Текст книги "BEAUTY and the BILLIONAIRE"

Автор книги: Glenna Sinclair

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 5 страниц)

My face had to have been scarlet. “I’m so…I’m so sorry,” I stuttered. “I was…this is my first day, and Myra stepped away from the desk, and I wasn’t sure…”

“Wasn’t sure about what?” he barked.

“I wasn’t sure what to do,” I was forced to squeak.

“You weren’t sure what to do when a phone rang?” he demanded.

“Um, I wasn’t sure what to do when it was the president of a big company calling,” I whispered.

“You answer it!” The bellow made me jump and nearly drop the phone, which I was sure wouldn’t have gone well either.

“Okay.” I doubted he could hear me over his angry breathing.

“If you think you’re competent enough to do so, bring me a copy of the Times and a cup of coffee,” he snapped and slammed down the phone.

I was all too eager to replace my own receiver, standing quickly and looking around. Times. Coffee. A newspaper and a cup of coffee. I could do that. And coffee was where Myra was. She could help me figure this all out, help allay my unreasonable fucking fear of a billionaire on a telephone.

I reached the break room easily enough without too much delay, but Myra was nowhere in sight. Had she gone back to our desk? I craned my neck to check, but didn’t see her there. Where had she gone?

With shaking hands, I poured a large cup of coffee, slopping it over the sides and onto the counter. Dammit! Couldn’t I do anything right? I mopped up the spill with a paper towel and looked around. Would they…would they maybe keep the newspaper in here? There were snacks galore, reminding me that I was hungry, and plenty of community drinks in the refrigerator, but not a single sheet of newsprint.

Wasn’t this company working toward going completely digital? Couldn’t Roland Shepard turn on a computer to read the day’s news?

I carried the coffee out of the break room, the hot liquid sloshing around, jumping out and dotting the carpet from time to time, and hunted for Myra. Where in the hell was she? Did she leave me on purpose? Was this some twisted part of the training? I didn’t see the old woman anywhere, but, then again, she was awfully short. It would be easy to overlook her in my panicked scan around the office.

No Myra, no newspaper, and a rapidly decreasing mug of coffee from spilling so much of it. I was not doing very well on my first day.

I finally approached the receptionist at the front of the office, a woman sitting at a desk by the elevator I’d come up here on.

“Excuse me,” I said, forcing myself to smile and pretend like everything was just fine. “Have you happened to see Myra Tuttle around?”

“Oh, she had to go down to one of the other companies in the building to hash some things out for Shepard Shipments,” she said, then leaned close and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “That old beast is going to work her as hard as he can, up until the day she leaves.”

That old beast? Did she mean Roland? She had to have meant it. Roland Shepard was probably the only one around here who could tell Myra what to do, and he’d certainly been a beast to me over the telephone. Now that I thought about it, he could’ve just said, in a friendly voice, “No need to be nervous, Beauty, I know it’s your first day.” That simple statement would’ve done wonders to assuage my anxiety, but instead, here I was, out of breath for no good reason, on the end of my rope after not much more than an hour in this place.

“Could you tell me where to get that old beast—I mean Roland—I mean Mr. Shepard! Ugh! Could you tell me where to get his paper for him?” How could I be so flustered? Is this what an office setting did to me?

“There’s a kiosk if you just go down to the lobby and right across the street,” the receptionist said, giving me a sympathetic smile.

“Shit!” I exploded, spilling even more coffee as I jerked my hand upward to cover my mouth. “Sorry! I mean, thank you!”

I took refuge in the elevator, still holding that damned coffee mug, which was now missing more than an inch of the beverage, thanks to my clumsiness. I’d never been so flustered in a work setting before, and I used to strip down to nothing but a thong in front of people I didn’t know. How had getting a man a coffee and newspaper reduced me to such a bumbling mess?

I emerged from the elevator at a dead run, my flats clattering across the floor, people ducking out of the way. I was looking for a newspaper kiosk. Pushing the building doors open, my eyes darted all around until I spotted it.

Just an hour ago, I was standing out here, staring at the unfamiliar reflection of myself in the glass. Would I have gone inside if I’d known what torture awaited me there? Hell, no. I would’ve marched my ass back to my car and driven clear to Canada.

