Chapter Twenty Rae
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rae
WHAT DID GRANT JUST add to the rules?
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.
Nothing to see here. La, la, laaaaa. I’m just happy to have Wicked playing 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.
Should I add a rule? About his typing? The annoying way he taps his foot under the desk? Or I could make something up. That would irritate the crap out of him, wouldn’t it? If I claimed he smelled like, I don’t know, cheap cologne or fish or something.
Or… I could leave him hanging. No reaction. No new rules.
Pleased with that idea, I take another deep breath before I do my best to set my face into something neutral and shut the door.
I’m fizzing inside as I force myself to walk unhurriedly back to my desk.
It doesn’t take long for me to realize the back-facing thing was a strategic mistake.
I am way too conscious of his eyes on me.
It’s going to be a long day, imagining him watching me like a hawk, following every move I make, judging me.
Especially if I can’t dance, shimmy, or stretch. I so badly want to.
Wait. Now that I think about it, that is actually three rules. Doesn’t seem fair.
I slide my headphones back, turn around, and raise my hand like the approval-seeking fourth grader I once was.
When that gets no response, I wave, and when that doesn’t work, I stand and walk the four steps to his desk, plant one hand on my hip, and wait.
The typing stops. Slowly, Grant’s eyes scan up my body to my face.
The way his dark brows lift sends a fresh wave of this indescribable feeling through me.
It’s the strangest blend of excitement and irritation and a third thing, warm and liquid and unfamiliar.
Whatever it is, I’m obviously the only one feeling it.
I mean, look at those eyes. Two pools of sharp annoyance in an ocean of blasé.
Yeah, the man really dislikes me.
With crisp, precise movements, he removes one earbud. “Yes?”
The breath I suck in is a giddy mix of oxygen and pure adrenaline. “We have a problem.”
His eyebrows stretch impossibly higher. “Oh?”
From the headphones around my neck, Ariana Grande’s rendition of “Popular” pierces the silence, faint and tinny but perfectly clear.
“The rules? The line you just added?” The quick flick of his eyes toward the coat closet edges me up and up until I could almost float away on the bubble of glee welling in my throat.
“Rule five?”
“Can we really call it that, though?” With the reckless abandon of a puppy tackling a sleeping cat, I go on. “I feel obliged to point out a problem with rule five.”
The brows dip into glower territory. Probably not the best time to mention it. “What are you talking about?”
“Weeeell, I’m pretty sure number five is actually three rules. Not one.”
“O-kay… and…?”
“I believe we should make it one rule per line.” With a flash of inspiration, I add, “And per person.”
A series of reactions passes over his face, from disbelief to exasperation to a stubborn sort of refusal and, finally, oh god, finally, the mouth hardens, the square jaw flexes, and it all—poof!—disappears behind that stoic mask.
“Right,” he says with a stiff nod. “You’re saying one rule per line. And we alternate. Makes sense.”
“I knew you’d be reasonable.” Is that a faint lift at the corner of his mouth?
“Anyway, I’ve got a rule to add as well.
But it doesn’t seem right to stick a number six on until you’ve decided which one you’d like to go with for five.
” It’s almost impossible to maintain a straight face when I say, “What do you think? Will it be dancing, shimmying, or stretching?” I give him my most guileless expression. “Doesn’t matter to me.”
His breathing is slow and measured as he appears to parse out his choices, everything about him screaming Businessman weighing the merits of very important business-y proposals. When in reality, he’s picturing me dancing around the office.
I bite my lip hard and force myself to stay calm. “Well?”
“I’ll fix it.” He gives a single nod, all official and serious.
“Great. Thanks.”
I return to my desk and, pushed by some absolute imp of an inner devil, give a little stretch as I settle into my chair. Might as well do it while I can.