Sam rips open the container and bites into a gluten-free chocolate cupcake with vegan buttercream frosting, not even taking the time to admire the little green succulent I piped on top. I’ll forgive her since she probably hasn’t eaten actual food since yesterday’s lunch.
“What’s going on, seriously?”
“Ngnh?”
“You’re being weird.”
“Nghg ngh.”
Now I know something’s off. Because, yes, her mouth is full, but that’s never stopped her from speaking before. The woman knows how to talk and chew. When it comes to food, Sam has exactly two settings. She’s either ravenous beyond belief or has forgotten its very existence. There’s no in-between for her, and though we’ve never discussed it, I know it’s a direct result of being brought up by a mom who spent time in and out of rehab and psych wards and an absentee birth father.
The first time I brought Sam home after school, she wolfed down every box of cereal in the house, including the desiccated bran flakes from the back of the cupboard. From that day on, I added extra to our weekly shopping lists, and Dad picked it up, no questions asked.
“I’m sorry to have to point this out,” I tell her, in no way distracted, “but you’ve got literal suitcases under your eyes this morning. Like shipping containers. Also, you didn’t answer my texts last night. Or my calls.” Which I don’t think has ever happened.
“Nnngh nigh.”
I stare at her through narrowed eyes, ready to get to the bottom of the mystery, when I catch sight of the clock above the fridge. No! I’ve somehow gone from early to on time to four minutes late. “We’re talking about this later.”
“This?” she manages to grunt through a mouthful of frosting.
“Why you’re avoiding your best friend.”
“Okay, fine.” She swallows a massive bite and licks her lips. “I’ve got stuff going on. But if we’re laying our cards on the table,I’m pretty sure there’s something you’re not telling me, either, missy.” Her eyes flick to the side as someone passes the break room door, stops, and backs up to look in at us.
It’s Grant. Because of course it is.
“Coming?” It’s definitely more of a demand than a question.
I swallow. “Coming?”
Oh god. What’s wrong with me? Did I have to repeat that one word aloud? And why does it sound like I made it dirty on purpose?
“To this morning’s benefits meeting.” The way he snaps out his arm to look at his watch is all business. “You’re late.”
With that, he turns and walks out, all straight back and starched white collar.
Samantha watches me follow him out, her eyes wide with curiosity, dawning understanding, and more than a little hurt, which stands to reason given that she’s the one person with whom I’ve shared everything for almost my entire life.
Until yesterday, in fact, when I omitted the very relevant detail that Grant Bowman is none other than my Friday-night Dom.
We’ve both got secrets. Not good. At all.
I’ll talk to her, I decide. And I’ll fix things. It’s what I do.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Grant
RAE HAS TALENT. I’LLgive her that. Although talent isn’t the right word. Is it charisma, perhaps? She’s somehow managed to make an incredibly dry subject entertaining, which is quite a feat.
It’s her ebullience, I think. Or enthusiasm? Yep. That’s it. The exact thing that caught my eye at the club on Friday. The thing that kept me eavesdropping on otherwise dull conversations between her and prospective Doms. A couple of the guys mistook her wide-eyed excitement for innocence or naivete, but I knew better.
This presentation, if anything, proves that Rae knows what she’s doing and is more than capable of communicating it to others. I can’t help but feel grudging respect.
I’m still pissed at myself for this morning. I did not want her to see those rules.
After a late night spent digging through the company’s data management systems, I’d planned to get here before her and scrap the damn list, which, with a little distance, was clearly a terrible idea. But then Devil Cat struck again, this time shitting not in front of my door but inside one of the shoes I’d forgotten toclean and bring in last night, which meant my entire morning was screwed.
