry pulse has slowed a bit and I’m ready for a beer and a little perusing of the wanted ads to find myself a new job where I’m not anyone’s bitch. Shouldn’t be a problem with the influx of seasonal work to help corral the spring and summer tourists. But I’m also starving after not eating anything today except for a Clif bar this morning, so I’m going to have to take care of that first. Too bad beer isn’t part of the nutrition triangle.