I’m dying to get up and look. But maybe he needs to stew for a while.
Obviously, the problem with making him stew is that I’m stewing too, and patience is low on my list of virtues.
When my phone rings, I snap it up with an overloud “Rae Jensen!” The next fifteen minutes are spent going over the final details for our employee retreat, which is just around the corner. I can’t wait for it to be over, honestly. It’s a ton of work.
“Retreat?” Grant asks after I hang up.
“Eavesdrop much?” I say over my shoulder.
“You weren’t quiet.”
“Well, forgive me for doing my job here.”
“It’s your job to plan a retreat?”
“It’s HR.”
His humming non-reply compels me to explain. With an exaggerated sigh, I say, “Once a year, the Sugar App staff goes to an offseason mountain resort for ‘bonding activities.’” I provide a helpful set of air quotes over the last two words. In case he doesn’t know what that involves.
“That sounds chaotic.”
“Oh, it is,” I add with a smile. “So much fun.”
“But do you really need to bond?”
“You tell me. Last year, the dev folks, matchmakers, and designers played a game of hide-and-seek that led to one of the app’s most successful features.”
“Which is?”
“The Wild Turkey Chase.”
He just shakes his head.
“It’s a scavenger hunt element. Very popular with older folks who want a little more from their dating apps than a right swipe.” I lean forward, annoyed that I have to defend Sugar to this guy. “Did you know that we’re industry leaders in the senior market?”
“Nice.” I hate how good his grudging approval feels. “Okay, then. This retreat is when?”
“Less than two weeks.” And then a wild hair makes me ask, “Want to come?”
“No.”
“Of course not.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just that I’m not surprised.” I produce one last artificial smile over my shoulder and turn back to my desk. “We are definitely not to your taste.”
His only response is a low growl that, though impossible to interpret, has my pulse thrumming double time.
After that, I reply to a message from my cousin. I somehow got roped into planning her bachelorette party, which is turning into a lot more work than I’d banked on. I call the restaurant where we’re having dinner and double-check the number of guests. Then finally, oh finally, I get up and replenish my tape supply, refill the contents of the blood bag, and shuffle a few files around. Nothingto see here. La, la, laaaaa. I’m just happy to haveWickedplaying in my ears. I’m happy that it’s finally autumn. Happy that I can pull out my favorite jack-o’-lantern tights soon and wear them to the office. I’ll bet Grant will hate them.
By the time I finally make it to the little coat closet, I’m almost shaking with excitement. I open the door and read.
5. NO DANCING, SHIMMYING, OR STRETCHING.
What? I make myself look it over again, slowly, my face burning. Did I even dance? I don’t think so. And any stretching I did was totally unconscious.
I picture Grant glaring over like I’m something he’s just stepped in while I innocently go about my day. I’m mortified. Seriously, the man is an absolute killjoy.
