Chapter 26

We'd just settled into our seats when the owner of the shipping company looked to Zane and said, "I was real sorry to hear about your grandfather."

Zane leaned back in his chair and gave the guy a dismissive look. "Yeah, I bet."

I looked from Zane to the poor sap who'd just made the mistake of acting like a decent human being. His name was Marco Sarkozy, and apparently, his family owned Ace Transports – the company that had been handling Bennington freight-shipping needs for over three decades. As for Marco himself, he was a heavy-set, middle-aged man with a ruddy completion that was looking ruddier with every passing moment.

His eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

Zane shrugged. "I'm just saying. Sucks he's dead, huh?"

"Well, uh, yeah," Marco said. "As I said on the phone, you have my deepest condolences."

Zane made a low, scoffing sound. "I mean it sucks for you."

Marco gave a confused shake of his head. "Sorry, I'm not following."

Watching this appalling exchange, I wanted to say something – anything – to break the growing tension, but honestly, what could I say? I'm sorry my boss is a jerk?

I was sorry, but it's not like I could do a darn thing about it.

Zane tossed the guy a menu. "If you want breakfast, you'd better hurry."

Marco blinked. "What, why? Are they closing soon?"

"They'll close when I want them to." Zane glanced at his watch. "I'm thinking ten minutes."

"Ten minutes for what?" Marco asked. "To order?"

"No," Zane said. "To order, eat, and fuck off."

And there he was – the uncivilized tool I'd become all too familiar with. So much for that whole buttoned-down billionaire thing.

By now, Marco's cheeks were beet-red. "Sorry?" He reached up to tug at his collar. "I, uh, think you lost me there."

"If you want," Zane said, "you can skip the first two."

Marco shook his head. "The first two what?"

"Steps," Zane replied. "Go straight to 'fuck off', save the chef some trouble."

If I weren't so horrified, I might've scoffed out loud. Like Zane cared about the chef.

As Marco stammered out some incoherent response, I gave our surroundings a nervous glance. The place was beyond posh, with pristine white tablecloths and fresh flowers on every table. And yet, ours was the only table that was occupied.

The whole situation was entirely surreal, and yes, incredibly awkward.

Desperately, I was wishing that someone else had joined us for this godawful whatever-it-was. But no, there were just us three – me, the prick, and the poor slob who was still stammering.

I recalled what Zane had told me during my job interview. He'd warned me that he'd be ruffling a few feathers, and said that he wanted me to play the good cop to his bad cop.

Was I supposed to be doing that now? I gave Zane a sideways glance. I didn't know what he was thinking, but I did know that he wasn't above pulling out a night stick and beating the guy senseless.

I mean, if you'd kick someone out of their house, you were capable of anything, right?

I spoke up. "You know what we need?"

Zane's cool gaze remained on Marco. "What?"

Oh, crap. I didn't know. "Hang on," I said, reaching for my menu. I gave it a quick once-over. Turns out, it was the menu they used for their Sunday brunch. My gaze bounced from item to item. Finally, it landed on the beverage section, where the top item caught my eye. Before I could even think, I'd already blurted out, "Mimosas."

I wasn't even sure what a mimosa was, but it sounded tropical and maybe even boozy. Either one sounded like a very good thing.

Zane's gaze shifted to me. "Mimosas."

Was that a question? I hated how he did that, said things that could be a question, but were missing the question mark. Desperately, I looked to Marco. "You'd like a mimosa, right?"

Marco was literally sweating now. "Uh—"

Zane's voice cut across the table. "No. He wouldn't."

Marco cleared his throat. "Actually—"

"Fuck off," Zane said.

And just like that, Marco was back to stammering again.

With growing desperation, I called out to our water. "Excuse me?" When he rushed over, I said, "Could we get a round of Mimosas?"

The waiter's gaze shifted to Zane. "Mister Bennington?"

Zane spared the guy half a glance. "No."

