AFTER TRYINGSAM, YETagain to no avail, I walk into work on Tuesday to hear Dorothy’s boss voice coming from our office. “You’re coming.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Grant replies. Sounding all stern and Grant-y.
I repress a shiver that’s trying to work its way up my spine because the one thing I decided, last night when I ignored his messages, is that I’d nip this whole thing between us in the bud.
“I need you there. In case…”
“In case what?”
“Of a confrontation.”
He sighs. “Yeah. You need me to be the bad guy.”
“I’m sorry. You’re also part of the team now, right?”
He scoffs. “Not permanently, Dorothy. This is just until the investors convene.”
Dorothy dips into the very rare, very scary mom voice. “You are coming to the retreat, Grant Bowman. And that’s final.” She bursts out of the office, sees me, and waves stiffly over her shoulder as she carries on walking.
“Hi.” I stick my head in.
“Hello, Rae.” He gets up and follows me into the reception area. “You okay?”
“Just great.”
“No replies last night. What’s that mean?” He watches me for a second. When I don’t answer, he runs a frustrated hand through his hair, looks around, and says, “Tell me about this retreat.”
“It’s fun.” Usually. No guarantees this year.
“I was afraid of that.”
“Maybe notyoursort of fun.”
He looks me over, clearly reading all kinds of things into my comment, and I can’t even deny that I meant them, because I did. Even when I try to ignore the man, he’s all I think about.
“What is my sort of fun, Rae?”
“Oh, you know. Tightly controlled. Sedate.” His brows go up. “Lots of rules.”
“Always.”
“Anyway.” I open my computer and click on the email icon. “The retreat is nothing like that. You’ll hate it.”
He groans, turning around like he’s going to head back into the office, though he’s slow to move.
I ignore his retreating back and concentrate on the many messages from staff asking questions they already have the answer to. I’ll need to start hiring for Sam’s position.
I’m just creating a folder when Phil pops around the corner and smiles at me. “Quick question.”
“All ears.”
“First off, are you free evenings next week?”
“Sure—”
Grant pops out from our office, eyes narrowed, mouth open, and I rush to add, “—ly you jest?”
“What? No. You’ll love this. So, you know in the Glen Allenoffice, how we turned the break room into a haunted house, and had everyone—”
