“Whatever you say, bossman.” Wicca folded her hands over some of the paperwork on her desk, and she sat in rapt attention as the letter was read. A rather large grin moved over her features and by the time he got to the end, the smile was all teeth from ear to ear. “It's only a teeny bit pretentious. He'll love it.” She chuckled softly before she finished that last bitter sip of luke coffee and raised a brow. “Your last name has five letters, bossman. Even one Ernest P. Winkerspeal couldn't fuck that up.” She laughed before she grasped the nearest pile of papers. “So.” She started, and her eyes twinkled a bit. “I'm going to be a sport and not take the head start, even though your wand speed so will kick my ass.” Wicca was a realist, she knew that she couldn't beat Michael with magic; no one could. The rumor was that the only person who may even be able to do it was You-know-who, but thankfully, that hadn't happened yet. Or ever.