I dashed across the street, unwilling to wait for the correct traffic signals, and earned myself some well-deserved honks and shouted insults. Sorry, folks, but I was trying to get a billionaire his newspaper before he fired me or murdered me or berated me until I curled up and died. I was just trying to save my own hide, here.

“I need to get a copy of the Times, please,” I told the cashier, excited that I’d at least found the place. Now I could sprint back up to the office and prove to Roland Shepard that I wasn’t a complete idiot.

“Here ya go,” the man said, flipping a fat paper toward me. “That’ll be a buck fifty.”

I froze in my tracks, having been ready to wheel back around and run for it.

“Excuse me?” I asked, clutching the paper and the coffee mug.

“I said, that’ll be a buck fifty,” the cashier repeated, staring at me.

“I don’t have any money,” I said, patting the sides of my pocketless skirt just to be sure that some benevolent being hadn’t graciously bestowed a pocket with a dollar fifty to save the day. Nope.

“Then you can’t have any news,” the cashier said, reaching for the paper.

“Um, wait a second,” I said, dodging away. “This paper. It’s for the man in charge across the street…there at the Shepard Shipments building. Roland Shepard. The president. Doesn’t he have some kind of credit here? He probably asks for a paper every day.”

“Nobody has credit here, lady,” the cashier said. “The paper’s a buck fifty for presidents and pissants both.”

“Fuck,” I moaned. How long had I been on this stupid errand? Ten minutes? Twenty? If I was incapable of something so mundane, how could I be expected to be Roland’s eyes and ears and hands and brains in the office, as Myra told me I would be?

“A buck fifty,” the cashier repeated, holding out his hand. “Or you give the paper back right now.”

“I’ll pay you back later, thanks!” I yelled, spinning around him and galloping away at full tilt.

“You’re stealing that paper!” the cashier yelled after me, making me grimace as people stared at me run by, bewildered. “You’re stealing that paper, lady! I don’t give a shit if it’s for the Pope! You’re stealing that paper!”

The only thing on my mind was getting this paper and coffee up to Roland as fast as my legs—and the elevator—would take me.

I slowed my pace to a trot as soon as I got back up to the office, giving the receptionist a small smile as I fought to regain control of my breathing. Everything was fine, now. I had the paper, and I had the coffee. All I had to do was deliver it to a man I was apparently terrified of and all would be well. I could cower back down at the desk, continuing to scan the box full of papers that needed to be digitized before the end of the day.

With Myra still doing Roland’s bidding elsewhere, I set my shoulders and plunged forward. Pulling the door to his office open, wrinkling the paper a little in the process, I abruptly stopped.

The light inside the office was so dim that it was hard to see, and I didn’t want to run into anything. I had to stand still as the door closed behind me and wait for my eyes to adjust.

One dim lamp illuminated a desk, in the far corner, and the outside light was trying to creep in through the same large windows the rest of the office had, but these were obscured with heavy curtains.

“Well?”

I jumped at the voice, which came from the direction of the light on the desk, and peered over there. I should’ve been able to see him by now, my eyes having gotten used to the dimness, but I didn’t see anyone.

“I have…your, um…”

“Speak up!”

That sharp command made me want to do the opposite of speaking; it made me want to disappear forever. And then something else rose inside of me, an indignation about how I was being treated. It overwhelmed everything. Why was this man being so foul to me? Did he think he could treat everyone like this just because he had so much more money than the rest of us? It wasn’t fair that I’d been running around like a chicken with its head cut off just because he’d been so mean to me over the phone. It was my first day, after all. I was bound to make some mistakes simply because I didn’t understand how this place worked yet.

“I have your coffee and your paper,” I said, proud that my voice only quavered a little.

“Well, bring it here.”

Here? Where was that? I tiptoed carefully toward the light, in the direction of a voice whose owner I still couldn’t see, until I could gradually make out that the chair at the desk had been spun around, the man sitting in it hidden from my view.

What was wrong with him? Did he think me so beneath him that he wouldn’t even deign to gaze upon me? I let the paper fall to the desk with a loud slap in indignation, but as I was moving to slam the coffee mug down beside it with equal rancor, my elbow caught the edge of the lampshade, sending a large wave of the liquid to splash over the front page of the Times. The lampshade crashed to the floor, and I could see now, better than ever, just how nice the office was.

