“Good morning.” I sidle by his desk, going for nonchalance—no small feat, considering what we did here last night.
“Rae.”
Unclear on whether that was a greeting or an attempt to get my attention, I breathe in, steel myself, and look straight at him. “Grant.”
He frowns. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You’ve got…” He motions at his temple. “Something… Right…”
I run my hand through my hair, finding nothing out of the ordinary. I struggle to do the same on the other side, but can’t quite make it with my left arm full of the clean, folded laundry that Otty’s swinging by to pick up.
“Whatever. It’s fine. I’ll get it later.”
“Don’t move.” Wearing his patented look of long-suffering exasperation, Grant stands, makes his way over to me, and picks something out of my hair.
I get a little woozy at his clean soap smell and immediately flash back to last night when that stern face was literally buried between my legs. I work hard to concentrate on his closely shaven Adam’s apple while he picks through my curls, his expression going from blank to annoyed in a matter of seconds.
“The hell is this?” He holds something out, his grimace remarkably close to the one my nephew Devon wore this morning when I tried to feed him his oatmeal.
“Um.” I glance down at the piece of gook he’s holding out and then immediately back up. “It’s either toddler food… or possibly toddler vomit. Take your pick.”
The disgust I expect doesn’t make an appearance. Instead, Grant goes to my desk to snag a few tissues and returns to wipe first my hair, and then, after what feels like a pretty superfluousMay I?, a stain on my sweater.
“That might be cereal.”
His mouth tightens at the corners.
“I didn’t know you had kids.”
“What? No. No, I… not me. They’re my sister’s.”
“Ah.”
“Two of them got sick last night. And then she got sick, so I went over to help.”
“Is she a single parent?”
“Might as well be. Schaffer travels.”
Another nod as he rids me of the laundry I’d been holding and tugs my bag from my shoulder. “Sit.” He pulls out my chair, and I automatically comply, sighing the second I land. I watchhim set my bag on my desk, open the closet, and slide the pile of clothes onto a high top shelf. “Coffee?”
“Oh, I’ll make some. Just give me a—”
He tugs off my trench coat before urging me, firmly but gently, back into my seat. “Have you had your coffee yet, Rae? You look exhausted.” He hangs my coat up.
“I’m not…” At his skeptical look, I give up all pretense and flop back. “I didn’t sleep.”
“At all?” He sinks to his haunches, putting us eye to eye.
“Who knows? An hour? I tried. But there was so much throw-up to clean. I’m not good with gross things.”
“You should go home.”
That makes me sit up straighter. “Absolutely not. I’m fine. I’ve got meetings today. And performance evaluations to get out to department heads, the retreat to finalize, and—”
“Stay there. I’ll be right back.” With a sigh, he pushes up to standing and walks out.
