America's Geekheart (Bro Code #2)(75)

“She looks like she’s having fun,” I say.

“Whatever.”

“Not whatever,” I growl, and I don’t give two shits that I’m currently contemplating asking Judson if we can hire some of those Euranians to go toss flaming poop bombs on Bruce’s front step, because I’m not doing a business partnership over socks. “Her name is Sarah—”

“Serendipity, technically,” Hestia says.

“Her name is Sarah,” Charlie says. “And I’m violently opposed to the idea of trying to bring profit into this partnership with Vaughn. It’s for kids, not for growing already overinflated bank accounts.”

“Vehemently,” Hestia corrects.

“No, violently.”

“Honey, you’re just the assistant,” Bruce says.

“She’s a fucking genius, and you’re getting on my nerves,” I growl.

Huh.

I get why Judson’s doing it.

It feels really fucking good to growl when you’re pissed.

Everyone goes silent. It’s four talking heads on my video screen, all gaping at me.

Except Charlie.

She’s glaring at my computer screen like she’s squishing Bruce’s head with her mind.

“We’re not asking Vaughn to go into socks with me,” I tell Bruce. “Next.”

There’s another hour of mind-numbing business discussions about some small-time partnerships that I have with a rising celebrity chef, an Instagrammer, and a tea company—my team was pissed about that one, but dude, sometimes a guy on the road needs a solid cup of chamomile, and Snore-Tea fucking rocks—and by the time we hang up, I don’t want food, or to go take a run, or to go hang out at my parents’ house and see who’s around from the neighborhood.

I want to see Sarah.

Her phone goes to voicemail.

I send a text, but that doesn’t even show as read.

“No,” Charlie says when I grab my keys.

“I’m going out to get a burger.”

“You’re going out to drive past Sarah’s house and her office.”

“And to get a burger.” Two burgers. Or five. I don’t actually know what her favorite toppings are, because I’m pretty fucking certain she ordered that burger last night for me, and while she ate it, that doesn’t mean it was her favorite.

I need to figure out what her favorite burger is.

And what she likes on her pizza.

And if she eats whipped cream straight out of the can.

Fuck, I’m getting a boner again.

“She’s visiting a client site today,” Charlie informs me. “Doing her actual job. And I might not make it another week before Bruce drives me to quit, but you can be damn certain I’ll be suing you for hostile work conditions if I quit.”

I scrub a hand over my face. “I’ll call him. Don’t quit. I’ll give you my firstborn and a peanut butter factory.”

“You’re not having children, and the beauty of peanut butter is that I’m not stuck with one kind for eternity. Tell. Bruce. To. Knock. It. Off.”

She looks pointedly at my phone.

“Okay, okay. Right now. I’ll call him right now.”

It’s easier to chew his ass out about respecting everyone on the team—including Sarah—when I realize this guy could actually have reason to talk to her, or my mom, or my sister one day. He reminds me he’s done a shit-ton of work to help me launch and keep not just the RYDE line going strong, but also my loungewear and body care lines, and I remind him that that’s exactly what I pay him to do, and if he fucks up this foundation with Vaughn by trying to weasel more business out of him when I’ve specifically told him not to, I also have a crackpot legal team and I know he’s been cheating on his wife.

I don’t actually know that until he blusters that I’m full of shit and trips over his tongue daring me to prove it.

Call it a gut feeling.

When I hang up, I feel like shit, because I hate chewing people out.

I find Charlie in a small office across the hall. “Why didn’t you tell me a year ago he was this much of an ass?”

“He wasn’t until his last mistress dumped him. Now he’s seeing some twenty-three-year-old who thinks he’s richer than you, and the stress of going broke pretending is getting to him.”

I gape at her.

“But I’ve had Hank monitoring your bank accounts and any attempts to make unauthorized transactions, plus your legal team has combed through his employment agreement, so you’re fine.”

And now my eyes are going to fall out of my head.

“Beck. When we’re on the road, you’re going twenty hours a day. You don’t play the diva, you don’t tell the photographers to wrap it up, you don’t complain about living on watercress and four black beans a day, you make us stop so you can play soccer with random kids in public parks, and you give me raises every single month. My last boss slapped my ass regularly, would pitch a fit if his coffee wasn’t exactly 183 degrees, and ultimately quit paying my salary because he ran out of money after one of his mistresses discovered he was cheating on her and hacked his bank accounts. It’s in my best interest to make sure you can still pay me.”

I’ve been in this business a long time. Her story doesn’t surprise me, and that pisses me off. I hold out a fist. “You’re a total badass, and I hope you punched him in the nuts when you quit.”