Chapter Seventeen Rae
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rae
I STARE AT THE sheet of paper waiting for me dead center on my desk.
For a handful of seconds, I think Sam’s done this as some sort of practical joke.
She’s always messing around, so it makes sense, except Sam would have made it about picking boogers and, I don’t know, naked things.
Also, Sam doesn’t know about Grant’s link to the club and, now, to me. At least I haven’t mentioned it.
“What a prick.”
No touching? Touching? Really? Have I even touched him once? Nope. I don’t believe I have. In fact, he is the one who’s done all the touching in our short-lived clustershart of an acquaintance.
I set down the box of cupcakes I baked last night and pick up Grant’s list of demands, my hands visibly shaking.
OFFICE RULES
NO TOUCHING.
DOOR MUST ALWAYS REMAIN OPEN DURING CO-OCCUPATION.
CLUB IS OFF-LIMITS.
I’m about to crumple it when I hear the beep of a key card activating the exterior door. My entire body freezes.
I came in early today to prep for a benefits meeting with the department heads.
Actually, I’d planned to come in at 7:00 a.m., but I hit snooze twice and finished frosting the cupcakes and changed my top three times, what with that mortifying wet T-shirt moment cycling through my brain on repeat all night.
Then I had to swing by Hannah’s to bring her emergency diapers and make sure Otty got up for her breakfast shift, so 7:00 a.m. turned into 7:30 a.m., which, when I looked at my phone on the way upstairs, had somehow magically transmogrified into one minute to 8:00 a.m., since literal time is against me and I’ve never, ever, not once in my entire life managed to be early for anything.
Which means the meeting’s starting… crap. Now!
I’m about to chuck Grant’s pathetic one-sheeter into the trash when he appears in the doorway, freezing me in place.
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, and add 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 the i with 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 search Glowering Man and 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 the Lion King dispenser 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.
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.