Chapter Six
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Petty squabbles aren’t exactly cute, but these two manage them quite adorably.
Liam
William Ivan Delimar Hart. Ruby Camilla Vann.
My two best accountants. The world’s two best accountants. Quibbling. Again.
Honestly, I wish that Will would get his act together. If you want to marry a woman, you marry the woman . It’s not that hard. You offer the best health insurance you can, you barter, you work out a prenup so she gets nothing if she tries to leave you, you apply for the marriage license.
Easy.
Here in Indiana, you don’t even need to wait three days for your license to clear. You just show up during work hours and get it done.
These poor, cute saps…
Silence permeates the room while I’m waiting for Ruby to share something actionable. Thus far, she’s been complaining that Will is flirting with her. I think she wants me to fire him, but that seems kind of extreme.
I like Ruby a lot, excellent work ethic, very funny, very blind. You don’t need to make eye contact with a blind person. Which is nice. Will’s great, too. On top of being one of the few people I’ve met who isn’t tense around me, he got me a walkie-talkie so we could communicate between floors like cool agents. Bedazzled it himself, even, so ours would match.
Ruby and Will would be great together.
Maybe they could have a little blind baby who wouldn’t be weird around me and I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with. I would love that.
I suppose, however, their child could also get the wrong traits and be both weird around me and not blind.
That would suck.
Will’s mouth opens; Ruby hits him. With her foot.
“Sorry, sir!” she fumbles through an apology, something about bothering me. I’m still stuck on the fact she kicked Will. Will’s a golden retriever. How do you kick a golden retriever?
Right around the time I finish that thought, it occurs to me that I’m probably expected to say something motivational and encouraging. A kind nudge toward working together . I’d suggest Will quit flirting and start drafting his prenup, but outing someone’s very loud, very obvious crush is not smiled upon.
Hence, I say, “The next time the two of you get the urge to behave like children…” Don’t? Yeah. That’s good. “Don’t.”
Will protests immediately, implying that I’ve created an unfair work environment by constraining his childish whimsy, which causes Ruby to stop breathing. Which is concerning.
Almost as concerning as the fact Will begins narrating, “Liam is glaring at me, Rubble. No love for his twinsie, a total shame. I am standing adorably at your side, giving him my very best pleading look, complete with begging hands. It’s not reducing his glare at all.”
He is standing adorably. But he might be having a stroke. I ask, “What are you doing?”
“I’m interpreting for Ruby!” He begins outlining the extreme importance of making the workspace inclusive, going so far as to mention a video he can email me. This information…makes Ruby hit him with her cane and cut his spiel off, “That won’t be necessary!”
She seems uncomfortable, so I figure it’s probably about time to send them back to their floor. The familiar always makes me feel better. “Get back to work,” I say, and Ruby jumps on it, practically dragging Will away.
Before the heavy door shuts on them, he shouts, “Have a nice day, twinsie!” back at me, and I nod, almost smiling.
Man, I really like Will.
I like him even more when, after about fifteen minutes, “Come in, twinsie!” crackles through my bedazzled walkie-talkie.
The mundane work before me fades into the back of my mind as I open my desk drawer to get both the device and the little pink sheet I have my walkie-talkie etiquette notes on. The tiny rabbits painted in the corner spark much joy. Greeting… Greeting… Ah, yes. First thing. Of course. “Go for Will, over,” I reply.
“Copy. Were you interested in that video I mentioned earlier? I can email it now if you copy, over.”
“I copy. Absolutely, over.”
He laughs, happy as a puppy. “Great! Email incoming, over and out!”
I echo over and out then put my walkie-talkie away as the email notification lights on my computer screen. I guess I know what I’ll be doing when I get home tonight, apart from mourning the fact Amber’s clothes won’t be here for several days.
While I’m thinking about Amber…and Will’s personality…and while I have a few more minutes before my next meeting…
I dial up my cute little wife, expecting her to let it go to voicemail since she hates phone calls as much as I do. Considering we’re married now, though, we should—maybe—get used to it, at least with each other.
