How much I’m enjoying their work. It’s irksome.

And so is the name that flashes on my screen.

Maureen.

Tension floods every molecule in my body.

My mother.

As I stop at a red light, I briefly weigh whether to look at her text now or later. But it’ll nag at me during my time at Flynn’s office, so I slide my thumb across to view it.

Maureen: Hey, baby! What’s shaking? I feel like I never talk to you anymore. Call your mom now and then, would you?

I draw a deep, calming breath, pretending I’m a bird soaring in the sky. My wings are spread, and I’m free of her. Free of hiding, free of lying, free of any hold she might have on me. Hell, I’ve been free for years, ever since she left Kevin and me, barely making time for us when I was in high school, leaving me to be the surrogate parent for her son.

Sabrina: Hi. Life is good. I’ve been busy with work! I’ll call soon.

I won’t call soon, but it’s easier to type than telling her the truth. I haven’t called her in years, and if she hasn’t realized that, she’s the foolish one.

As I cross the street, I kick her far out of my mind. I do the same to Kermit and his podcasts.

* * *

Flynn meets me at reception, then guides me through the offices. As he passes employees in the hall, he peppers them with questions about school plays and book clubs, remembering their kids’ names, their wives’ names, and so on.

When we reach his office, I say, “You planned that, didn’t you?”

“Planned what?”

“To wander through the halls looking like the genial, amazing boss who everybody loves.”

“Yes, Sabrina, that’s exactly what I did. I’m really a horrible ass, but I want you to think I’m a wonderful guy, so I told my employees in advance to act like they like me. Are you fooled?”

I wink. “Completely.” I pause then add, “Also, my job is to be skeptical.”

He shakes his head, and his tone is intensely serious. “Don’t be skeptical about that. I do care deeply for them.”

When he walks me through the whiz-bang features of the smart home, including a British voice that talks back to me in a sexy-as-sin accent, I have to say, I’m suitably impressed.

“Want Daniel to make you tea or coffee?” Flynn gestures to the coffee grinder and the tea kettle on the counter of the demo home setup in the offices.

“Daniel, please make me some green tea,” I say to the white device on the table.

“Of course. Would you like anything with that? Some music, perhaps, as you wait?”

Laughing, I answer him, “Yes, please play the Broadway soundtrack to Aladdin.”

As “Arabian Nights” sounds softly through the speakers, I shrug at Flynn. “Guess I had genies on my mind.”

“Or genie costumes,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows at the reminder of another private exchange of ours.