Kirk picks up what I’m throwing down. I can almost hear him grimace.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Well, that would be great if the apology was yours to deliver.”

“I’m going to talk to Burt. I got his version of the events . . . in a manner that has me driving to the office right now to lay down the law, so I can only imagine what actually happened in your conversation with him.”

“I’m done when it comes to him, Kirk. I take his mouth and language day after day and ignore it because he’s not worth me getting worked up. But when he talks to me like I’m a child, like . . . like I don’t have value to our company and as a human being? I’m done.” I pause to let the point hit home . . . and also to catch my breath. “I’m telling you right now that I’m not having it. I can’t beat him up, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t square up with him.”

Kirk laughs.

“I’m not joking!” And I’m not. Exaggerating? Maybe. But I’m not going to be belittled by the oversize five-year-old who bullies me because he’s bigger. And a man.

Nah, fuck that.

“I know you’re not.” He clears his throat. “But it won’t come to that. I told you—I’ll handle it.”

I blow out a breath, relief washing over me.

“But about Agnello . . .” Kirk takes a breath. “He wired the money late yesterday. We’re good on that front.”

Agnello’s failure to send the money on time—it was due by the end of the day Wednesday—irritates me. But knowing that Burt went behind my back and promised him a Saturday pickup pisses me off even more.

Why can’t everyone just follow the processes? And why do I always have to bend over backward to fix their fuckups?

I sit on the edge of the couch and mute the movie. “Just say it.”

“Is there any way you can come to the yard and get the title and tags for him? I know it’s Saturday, and you have every right to say no and I can’t even get mad about it. This is all Burt’s doing. I get it. But . . .”

My gaze fixes to the television. Either the movie is better without sound or it’s a better alternative to this conversation.

As I watch a woman get swept up from behind by a dashing prince who failed to divulge his royal roots—and somehow she was mad about that—I wonder when someone is going to make a movie about a life like mine. A tired woman with no ball gown at her disposal, just a monotonous life—sleep, work, cook, mother, rinse, and repeat—and an empty social calendar that would preclude her from meeting an available, handsome prince if one actually existed.

There should really be a prince shortage in the movie if they want to get it right.

I cup my chin as the dramatics play out on the screen.