There was a large leather couch and two low-slung chairs to match at the far side. The office floor space alone was probably at least a quarter of the size of the rest of the floor. Beyond that, a spiral staircase spun to a door set near the top of the high ceiling. Where could that possibly go? Everything in this already nice space would be so much better, of course, if someone would just throw those heavy curtains back and illuminate the room with the morning light from outside.

The chair spun around, and I wasn’t quick enough to stifle a gasp. The naked light bulb on the lamp, which had revealed the contents of this office to me, revealed equally the occupant of the room.

His face cast in sharp relief, equally in shadow and light, was hideously disfigured by a twisting scar that traveled from his temple, past his cheek, across his mouth—splitting the bottom lip—and on down his chin and neck, vanishing beneath the collar of his shirt.

He stared at me, eyes dark in spite of the light, for a few brief moments before redirecting his gaze to the coffee mug and his sopping paper.

“And just what the fuck is this?” he asked, sweeping his hand over the front page. “How am I supposed to read this now?”

“Well,” I said, clearing my throat. “You could turn a few more lights on.”

He made a sound of disbelief in his throat, as he examined the coffee mug, going so far as to stick a finger into the liquid.

“And this,” he said, showing me the inside of the mug. “A cold, half-empty cup of coffee? Did you think this was what I wanted?”

“Some people would say it was half full,” I countered then jumped again as he slammed his fist down against his desk.

“Do you think this is funny?” he demanded, pushing himself up from the chair, towering over me even in my heels. “Do you think working here is a joke?”

I had to fight the urge to turn and run away. Standing my ground, even as my knees shook, I stared at that furious scar marring his face, distracting myself from my urge to flee.

“I don’t think that,” I said. “I’m new here, though, so if that actually is the office culture, you’ll have to tell me.”

I was saved from the next verbal assault by the soft beep of the phone on the desk. How was his ringer so soft but the ringer on the phone on my desk so loud, jangling my nerves with its pompous tone?

He held up a finger—he was apparently saving more rage for me after he dealt with this pressing business matter—and answered the phone.

“Roland Shepard.” He looked at me as he listened into the receiver, and I finally had to glance away, studying my feet. That scar was just too difficult to ogle. I took the opportunity to retrieve the lampshade I’d knocked over, replacing it back over the bare light bulb and feeling instantly uneasy at the darkness. The darkness seemed to be where Roland Shepard thrived. I was out of my element.

After what felt like five minutes of just standing there, listening to him listen to whoever was on the other end of that line, Roland cleared his throat.

“Thank you, Myra.” Myra? What the hell? When did she get back and why was she only just now launching a campaign to save me from the president of this company? I strained my eyes to see in the darkness as Roland replaced the receiver to the phone.

“So,” he began, picking up the wet paper and dumping it in the garbage. “Not only do the simplest of requests challenge you, but you also steal newspapers in my name and my company’s name?”

Well, when he said it like that, it looked really bad.

“The vendor from across the street called from the lobby of this very building, trying to reach me,” Roland continued, his voice gradually getting louder. “Luckily, Myra was there to take the call and talked him down from going to the police. If you must steal, Beauty Hart, do it on your own time and don’t invoke my fucking company to do so!”

His tirade had risen to a roar, and I withered in the face of that level of wrath. Yes, it had been stupid, but…

“I was just trying to do what you asked!” I sassed angrily, defensive as all get out, unwilling to bow completely to his irrational anger. “You were rude to me and this is my first day and all I’ve wanted to do so far was just go back home to my car and go to sleep and forget all of this. I just wanted to please you!”

“Do you think any of this hot fucking mess pleases me?” he shouted, right in my face, that ugly scar virtually throbbing at me.

There was nothing I could do to keep myself in that office, taking that abuse. I turned tail and ran, shoving my way out the door, grabbing my purse at the desk, ignoring traitorous Myra and the stares of all my new coworkers, as I sprinted to the elevator and practically dove to save the doors from closing on me.

Fuck this. Fuck this place. Hot tears sprung to my eyes and a sob leeched out of me as I rode the elevator back down to the lobby. I didn’t need to do this. I could stand up to a lot of things, but blatant disregard wasn’t one of them. I’d been happier stripping to feed my belly, and my professional clothes felt like a clown’s costume. I was going to throw the pantyhose into the first dumpster I came across.

The elevator door opened, and I ran right into Dan, registering belatedly that he had a phone to his ear, his face scrunched into a scowl, in the middle of a sentence.