My face burst into flames. Talk about humiliating.

The waiter lowered his voice. "I'm sorry sir, but…" He hesitated. "Is that a 'no' for everyone? Or just for you?"

Zane's gaze flicked briefly to me. "Bring one." His voice hardened. "To go."

The waiter frowned. "I'm terribly sorry, but—"

"But what?" Zane said.

"Well, you see…" Now, the waiter's face was red, too. "We're not allowed to do that."

Zane's jaw tightened. "Why not?"

"Because uh, it's against the law." Quickly, he added, "Because of the alcohol."

Oh, no. Now, I'd gotten the waiter in trouble, too.

I spoke up. "That's all right. Forget I asked." I gave the waiter what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "Maybe we'll just have a round of orange juice then?"

Again, the waiter's gaze shifted to Zane. "Sir?"

"One orange juice." Zane looked to Marco. "And like I said, to go."

Across the table, Marco managed to say, "That's all right. I, uh—"

Zane said, "It's not for you, dickhead."

At this, Marco's face flushed so red, he looked like a human tomato. "What the hell?" He pushed back his chair and stood. "What is this, anyway?"

It was a train-wreck, that's what.

Once again, Zane leaned back in his chair. He gave Marco a long, cold look. "I dunno. You tell me."

Marco glared down at him. "Hey, dickhead. You were the one who called this meeting."

"That's right," Zane said.

"For what?" Marco demanded. "To be an asshole? Is that it?"

Zane replied, "Pretty much."

Marco's jaw dropped. "What, why?"

Zane looked almost bored now. "Why not?"

Marco stared in apparent disbelief. "You've got to be joking. I flew in from the coast." His voice rose. "On four hours' notice."

"Yeah?" Zane said. "Sucks to be you." He flicked his head toward the entrance. "Now get the fuck out."

The guy looked ready to lunge across the table. "Or what?"

In a surprisingly calm voice, Zane said, "Or I'll toss you out."

I didn't know what to say. Did he mean personally? Or that he'd call security? Zane was tall and well built. No doubt, he could toss the guy out, if that's what he really wanted to do.

But why would he?

None of this was making any sense.

I felt myself swallow. If I was supposed to be playing the good cop, I was failing miserably, because I had absolutely no idea what to do.

Across from us, Marco demanded, "But what about our contract?"

"What about it?" Zane said.

"You said you wanted to discuss it."

"Oh, yeah. That's right," Zane said, as if remembering something long-forgotten. "I tore it up."

Marco gave a confused shake of his head. "What are you saying? You can't just tear it up. It's not like it's a piece of paper you can—"

"It is. And I did," Zane said. "So fuck off."

It was at this moment that I heard a quiet male voice just over my right shoulder. "Miss?"

I turned to look and saw the waiter, holding two plastic to-go cups, each with a lid and a straw. He whispered, "I've got your drinks."

Drinks? As in more than one? I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. "I’m sorry, what?"

"The drinks," he repeated. "The ones you ordered."

"Oh." In truth, I hadn't meant to order anything for me. I'd been ordering them as a social thing, something to break the tension. By now, the thought of drinking anything whatsoever made me almost want to throw up.

Still, what could I do? With a whispered thanks, I reached out and took the drinks from his outstretched hands.

As he handed the cups over, he leaned close and said in a whisper so low, I could barely hear it, "Officially, they're both orange juice, but…" He hesitated. "Just don't get me in trouble, okay?"

With who? Zane? Or the law? Either way, the guy looked scared to death. My heart went out to him. Obviously, neither one of us wanted to be here, in the middle of whatever this was.

Before I could formulate any sort of response, the waiter turned and rushed away, as if beyond eager to get the hell out of Dodge.

I could so relate.

The meeting ended less than a minute later when Marco stormed off, promising Zane that he'd see him in court.

And then, there was just the two of us – me and my new boss, the biggest prick in the universe.

Heaven help me.