“We’re not discussing company policy, Rae. We’re talking about this.” I flick my finger back and forth between us.
“Oh, rest assured, there is nothis”—she stops emptying her bin just long enough to wiggle her hand in a parody of mine—“to discuss.”
“Excellent. And no blending professional and personal. Ever.”
She takes out a box of adhesive bandages and adds it to the growing pile of medical supplies littering her desk, followed by tissues and a half dozen tiny desk fans. After that comes an animal-shaped bowl, which she promptly fills with three kinds of candy. “Of course not.”
Of course not? Ofcoursenot? I’ve never seen a less professional environment than this, including companies where my contract ended with half the personnel going to prison. The club’s got better boundaries than this hellscape, and people there have literal sex with each other. It may not be in my job description, but there’s no reason I can’t straighten a few things out while I’m here. Poor Dorothy’s been snowed by her own employees, and if I’m not mistaken, this woman’s spearheading the whole shambolic thing. She may be, as Dorothy claims, “the heart and soul of the company,” but more than anything, I suspect that she’s the life of the party.
Rae Jensen is an anarchist in sheep’s clothing. This ends now.
“I mentioned to Dorothy that we’d met before.”
Finally, she stops unpacking things from that damn box, like some demented Mary Poppins, and gives me direct eye contact. Those freckles do things to me. All over her nose, a few on her cheeks, and others scattered toward the neckline of that sweater. With those massive blue-green eyes, she’s like a killer bunny. Cute and unbelievably dangerous.
“Oh, really? You just went and did that, without first discussing it with me?”
“I didn’t tell her the circumstances. Just that we’d met.”
“Great. Fine.” Her smile’s so wide and fake that it’s atrocious. A clown smile on a baby deer. “Thanks. I’ll make sure to put it in our personnel files.” She opens her laptop and types furiously.
“I’d like to—”
A blue-tipped finger goes up, stopping me in my tracks while she continues to tap out notes about our previous relationship. Or whatever she’s chosen to call it. Doesn’t matter. I won’t be here long enough for that to affect me.
Wait. How do I have a file? I’m not an employee.
With a final flourish, she looks up, her expression polite. “Go ahead.”
I blink, my mind blank before remembering what I was about to say. “As I was saying, we need to make sure we’re on the same page about how things work around here.”
“What page is that?”
“As you know, Dorothy’s asked me to come in and help her out with a special project. Once it’s done, I’ll be out of your hair.”
“And when will that be?”
“Depends on how much cooperation I receive from HR while I’m here. Will you cooperate?”
“Certainly.” Another fake smile before she digs back into the big box. Clothes start to come out now. Sweaters, followed by a pile of doughnut-shaped cushions. Umbrellas. “Anything else?”
“You do not go back to the club.”
This time, when her head snaps up, emotion has broken through. She’s pissed, and man, is she gorgeous. “What?”
“The club is my domain, and I’d prefer that you not—”
“I don’t think so.”
“Excuse me?”
“You don’t get the club.”
I’m a silent partner in the club, and the building is literally mine. Given the circumstances, I mention neither. “I’m a member” is all I go with.
“You just said we’re keeping private and professional separate. Maybe I’ve decided to become a full-fledged member of the club. Are you saying that, in your short-term capacity here at Sugar, you have a say in where I go on my nights off?” She leans forward. “Because I didn’t hear you complaining last Friday. In fact, I happen to have a text on my phone offering to show me around next time I—”
“You don’t want to go” is the only thing my brain can come up with.