“…solve all your problems, asshole—Beauty!”

Maybe it was because his was the first familiar face I’d seen since arriving in Seattle. Or maybe it was because Roland had been just so goddamn mean to me.

Either way, and I wasn’t proud of it, I launched myself at Dan and buried my teary face in his chest and cried.

“What’s happened, Beauty?” he asked, soothing hands rubbing my back.

“Daniel? Answer me. Dan!” The voice in his ear, the cellphone still connected to the call. I knew that voice—hoarse, low, demanding. He was talking to Roland. I jerked away.

“Call you back,” Dan said, slipping the phone into his pocket. “Beauty? Are you all right?”

“It’s nothing,” I said, quickly wiping tears and very likely melting mascara from my cheeks. “I’m just…I’m going now.”

“Going now?” He checked his watch. “We’re not even halfway through the workday. Where are you going?”

“Just going,” I said, backing away from him, circling around until I had a clear shot at the exit. “This place isn’t for me—just like college wasn’t, either.”

“Everybody eventually figures out where their place is,” Dan said, turning to face me. “You’re not exempt from that, you know. If your place isn’t here, where is it? It’s not in Houston anymore. You and I both know that.”

I flinched at hearing the name of the city where I grew up, the outskirts of which had been my playground, where Caro and my parents were buried.

“I have to go,” I said, my legs moving faster and faster until I was running again.

“You can’t run forever!” I thought I heard Dan call, but I couldn’t be sure. I was outside in the air, breathing deeply, away from the suffocating atmosphere of Shepard Shipments. I covered my face in my hands, pressing my fingers against my eyes so hard I saw stars.

“Hey, it’s you!”

I looked up to see the vendor from the newspaper kiosk across the street, pointing at me, livid.

“It’s you, the newspaper stealer!” he yelled. “Hey, newspaper stealer! I see you!”

It was past time to get the fuck out of here.

Chapter 5

I drove around the city aimlessly, letting the stoplights dictate my path, until I realized I was wasting valuable gas that I’d probably need on the road. I was leaving here. I didn’t need any of this drama, not with the drama that had plagued my life up until this point. How much rancor was I going to have to put up with until everyone just left me alone?

I parked where I could see the water and stared out at the boats drifting in and out of the harbor, ferrying people to God knew where. They probably all had a purpose, every last one of them, and I didn’t. I was living in my car, unable to decide just where I needed to be.

What would happen if I ran down that slip and jumped into the cold sea? I could really disappear, then, just swimming and swimming and swimming out, in a perfectly straight line, bobbing on the waves until I couldn’t swim anymore and just drifted with the tides and currents, face lifted toward the sky, engulfed in nothingness.

Why was I even here? What had I set out to do?

I remembered Dan had piqued my curiosity at the bar. Something hadn’t added up about his story of wanting me to work for his family’s company, and I’d been bound and determined to figure out just what it was. Was that the only thing motivating me? Or was it the troubling fact that he knew much more about me than he should’ve, like the name of my college, when I’d dropped out, and my various movements that made me writhe my way across the country from Texas to Washington state.

I’d wanted to know why he gave a shit about me. I was sure there were many people much more qualified than I was to work at Shepard Shipments. So why had Dan followed my progress across the country? Why had he said that Roland had kept me in his mind after all this time?

As much as I wanted to drift away, to forget and be forgotten, I knew that I’d never figure out what I wanted to know if I simply left Seattle, left Shepard Shipments without trying to ferret out just what they wanted with me.

And if I hated my job, it was that much better. I deserved to hate it, deserved to suffer. This could be just another stage of my penance for what I’d caused on that dark country rode that night.

I heaved a sigh and started the car again, looking longingly toward the horizon, where the sea met the sky. That’s where I really wanted to be, in the place just beyond that, in the nothing place. Maybe, once I investigated Shepard Shipments to my satisfaction, I could go there. Simply sink into that blissful nothing and forget about everything.

Just not today.

No, today I needed to find my way back to the Shepard Shipments building, get my cowed ass back upstairs, and figure out what I needed to do to avoid a train wreck like today tomorrow. I was going to have to suck it up and walk calmly past all of the people I’d run out in front of and pretend like everything was just fine and dandy.

