James
James picked up his phone on the second ring. He noted it was Cole Packer. As usual, the guy was impressively fast where his job was concerned.
“Cole,” he greeted, leaning back in the leather chair and staring off at the exquisite scenery of Las Vegas beyond the floor-to-ceiling window of his office.
“Hey, boss,” Cole said from the other end of the line. “Mia Donovan’s resignation from that restaurant is all sorted.” He paused. “You should have seen the bastard. Damn, but he’s a wuss.”
