His eyes go straight from my face to the paper in my hand. “Dammit,” he mutters as his gaze flicks back up to meet mine again.
My eyebrows lift. “Well, good morning to you too.”
He does not sound happy when he says, “You found it.”
I hold up the list, surprised at how steady my hand is. Is it because he looks suddenly unsure? Is that why the anger’s gone?
Whatever the reason, I’m now soaring on a fresh wave of… gosh, it couldn’t be excitement, could it?
“You looking for this?” I ask in my softest voice. “Your lil’ list?”
He drops his head with a sigh and shakes it before looking up at me. “Yes. I should not have left that for you.”
“Says who? This is a great idea. In fact”—I grab my favorite pen from the capybara cup on my desk, set the paper down, andadd a fat number four—“why don’t I go next? No…” I say, scrawling as quickly as I can get it down. “Glow-er-ing. There.” I dot theiwith a heart. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a rule number four.”
When I look up, the man’s clean-shaven face is creased into the literal definition of a glower. Image searchGlowering Manand you’ll see Grant G. Bowman. Middle G for Glower.
“What are you talking about?”
“That. Right there. You’re doing it. You’re glowering. It’s unpleasant.”
The expression disappears in the blink of an eye, his features smoothing out so he’s as bland as vanilla pudding. “You can’t tell me what to do with my face.”
“Really? Well, then you can’t tell me where I can and cannot go when I’m not at work.” I turn, whip a piece of tape off theLion Kingdispenser Otty gave me last Christmas, and march up to the storage unit built along the back of the room. After a moment’s hesitation, I open the tall, shared cabinet that divides his side of the storage wall from mine and tape the list on the inside, at eye level. “There.” I brush off my hands and step back before carefully closing the door. “Easy!”
His exhalation is loud enough to blow the whole damn office down. Ignoring him, I walk to my desk, gather my things, and head toward the conference room.
“Hey!” Samantha calls as she sails into the lobby, tall and slouched, despite years of physical therapy for her scoliosis, wrapped, layer upon layer, in the miles-long scarf I knitted for her early in the quarantine.
Sam, of course, has already got a Blow Pop in her mouth. Watermelon, obviously.
My grin is huge. “Hello, hot stuff.”
Her eyes zero in on the big plastic container in my hands.
“What are those?”
“Klaus’s birthday cupcakes.”
“You’re a goddess.”
I take in the sallow color of her skin, the puffiness around her eyes, and the sleep lines on her cheek. “You look exhausted.”
Avoiding my gaze, she slings her bag onto her desk. “What do you mean? I’m not exhau—” She’s betrayed by the yawn that cuts her off mid-word.
“What have you been up to, Sammy? I swear you’re being weird.”
The innocent look she gives me is as fake as the ID she used to buy booze before either of us was old enough. “What?”
“Hmm.” Eyeing her so she understands that I’m unconvinced, I hold up the cupcakes. “These are going in the break room.”
“I can take them for you,” she offers with the smirk Hannibal Lecter would use when offering to babysit.
“Limit is one cupcake per person. There’s a sign.” I lead the way down the hall to the kitchen.
“You’re so organized.”
I don’t need to reply. We both know that it is absolutely the case. I am organized AF. By necessity. As the eldest, I basically raised Otty after Mom died. I mean, Dad was a mess, so the lunch packing, and permission slip signing, and grocery lists all fell to me. I’m not mad about it. It’s good to be needed, especially if it keeps everyone safe and happy and doing what they’re meant to be doing.
