“Not anymore.”
More munching around us. Someone steps forward and snags another cookie—or seven—from the dish I’m still holding as if I’m one of those ridiculous butler statues.
This was supposed to be simple and quick. Surgical. Dorothy brings me in as an “executive consultant,” a cover for what I’m really here to do. Twenty-one days seemed like more than enough time to find and fix things when I left the house this morning. Now? I get the feeling this isn’t going to be easy at all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rae
IRACE BACK TOthe shared office as soon as the meeting lets out, relieved when high-and-mighty Grant Bowman doesn’t immediately follow.
It takes a while to settle down as I debate the merits of going through his desk and trying to log in to his computer. Because that would absolutely be a fireable offense, I back off. That and I’m a rule follower at heart. I’ve never broken into anything in my life. Also, I’m pretty sure he had his laptop with him in the conference room. But still. What is going on here?
I consider switching desks with him, given that a conversation should have occurred, at the very least, before he went and picked a side. First dibs isn’t a thing in a work environment. First dibs is for the front seat on road trips or when you get snowed in at the airport with a stranger and have to share a hotel room. Actually, no dibs when there’s only the one bed.
Yeah, well, if life were a romance novel, GenghisfreakingBowman wouldn’t be such a stick-in-the-mud at the office. Also, we would absolutely have had sex Friday night instead of just a massage, making this morning’s awkwardness and pheromones out of this world. We’d exchange hot glances across our desks, andhe’d get up and shut the door and tell me to lift up my skirt for a spanking—obviously, I wouldn’t be wearing these tights and my big, comfortable cotton panties—and I’d bend over my desk and he’d fold up his sleeves like he did Friday night and—
A quick knock on the office door makes me jump, squeaking out a ridiculous “Come in.”
When Blake from the design team rolls in, I sag with relief. No way could I deal with Bowman, my face blazing away, with these images running through my brain. I cannot sit here at my desk, all turned on while that straitlaced… sociopath refuses to let employees eat cookies.
“Hey, Rae. Sooooo, the matcha’s not there?”
“Good morning, Blake. How are you?”
“Oh, yeah, good. But the matcha’s not where it should be?”
I blink up at her. “I’m sorry?”
“You know? I need the matcha chai,riiiight? Remember? I know it’s been a while, but—”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand what—”
“In the break room?” She sucks air in through her teeth with an exaggeratedsorrygrimace. “Yeah. I always get matcha. Remember?”
Breathe. Deep. Pretend I’m at home, rolling up tiny scrolls and gluing them into place. Hanging miniature lights over perfect balsa wood bookshelves. Slow, infinitely patient. In control of everything. “So, let me see if I get this. You would like someone to order matcha pods for the machine in the break room? Is that right?”
“Yes.” She looks at me like I’m somehow at fault for not knowing this. “Also, Phil brought cheese.”
“Already?” Come on. “We just got here.”
“Right? It’s unsanitary. Raw, unpasteurized, sitting therecontaminating my hemp milk as we speak. So, on TikTok, this expert talks about how fridge coexistence leads to microspecks from one…”
Nodding, I shut my eyes, picturing the tiny version of Blake I made during lockdown for one of my first mini bookshelf inserts, steaming hot cup of matcha eternally stuck to the figurine’s mouth. Phone forever frozen in front of her face.
God, I miss Zoom calls, with every person contained in their own little screen, drinking their own drinks and stinking up their own fridges and homes with cheeses that smell like feet. I know for a fact that half the guys didn’t wear pants during those meetings, and I didn’t even care.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I cave just to get her to shut up.
“Awww, you’re the best.”
Right.
Nodding, I wait for Blake to leave. She steps out the door, and my relieved sigh makes it halfway out before she’s back. “Any chance you brought the blood bag?”
Blood bag is the totally inappropriate name that Samantha came up with for the menstruation product supply I used to keep in a purse in my office. For a while, I put it in the restroom, but someone emptied it daily. In the office, people swing by and help themselves.
I can’t believe people remember the blood bag after three years.
