Since Zeke had proven himself to be categorically, epically, universally useless, Ava kicked him out of her office. He tried to protest, claimed emotional damage, even waved the fruit basket in a peace-offering gesture—but Ava merely pointed to the door like she was blessing him with exile.
He would've thrown the basket on the way out… if she hadn't snatched it mid-tantrum.
Now, Zeke was pacing inside the car—well, as much as one could pace in a confined vehicle. He'd completed a full eight circuits between the passenger seat and the dashboard, muttering to himself like a man rehearsing a breakup monologue for a soap opera no one asked for.
Gin, firmly planted in the driver's seat, was one blink away from committing a low-grade felony. Zeke had even made another valiant attempt to escape, flailing for the door handle with the desperation of a caffeinated raccoon.
