The Penalty Box (Vancouver Wolves Hockey #3)(102)

“But this is why a PA would help you. All this stuff that is making you too busy to hire someone is exactly the stuff you can just give to them,” Krista told me yesterday at our dinner meeting. “I’m going to set up some interviews for you.”

If it meant that someone else would organize my receipts, then I was onboard.

“Shit,” I said again, when the program disappeared from my view. I clenched my teeth in frustration.

I glanced over at the little punk rocker, who was reading with intensity.

“Hey,” I said.

Nothing. She didn’t even lift her head.

“Yo, computer genius,” I spoke again.

She didn't even lift her face from her book. “Drag your mouse down the screen. Your docking station is set to hide itself.”

“My docking what?” I asked, trying to negotiate the trackpad on my laptop. Nada.

She lifted her head and looked directly at me. The electric light blue of her eyes again surprised me. “Your docking station is where your apps are. And when you minimize your document, it gets pulled down to your docking station.”

“I want my program to open again.”

Her expression was a mixture of disbelief and incredulity. “I just told you how to get it back.”

“Can you show me?” I flipped my laptop towards her.

Her look told me she thought I was a sad fucking idiot too stupid to own a laptop, but then with an exaggerated sigh, she pulled the machine closer to her. She moved the mouse.

“I will set your computer so that your docking station is static.”

“Sure.” I still didn’t have a clue what she was talking about.

She shoved it back and pointed at the screen with a tiny hand. Her short nails were coated with chipped black polish. “See these dots up in this corner? The yellow dot minimizes it. When you do that, it will go here. You click on it to pull it back up.”

She demonstrated.

“Wow, you know what you’re doing.”

“It’s called opening and closing a program. Pretty basic.”

“Thanks.” I reluctantly pulled the laptop back towards me. “I appreciate your help.”

She snorted. “Yeah, well, while we’re at it, you’re using your program wrong.”

“My tax program?”

“Yup,” her tone was short, her nose already buried back in her book.

“What do you know about that?”

“Enough to know you’re using it wrong.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“You’re in the wrong screen. You’re inputting your receipts as taxable income. When you should put it in as federal non-refundable tax credits.”

I stared at her in shock. “How the fuck do you know that?”

She gave me another one of those disbelieving looks. “How do you not?”

"No, seriously. Are you an accountant?"

Scoff. “No.”

“Can you show me?”

She pulled the laptop closer. “I took accounting in grade 10.”

“You learned that in grade 10?” I studied her closer. She looked young, and she was tiny. So petite. Was she still in high school? All I needed was some angry dad accusing me of hitting on his daughter.

“Um, have you graduated from high school yet?”

“Have you?” she shot back.

Touché. “You’re over 18, right?”

Her fingers stopped typing, and she looked at me with aggressive hostility. “I will not fuck you after I help you.”

I lifted my hands. “Whoa. No one is talking about that here.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Just quit being such a creepy fuck then.”

A creepy fuck? If I hadn’t been so shocked, I would have laughed. In my world, I almost needed to beat the women off me with a hockey stick. Apparently, punk rockers weren’t hockey fans. “I don’t want an irate dad coming in here and freaking at me for talking to his underage daughter. That’s all I was getting at.”

She stopped typing momentarily but didn’t look at me. “No worries about that happening.”

“Okay. I’m going to grab another coffee. Can I get you anything?”

A long beat. “No, thank you.”

“Seriously, let me get you a drink. Want a water or a juice or something? It’s the least I can do.”

Those damn blue eyes looked up at me again. Hesitant. “Could I have a hot chocolate?”

This chick was a dichotomy. I expected her to drink her coffee black and her liquor hard. A hot chocolate didn’t fit with her whole hate-the-world persona.

“Of course.”

I walked around the corner to the counter and stood in line. It took me a few moments to realize that I couldn’t see her, or my laptop. Whatever. Fuck. If she wanted to take off with it that was her prerogative. I hated the fucking thing. In fact, it would probably get me off the hook with my accountant.

“What can I get for you?” the barista asked.

“I’ll take a coffee and a hot chocolate.”

“Would you like whipping cream?”

Did punk rocker chick like whipping cream? No clue.

“Sure, why not?”

She leaned closer, mock whisper. “I’m sorry to bother you, but are you Ryan Parker?”