little bout of confusion, but overall, today was a good day.”
Georgia smiled, maybe her first genuine smile of the day, and left Ellen to head into the living room.
“Hi, Grammy,” she said, still smiling as she entered the room.
Her frail, sweet-faced grandmother set down her knitting and smiled back at her. Georgia could immediately see that today definitely was one of her good days. Recognition was clear in the old woman’s hazy blue eyes.
“Georgie, how was your day?”
“Ah, never mind my day, Grammy. HHHhhhow was yours?”
Her grandmother picked up her knitting. “Well, I’m almost done with your hat.”
Georgia admired it, amazed at the detailing her grandmother could still do even with her gnarled fingers.
“It’s beautiful, Grammy.”
Her grandmother looked very pleased, but then she frowned. “I don’t remember what I did with the mittens though. I thought I made them.”
“You did,” Georgia immediately assured her. “I have them in my room.”
“Oh, right,” her grandmother said as if she remembered, but Georgia knew she didn’t. But that was just a small memory lapse. Just a blip compared to some days.
This was the person Georgia was working for. She was determined to keep her grandmother here living with her as long as possible. And Georgia needed the money she made at HOT! to do that.
Chapter Seven
“W here were you all day?”
Tristan pulled in a deep breath, willing himself not to actually kick the little four-legged harpy. Shit, with his luck, Dippy would call PETA himself and report Tristan if he did. Even demons were wary of PETA.
“I had some errands to do,” he said absently, but his mind wasn’t really on his nonexistent errands or his canine coconspirator’s disgruntled demeanor.
“Where is Georgia?”
She usually didn’t leave for the day without checking in with him. Tonight, she hadn’t even called to make sure he didn’t need anything before she left. He checked his watch, and it wasn’t even eight p.m. yet. She’d worked much later and still checked with him before leaving the office.
“I don’t know,” Dippy growled. “I imagine she is home. But you need to stop fixating on your emo personal assistant and focus on this takeover. Do you even know how things are going in the mail room with Finola? Shouldn’t you be more worried about that than your assistant? Georgia Sullivan doesn’t have the power to bring this whole revolt down around your demonic ears. Finola White absolutely does.”
Tristan dropped his briefcase next to his desk and headed to his computer.
“Are you listening?” the hellhound demanded.
Tristan turned on his computer, waiting for it to boot up. As much as he hated to admit it, he was. And he’d already come to these same conclusions while driving around all afternoon.
He was far too obsessed with Peaches. He couldn’t even argue with a damned dog about that.
He’d wanted to lead this demonic invasion, and now that he was heading it up, all he could think about was bagging his emo assistant.
“Technically she’s not emo,” Tristan found himself saying. “More rockabilly goth, I’d say.”
Dippy growled again. “Damn it, Tristan, I don’t give a shit if she’s an emo, mod, hipster, or effin yuppy. We need to get this takeover moving. Have you completely forgotten that we need to prove ourselves to Satan?”
That should be pretty hard to forget, shouldn’t it? Satan was—well, Satan. That did tend to make him memorable. Yet Tristan hadn’t been focused on their boss.
“I’m perfectly aware that I—we need to prove ourselves.” He honestly was, and he had to figure out how to get his focus back.
He had even had to admit to himself, while on his drive, that he hadn’t truly gone to buy furniture to make the office his domain. He’d just wanted to get away from this place and be with Georgia. Why?
He’d originally told himself it was the stress of Finola and Dippy, but ultimately he’d had to
Georgia smiled, maybe her first genuine smile of the day, and left Ellen to head into the living room.
“Hi, Grammy,” she said, still smiling as she entered the room.
Her frail, sweet-faced grandmother set down her knitting and smiled back at her. Georgia could immediately see that today definitely was one of her good days. Recognition was clear in the old woman’s hazy blue eyes.
“Georgie, how was your day?”
“Ah, never mind my day, Grammy. HHHhhhow was yours?”
Her grandmother picked up her knitting. “Well, I’m almost done with your hat.”
Georgia admired it, amazed at the detailing her grandmother could still do even with her gnarled fingers.
“It’s beautiful, Grammy.”
Her grandmother looked very pleased, but then she frowned. “I don’t remember what I did with the mittens though. I thought I made them.”
“You did,” Georgia immediately assured her. “I have them in my room.”
“Oh, right,” her grandmother said as if she remembered, but Georgia knew she didn’t. But that was just a small memory lapse. Just a blip compared to some days.
This was the person Georgia was working for. She was determined to keep her grandmother here living with her as long as possible. And Georgia needed the money she made at HOT! to do that.
Chapter Seven
“W here were you all day?”
Tristan pulled in a deep breath, willing himself not to actually kick the little four-legged harpy. Shit, with his luck, Dippy would call PETA himself and report Tristan if he did. Even demons were wary of PETA.
“I had some errands to do,” he said absently, but his mind wasn’t really on his nonexistent errands or his canine coconspirator’s disgruntled demeanor.
“Where is Georgia?”
She usually didn’t leave for the day without checking in with him. Tonight, she hadn’t even called to make sure he didn’t need anything before she left. He checked his watch, and it wasn’t even eight p.m. yet. She’d worked much later and still checked with him before leaving the office.
“I don’t know,” Dippy growled. “I imagine she is home. But you need to stop fixating on your emo personal assistant and focus on this takeover. Do you even know how things are going in the mail room with Finola? Shouldn’t you be more worried about that than your assistant? Georgia Sullivan doesn’t have the power to bring this whole revolt down around your demonic ears. Finola White absolutely does.”
Tristan dropped his briefcase next to his desk and headed to his computer.
“Are you listening?” the hellhound demanded.
Tristan turned on his computer, waiting for it to boot up. As much as he hated to admit it, he was. And he’d already come to these same conclusions while driving around all afternoon.
He was far too obsessed with Peaches. He couldn’t even argue with a damned dog about that.
He’d wanted to lead this demonic invasion, and now that he was heading it up, all he could think about was bagging his emo assistant.
“Technically she’s not emo,” Tristan found himself saying. “More rockabilly goth, I’d say.”
Dippy growled again. “Damn it, Tristan, I don’t give a shit if she’s an emo, mod, hipster, or effin yuppy. We need to get this takeover moving. Have you completely forgotten that we need to prove ourselves to Satan?”
That should be pretty hard to forget, shouldn’t it? Satan was—well, Satan. That did tend to make him memorable. Yet Tristan hadn’t been focused on their boss.
“I’m perfectly aware that I—we need to prove ourselves.” He honestly was, and he had to figure out how to get his focus back.
He had even had to admit to himself, while on his drive, that he hadn’t truly gone to buy furniture to make the office his domain. He’d just wanted to get away from this place and be with Georgia. Why?
He’d originally told himself it was the stress of Finola and Dippy, but ultimately he’d had to
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