Doubull Indemnity

3

Isla, I̶s̶n̶'̶t̶ Jealous

"Evening. Hope I'm not interrupting. I'm Dagny. Mulversmitt. I have an appointment."

Ah. The new client. Yippie.

The woman in the doorway, Dagny, stood with her arms crossed. Bright, hazel eyes surveyed Greg and I under a quirked yet perfectly sculpted brow. The light of Greg's office looked so undeniably good on her—casting a soft, golden glow on her brown cheeks—that I wished she'd turn right back around and walk out the second she stepped inside. A touch of honey highlighted the ends of the long, tight brown curls framing a heart shaped face. Damn. Look at her, pulling off curly bangs.

Greg spun, his own lips cracking into what sure as heck looked like a less than professional grin to me. He practically dumped his mug into my open hand. "Yes, Ms. Mulversmitt, please, come in. I'm Greg."

"I know," Dagny said, following it up with nervous chuckle. "I called you. Ha."

"That you did."

Slowly. Hesitantly. Awkwardly, Greg and Dagny danced around each other in a stupid do we hug samba until eventually settling on a handshake (ugh, of course her manicure was flawless). Not, of course, without giggling like a couple of hormonal teenagers at the homecoming dance.

My knuckles cracked around the mugs in my hands.

Greg, with his vampy little ears, must've heard. He gestured to me. Just standing there. In the middle of his office. Hands full of empty coffee mugs like a dufus.

"This is my—"

"Phoebe, right? Your receptionist? We spoke over the phone."

Dagny waved at me.

"Oh, no, I'm not—"

"This is Isla," said Greg, looking at me with a big, blank look in his pretty blue eyes. "She's more of, uh..."

I raised a brow.

Yeah, vampy. Go ahead. Define our relationship. Right here. Right now. Do it.

Greg chewed his lip.

After an agonizing eternity of watching Greg's brain buffer, my cocked hip had started to ache. I shifted dumbly on my feet, holding the two empty mugs and my customer service smile. Which had me looking less like the overall femme fatale vibe I'd been going for when I got dressed, and more like a little kid who didn't know how to pose on picture day, I'm sure. Come on, now, Greggy. Any minute that big boy brain of yours will introduce itself to your mouth. Surely.

Phoebe whistled into the stretching silence.

Greg opened his mouth.

"Secretary?" Dagny, apparently sensing the weirdness, supplied.

"Pfft."

"Hey," whined Phoebe. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Crap. "Sorry," I mumbled.

"No, um, that's my mistake," said Dagny. "Is assistant a better word?"

Oh, come on!

"No, no, ha," Greg pinched his nose. Oh, so he speaks. "Isla is my associate. In training. She's new. Dagny, here, let me take your coat."

Greg's gentle hands eased Dagny out of her jacket, smooth as silk, and hung it gently on the rack. It was a heavy, black, and white houndstooth overcoat. Nothing at all like the flashy and matted faux leopard fur fuzzball also dangling from the coatrack. The two garments looked woefully out of place beside one another, and not in a fun, sorority sister way. More of a gentlemen prefer leopard print but gentlemen marry houndstooth sort of way.