Or I should—maybe—see if Will can order her a long-range walkie-talkie, too. He told me that the signal on the one he gave me stretches for thirty miles, and home isn’t thirty miles away. Amber and I could walkie-talkie each other all throughout the day. She could interrupt my meetings. I could tell everyone Sorry, that’s my wife . It would be fun. She’d hate it. Which makes it somewhat more fun.
Honestly, if she doesn’t want me to torment her so much, she should stop looking so cute when she’s angry.
“What?” She picks up on a fifth ring, right when I’m mulling over whether or not I should leave a message, what that message should say, if it would be better for me to just email her. When I don’t reply after a few seconds—since I’m stunned—she says, “ Hello? ”
Wetting my lips, I clear my throat and remember why I called. “Should we get a puppy?”
“What?”
“A puppy. A chi-weenie, perhaps?”
“ What? ” yet again. Strange. Given that she’s supposed to be an author, her vocabulary this lovely Tuesday morning is not exemplifying her career choice.
“They’re very short, and very long, with a squishier face than a weenie, also fewer medical problems.”
Silence.
She must be contemplating it.
Cutely.
Lip jutting and all that. That’s how she concentrates. Her bottom lip naturally pokes out a little bit, making it very difficult not to kiss her. I don’t know how I’ve refrained all these years. Must be my impeccable self control at work.
Finally, she drones, “Liam, what do you actually do in that big fancy boring office of yours?”
I smile. “Contemplate continued world domination.”
“And your present scheme involves getting a very long, very short dog?”
“An employee who reminds me of a happy little puppy stopped by. So I started thinking about dogs, which I’ve never gotten since I’m not home enough, but now I have a wife, who is home enough. So I started thinking about cute dog breeds I might like to get.”
Patiently, she says, “Liam, you’re not supposed to think about people as though they’re dogs.”
“Why not? They’re impressionable enough, aren’t they? You can even click-train them with enough commitment.” I lean back in my chair, chuckling. “I bet they get sad if you kennel them, too.”
“You’re absolutely right. What was I thinking? They’re the same picture.”
The Office references. Classic Bambi. I quite entirely cherish my Amber. “Are you having a good day, Bambi?”
“Ew, small talk. Bye.”
“I am genuinely curious, though. Tell me everything.”
She heaves a sigh. “I’m having a horrible day, which is somehow exacerbated by the part where I’m having it in a mansion. With such good fortune surrounding me, how dare I complain? I could go cry in the pool, while watching TV, because you have a TV that takes up an entire wall in your indoor pool room .”
Guilt sounds mighty inconvenient. I’m glad I don’t experience it. “What are you failing to write?” I ask.
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Bambi. Tell me.”
Several moments pass, then she—quite begrudgingly—mutters, “Cowboy…romance.”
I snort.
“You’re the worst. Can I Doordash pastries from a little bakery near you called Sweet & Salty? I need to cry into them, while I watch TV, in the pool.”
I ignore that question, because of course she can buy whatever food she wants. That’s part of taking care of her as my little wife. I ask, “Why are you writing a cowboy romance, Bambi? You’ve never written a cowboy romance before.”
“I don’t know.” Some amount of defeat edges her tone. “People like cowboy romance. I see it all over the place. I figured I’d try it, see if it takes off.”
She’s chasing luck. That’s not reliable. “Do you like cowboy romance?”
“I want to impale myself every other word. What even is a cowboy romance? He’s got a ten-gallon hat and keeps putting hay in his mouth, because the only picture I have of a cowboy are those country trolls from Trolls World Tour that was advertised to me on YouTube against my will.”
There is a lot to unpack here… Maybe Amber needs therapy. I bet she’d love journaling.
Closing my eyes, I let my head rest against my chair, then I picture Amber. Blond curls framing her precious face. Brown eyes full of starry mysteries. “To me, you’re the night. Vast and endless. Glittering like the edge of a blade. You’re the silent footfalls on a snowy day. A lethal presence you don’t notice until it’s too late. You are blood and ashes, morbid curiosity, a dark angel hiding in her wings. Why, Bambi, are you trying to force yourself to write a cowboy romance when you are crystal tears and cyanide?”
“Mr. Warrick?” Teresa’s voice comes through my intercom, so I shift my attention to the gray device. “Your nine o’clock is here.”
Sighing, I say, “I have to go, Bambi. Tolerate you.”
I end the call before she can reply.