I took a deep breath, cleaned the last of the smeared makeup off my face and went in an entrance that avoided the newspaper vendor. One challenge at a time.

“Um, Ms. Hart? Ms. Beauty Hart?” The lobby receptionist was waving me toward the desk. I approached, my feet heavy with dread. Had I been fired and banned from the building for my emotional outburst? It would serve me right, but in all fairness, Roland had been the one to burst first.

“I’m Beauty Hart,” I said, wishing—not for the first time—that I wasn’t.

“Mr. Shepard sent this down for you,” she said, handing me a manila envelope. “With instructions that you open it immediately.”

I sighed and pried up the prongs fastening the envelope shut. There was a single sheet of paper inside and fastened to it with a paper clip was a credit card. I frowned. What was this supposed to be? Severance?

“Beauty,” the letter began, the writing cramped and hard to read. Did Roland actually right this himself? It was easier to imagine him dictating to Myra. “It’s fucking unacceptable to me that one of the employees of Shepard Shipments is living out of her car. We maintain a sense of pride around here, and if you’re going to continue to work at my company, we’re going to have to work to elevate your situation. Take this card and use it to buy whatever you need. This includes additional clothes, toiletries, an apartment, food, a cellphone, a laptop, and everything else you think might make you a more successful part of this team. There is no cap on the card. It can’t be maxed out. Don’t return until you, at the very least, have a roof over your head.”

His flourishing signature ended the letter, and I took the credit card in my hand and examined it. The name it was registered under was Roland Shepard. Had he literally given me his own credit card? I wasn’t about to fucking take this. No way.

I made a move for the elevators, but the receptionist cleared her throat loudly.

“Ms. Hart?” I turned. “Mr. Shepard also said that you weren’t supposed to go back upstairs until you’d completed the tasks he’d given you.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, plastering a fake smile over my face. “But there’s a small problem that I need to address first. Just part of the instructions that weren’t clear.” That was a lie. I was going to go up there and toss this credit card in his ugly face and tell him just where he could stick it. I didn’t want his charity. I’d refuse it, a billionaire’s violent temper tantrum be damned.

“Ms. Hart, it’s just that…” She trailed off, glancing toward the door. I followed her gaze and noticed two burly security guards approaching.

“It’s just that he said if you tried to go back upstairs without completing the tasks he’d given you, he’d have you thrown out of the building.” Her throat bobbed nervously. “Physically, if need be.”

I was quite sure the security guards had received those same instructions by the way they were eyeing me.

Unwilling to give the Roland Shepard any more satisfaction than my failures had already granted him, I left by my own volition. What was stopping me from withdrawing a ton of money and using it to fund my new life in, say, Canada? That was still a viable option. I could probably live up there for quite a while without working, as long as I had this magical, limitless credit card of Roland’s.

And yet what Dan had said stuck with me—that I’d have to belong to someplace eventually. I didn’t want to belong anywhere; I didn’t deserve to. I wanted to live in my car. It sucked, but it was supposed to. I wasn’t supposed to be happy when other people were dead because of my stupid mistake.

Yet, it was so difficult to live on the road, never being quite sure what I would eat next, or if I could get the money to eat, going hungry for days on end—once, for an entire week.

I stood there, outside the building, vacillating back and forth on what to do. I wanted to be here; I wanted to figure out why Shepard Shipments wanted me so badly; and yet, I longed for the road, to be anonymous, for people to know my name but nothing else about me.

The Shepards knew too much.

The niggling fact remained that I didn’t want to have enough money to be comfortable, to have this credit card at my disposal. I’d done a horrible thing, and I didn’t deserve comfort when I’d sent four people to their graves. I didn’t deserve to be helped by anyone if I’d been so irresponsible before.

And there was the fact that Roland’s letter that accompanied the credit card had been so fucking pompous. The fact that I lived out of my car affected company pride? That was bullshit.

I took the card and topped off the tank—that was my first move—as I decided just what I’d do. The open road called me, the need to be punished at the forefront of my mind.

But I still stayed, driving the streets of this beautiful city, the sun trying to peek between the clouds ever so often, the hills, the ferries. Houston had been nothing like this—more of an urban sprawl—but something about Seattle enchanted me.

Maybe it was the thought that things could be different in Seattle. That I could let people know me. That I’d reached the end of my penance in my journey across the country…

No. There wasn’t a point you could reach in your life when you made peace with causing four people to die. There was probably even a special place in hell for people like me.

