Chapter Twenty-Five Grant
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Grant
IT HAS BEEN A long week. I’ve done nothing but work, attempt to sleep, and when that failed time and again, I’ve jerked off thinking about the breathy sound Rae makes when she comes.
So, of course, first thing Friday morning, I step in what looks like mouse entrails as I walk out my door. Another gift from my cat admirer. I’m starting to believe Dorothy when she says there’s more to what’s happening here than your run-of-the-mill trolling. A haunting? The little bastard’s wily.
I should have turned around and gone inside immediately after that, but no. I have shit to do. Sixteen days left, and I’ve found no sign of the breach. Nothing at all.
Usually, at this point, there is some trace of wrongdoing.
But my vulnerability assessment has turned up exactly zip.
How can I address the security breach if there’s no sign of weakness in the company’s systems?
No SQL issues, no malware or malicious code.
And because Dorothy’s business model is centered on a human-centric approach instead of a machine-led one, growth is minimal compared to other tech companies I’ve worked with.
Against all outward appearances, Sugar’s protocols are robust, which leaves very few possibilities.
All of which I’ve got to verify after I go by the hardware store for one of those humane traps.
Either there’s no breach and this company is squeaky clean, or whoever accessed the company’s data is on the inside.
As I leave the store, the smell of a good dark roast lures me into the kind of upscale coffee shop I usually avoid. I get to the counter, and right smack in front of me is a cutesy sign telling me that pumpkin spice is everything nice. Of course I think of Rae. Again.
I order my regular large black coffee, and then, for some inexplicable reason, ask for one of the sickeningly sweet seasonal drinks at three times the price.
Then I wait, sipping at my coffee while they dump half a gallon of fancy syrups and swirly creams and powders into a cup and wondering what the hell has gotten into me.
It’s a peace offering to a colleague. That’s all.
Liar. This isn’t about peace.
It’s about the sound Rae makes every time she sips at pumpkin spice coffee. I swear I’m not a masochist, but dammit, I want to see the expression that goes with those happy little moans.
That sound is just one of a list of things I’ve unconsciously compiled this week. So far, it reads:
When Rae listens to music, her entire body wants to move. (I no longer believe this is purposeful.)
Is loved by all and feeds them like it’s her job. Which it isn’t.
Works her ass off.
Says yes to absolutely everyone.
Swings her feet under her desk because they don’t touch the floor.
When she comes, her expression is the closest thing I’ve ever seen to religious rapture. I can’t stop thinking about it. This has become an issue.
I’m distracted by that last item as I walk into the office and don’t immediately notice that it’s Rae seated at reception today instead of Sam.
Only after I see her do I narrow in on the man lurking in the lobby, way too close to Rae for comfort—both mine and clearly hers.
With her arms crossed, chin jutting, and eyes narrowed, she is the very definition of defensive.
The second she sees me, her expression goes through a gratifying transformation from that one-step-closer-and-I’ll-smack-you look to unadulterated relief. “You’re here!”
“Yep.” I hold up her coffee, ignoring the man, who is unsubtly sizing me up.
He’s a tall, lanky, stereotypically handsome guy with light brown hair that swoops over his brow and an easy smirk.
He’s wearing a plaid button-down that looks expensive, a sleeveless, green puffer vest, and khakis with the kind of pristine white sneakers I’ve only ever seen straight out of the box.
“You want this here or at your desk?”
“You… brought me coffee?” Rae says in the tone of voice I imagine she’d use if I’d shown up with a puppy. I don’t hate it.
“Where’s mine?” The guy chuckles.
My head swivels slowly his way as I set Rae’s drink in front of her. “Have we met?”
“Not yet.” He sticks out his hand and grabs mine in one of those too-tight power shakes that Harlow refers to as a Penis Pump. “Dane Wabash,” he says in a voice that’s salesman smooth.
Well, hell. Dorothy’s son-in-law in the flesh. This can’t be good. “Grant Bowman.”
“Grant! Great to meet you!” He’s mid-thirties, but something about him is both old and simultaneously infantile.
An aging mama’s boy who learned to emulate Dad but never actually grew into a man.
He releases my hand and takes in the lobby with an expansive stretch of the arm. “Just here to check the place out.”
“Check the place out.” I give him exactly the amount of inflection he deserves. Which is zilch.
What I really want is to watch Rae’s face when she takes her first sip, but this guy’s in my damn way.
When I step to the side for a clearer sight line, he follows. “You know.” He leans in to meet my eyes, man-to-man. He’s an inch or so taller than I am and is working very hard to use that to his advantage. “Gotta make sure everything’s running smooth.” His expression sharpens. “I’m concerned.”
“Concerned? I don’t understand.” To my disappointment, Rae sets her coffee on the desk before asking, “Are you hoping to… work here?”
“That’s cute,” he tells her, giving me a side-eye that’s as patronizing as a nudge with an eye roll. “I might.”
What the hell is he doing here? This feels like a whole lot more than a random visit.
“Right. See, the thing is, I do the hiring, and we don’t have anyone coming in today; nor are there any open positions currently, so…”
“Sorry, hon. My bad.” He still doesn’t look at her. If I didn’t already dislike the man on principle—for Dorothy’s sake—I’d hate him now. First, he makes me miss the first latte sip, and now he’s disrespecting Rae. My hands clench into fists.
“Dotty didn’t mention me?” Dane Wabash tsks, shaking his head and baring his teeth, which I think is meant to look contrite.
“Yeah. Granny’s forgetting things now.” Another tsk, and the guy’s grating on my nerves so hard it takes a concerted effort to unclench my jaw.
He leans in close. “See, Dotty’s been goin’ downhill, real fast. Age. You know? Rachel’s concerned.”
“I don’t understand,” Rae says.
I, however, see exactly what’s going on. And I don’t like it one bit.
“In a couple of weeks, hon, I’ll be your new boss,” Wabash faux-whispers, all aw shucks and look at how modest I am.
Holy shit. He’s just declared war on Dorothy. As easy as that. And now we’re down to sixteen days to shore up this company’s defenses before what’s looking like an all-out assault.
“New boss?” Rae looks from me to him and back. “I don’t understand what’s—”
“The company’s in trouble. Did you know that?”
“What? I don’t even—”
“Probably above your pay grade.”
I’m a second away from grabbing the asshole by the collar and lugging him out when Rae, tight-lipped, steps between us and asks, “Is Dorothy expecting you?”
“It’s all good.” He winks at her and looks around, clapping his hands a couple of times like he’s just rarin’ to get started. “I’ll just show myself around and—”
“Have a seat,” I interrupt. There is absolutely no way this man is getting unfettered access to the offices. None. “I’ll let Dorothy know you’re here.”
“Perfect. Lead the way.”
Rae widens her eyes at me. “Maybe I should go see if Dorothy’s available. You can hang out with Mr. Wabash.”
“Oh. Hey. Before you go…” As Rae attempts to head off, he reaches out and grabs her arm.
Rae jerks to a stop.
Every muscle in my body tenses up.
She looks down at his hand. Her mouth opens and closes.
“How ’bout that coffee, hon?” the man says.
Heat spreads over my body, fogging my vision. I’ve never once felt this close to ending someone.
“Let. Her. Go.”