I’m still seething as I hurry back to the office, turn the finalcorner, and stutter to a halt when I catch sight of the building where it all started. There it is. The comedy club, the entrance to Sugar, and that anonymous metal door leading straight down into Richmond’s sexy underworld.
As if conjured by my thoughts, the door to the club swings open as I come even with it, and Harlow emerges. It takes me a moment to recognize her. Maybe it’s because Friday night’s sleek black outfit has been replaced with shorts and sneakers and a VCU sweatshirt. More college athlete than intimidating bouncer. “Hey.” She gives me a big smile. “What you doing?”
“I work here.” I point at the glass door leading to the small lobby and the stairs and elevator beyond it.
“Yeah? That’s cool. You coming back to the club this week?”
“I wish.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Well, I’d planned to, but…”
I lose my train of thought when the glass door opens, and Grant himself steps onto the sidewalk, all business with his laptop bag and his expensive suit. His reaction, when he sees us talking, is almost comical. Friendly surprise followed by squinty-eyed annoyance.
“Hey. Just the man I was waiting for.” Harlow gives him a shoulder bump.
“Ready for lunch?” The second his eyes leave me and go to her, he smiles. Like genuinely smiles. I hardly recognize the expression after being on the receiving end of nothing but scowls.
Oh wow. I get it. They’re an item. Harlow must be the reason he isn’t in the market for a sub. Strong and beautiful and confident and kind Harlow.
It’s probably the fried pickles or flashbacks of the termman meat, but I feel sick.
When Grant slides his arm around Harlow’s waist and gives her an affectionate squeeze, I wave, mumble something about getting back, and head to the door, feeling foolish for my own disappointment.
Behind me, Harlow says, “So you and Sunny are working together? That must be fun.”
I’m halfway across the lobby, exterior door about to close, when Grant snorts. “Fun?” His tone suggests the very opposite. “Try excru—” The rest of his reply is lost when the door shuts, cutting off the sounds of traffic and everything else. Thank god.
Oh, that’s nice. Maybe I’m not his dream sub or whatever. Maybe I’m annoying and too distracting at work, but the fact is that we are now colleagues, and the least he can do is pretend not to hate my guts.
That’s it, I decide. I’m putting something very, VERY good on that list. I’ve no idea what, yet, but it’ll put him right in his place.
I trudge all the way up the steps to the office, press my phone to my ear when I see Blake waiting for me, and mouth,Sorry!As soon as I’ve shut the office door, I throw open the closet, ready, so ready to show him, because who does he think he is? He’s by far the more disruptive of the two of us, so he can…
What the hell?
My mouth drops open as I read the new rule five.
That’s it. I am over Grant Bowman’s shenanigans.
Entirely out of fucks, I stomp over to my desk, grab the fattest permanent marker I’ve got, and cross the new line out.
There.
That’s better.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Grant
LATEWEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, I badge open the door to find what appears to be a full-blown party in reception.
“What is this?” I ask the woman seated in a visitor chair, knitting. She is wearing a mustache, like everyone else here, including Klaus, who’s pasted a large black one overtop of his own copious facial hair. Covered in purple frosting, it is absolutely revolting.
“Henny’s birthday.”
“Of course.” As if I even know who that is. “Where’s Dorothy?” Even as I ask, I recall that she’s meeting with one of her investors. With less than three weeks before their yearly meeting, she’s attempting to drum up as much support as she can.