I’d pulled off to the side of the street, in a spare parking spot, to stare off into space and ponder my situation. Could I really stay in Seattle, at least for as long as it took me to figure out Shepard Shipments? I didn’t dare to try to be happy, but working as the assistant to Roland Shepard would probably ensure that would never happen.

It dawned on me…maybe Roland could be my new punishment? He was acerbic, egotistical, and downright mean. I could accept that abuse and continue to suffer for the sins of my past. Would that be enough?

I turned my head to gaze at the building I stopped in front of, and my eyes widened. A sign was just beyond my passenger’s side window that read: “Apartments for rent.” Was this some kind of gentle nod from the universe to tell me that staying in Seattle would be the right thing to do? Did the universe even still take interest in people as terrible as me?

I made a decision right then and there. No more hemming and hawing. I was going to stay in Seattle; I was going to continue to bear the brunt of Roland’s anger; and I was going to get to the bottom of my suspicions about Shepard Shipments’ interest in me. It definitely couldn’t be that I was a promising employee. I’d proved myself an idiot today, and yet, here I was, holding a company credit card, considering taking out a lease on an apartment, and surprisingly not fired—even when I back-talked the president of the company.

I’d have fired myself for that.

Instead, I went to an ATM, took out an exorbitant amount of cash, signed up for a cellphone, called the number on the sign, and agreed to meet the landlord at the building in an hour.

An hour. What else could I do in an hour?

I bought the laptop, went furniture shopping, rounded out my wardrobe, and purchased some new toiletries.

When I returned to the apartment building, my trunk packed with more possessions than it ever had been, the landlord was already there.

“Beauty Hart, hello!” he gushed. “So nice to meet you.”

He took my hand in his and shook it emphatically.

“Thanks for meeting me,” I said. “I’m interested in renting an apartment in this building.”

“Done looking around?” he asked, sounding eager.

“More like never got started,” I answered, shrugging. “I liked the looks of this building, and I just moved into the city for a new job.”

“Perfect!” he exclaimed. “Well, let me show you around your new home!”

The apartment was just what I needed—and then some. It had a beautiful view, wood floors, and ample closet space. The kitchen had brand new modern appliances, and I eyed the stove with something cross between trepidation and excitement. I hadn’t cooked in years, and I’d have to buy all new dishes and pots and pans and utensils. It seemed almost overwhelming to consider…until I remembered Roland’s credit card.

“So, what do you think?” the landlord asked after I’d drifted around the space several more times, imagining what couch would go where, whether I’d splurge on a queen bed or stick with what I was more used to—a twin. Would a queen feel too big? I’d been so used to sleeping in my car that I thought a queen might be a waste of space on me. I’d probably just curl up to sleep and not move a muscle all night long.

“Do you need some more time to consider your options?” he asked. “I would completely understand if you did. Moving in to a new place is a big step, and one that can be overwhelming. Take a day to think about it, if you want. It’s all the same to me. You should be happy and feel completely at home in a place before you sign a lease.”

“No, I’m taking it,” I said, unable to smother a big grin. “I don’t understand why, but it somehow already feels like home.”

The most difficult part of the decision was deciding on a term for the lease agreement. Did I only want to be here month to month? Six months? A whole year? Two years? The wanderlust inside of me—or perhaps just the part of me that was used to being on the road, always moving around, never getting attached to one place—balked at the longer lease term. But finally, I was able to close my eyes and sign a one-year lease. I didn’t know how long it would take me to discover the truth of the Shepards. If it took less than a year, well, maybe I wouldn’t mind continuing to live here.

The rest of the day was spent setting up my utilities, securing other services like Internet and gas, and buying furniture and décor and having it rush delivered that evening to my new home. If Roland had said that money wasn’t an object, I supposed he could afford it.

I sat in a new armchair, fiddling with my laptop as I directed movers where to put my new furniture. On a whim, I opened up my Shepard Shipments email account Myra had given me access to early today and fired off a message at Roland.

I’m typing this from a new laptop that you bought, sitting on a new chair, which you also bought, inside a new apartment, which you have footed the bill for as well. You are probably going to have to dock my pay for a solid year before you recoup all these expenses from me. The new place feels a little too big after my cozy car, but I think it’s going to turn out just fine. Thank you.