CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rae
“UH…” The General’s eyes take me in, up and down and up again, until they land on my face. His expression morphs from confused to angry. “How did you get in here?”
He’s so magnetic that my internal compass is spinning. “What?”
“What are you doing in my place of work?” Though from across the room he might look self-contained, this close, I feel pure white rage seeping out of him.
Wait. He’s pissed at me?Are you kidding?
That does it. With the next heartbeat, my poor, electro-shocked brain breaks free from his hold. “How didIget in here?” I hiss quietly, right in his face. “I work here. Are you serious with the—?”
“You can’t brazenly walk into someone’s place of—”
As one, our overlapping voices come to an abrupt stop.
I don’t have to crane my head to know that every single pair of eyeballs is laser-focused on us. Hushed whispers. Someone coughs.
Truly, I don’t think the Sugar App staff has ever shown this level of decorum. Like, not once have I gotten every person to be quiet simultaneously.
I swallow, the sound a loud, dry click that every single oneof them hears. Except possibly for Doreen, whose eardrums have been shot since her days of following the Grateful Dead.
“You must be Rae.” The General’s tight face twists into an expression that’s only slightly less indignant than his initial reaction. Is that his attempt at a smile?
“Yes.” I do my best to appear pleasant. “I. Am. Rae. Rae Jensen. Human resources manager.” That didn’t sound robotic at all.
Pulling at his collar, he clears his throat. Behind him, someone chomps into a cookie. Feet shuffle. Throats clear.
“Good to finally meet you. Rae.” He puts out a hand that I know for a fact is thick and strong and calloused. I really, really don’t want to touch him right now, in front of everybody. “Grant Bowman.”
I look at his hand, hanging there just waiting for a shake, and then down at my fully occupied appendages and say, “Well, that is fabtastic!” Fabtastic? What is my mouth even doing? “I mean, good to meet you,” I finally manage through a tight rictus of a smile. “Great! But… sorry. Can’t shake.” My attempt at an apologetic shrug probably looks apoplectic.
Crap. I’ve got to get it together or I’m the first person the General will axe. Not the General. This is Grant Bowman. And Grant Bowman is a man who looks like he could file your taxes, change your oil, and give you one hell of a tune-up… without breaking a sweat.
Past his shoulder, I see Samantha, standing there staring at me like I just tore off my clothes and started performingA Chorus Linein nothing but stilettos and sparkles.
To my right, Dorothy comes into focus. She’s watching, her vague, benevolent smile quickly fading into confusion as the seconds tick by and my brain scrambles to find a conversational gambit that will extricate me from this nightmare.
Finally, my eyes zero in on the platter of baked goods now teetering on my right arm.
“Cookies,” I whisper, emerging from my stupor with something like hope. In a louder voice, I proclaim, “Here are the full-fat, glutenous, dairy-rich cookies you’ve been waiting for!” and shove them at his chest. Blinking, he accepts them and mercifully steps back, taking away his warm scent and that electric thing that sizzles when he’s near, leaving just enough room for me to slip farther into the conference room and throw myself into one of the two empty chairs.
All in all, not the best start to my first day back.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Grant
WHAT THE HELL KINDof circus is Dorothy running here?
I’m standing in the middle of the conference room, surrounded by the motliest staff I’ve ever seen, holding a huge platter of cookies—there must be fifteen pounds here—staring at the beautiful woman I spent all weekend picturing naked. I’ve got to get control of this situation.
There’s a staff member knitting, for Christ’s sake. Another’s stirring a Crock-Pot. Every single one of them’s eating cookies like Chaos Muppets on a mission. This is Dorothy’s successful tech start-up?
“Oh, thank god. The full-fat cookies,” says coms director and social media manager Samantha, who I’m told will do double duty as receptionist now that I’ve dragged them back to the office. She scoops up a handful from the platter before sinking back into her chair beside a purple-haired person wearing massive noise-canceling headphones.
Dorothy, wide-eyed and smiling, swoops over to join me in the middle of the room, clapping like she’s talking to a herd of first graders instead of paid employees. “I am so glad you could all come in today, my sweeties.”
