Barbie #2
“You’re a little less cranky at seven-fifteen,” he says with a small shrug. “Except Mondays. Not because the weekend’s over, but because you don’t have a snack.”
“A snack?”
“Donuts, usually,” he says. “There’s a shop that opened just down the block from you, and they’re closed on Mondays.”
I stare at him. “How do you know this?”
“Well, I kinda figured it out after you mentioned the place to Ed during a status call last year,” he says. “Then I realized you’re a little less bitey when you’ve had a snack.”
My lips part. “Okay, well, you’ve never taken a sick day.”
“You only know this because you haven’t, either,” he counters. Which, fair.
“I am a morning person, though,” I say. “Just like you love to drink beer, are obsessed with the natural diversity of Oregon, and watch a bunch of football games—”
“I’m not really a fan of football,” he says.
My chin almost slides off of my palm. “Excuse me?” I sit up tall and gawk at him. “But you’re always talking about beers and bros and—”
“Yeah, I don’t really care about football,” he says. “Or beer. I mean, I’ll have a pint when I hang out with Aaron every now and then. But organized sports don’t speak to me.” He pauses for a beat. “I do enjoy the natural diversity of Oregon, though.”
I’m not sure what to respond with. Because what? “You’re joking. You’re always bringing up scores—”
“I look them up before a meeting,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Why?”
“Ed loves sports,” he says. “Talking about a game keeps him in a good mood, and I want to avoid the claims report incident again.”
If I wasn’t staring at him in shock before, I definitely am now. Just a month into working at Green Checks, my team never sent me any reports they were working on for the week. They were slacking, trying to see what they could get away with the new girl.
When Ed asked about the project the next day, I described what had happened and got my ass chewed out to the point where, after the call ended, I went straight to the apartment balcony and bawled my eyes out.
For the most part, my manager is nice. But there are times when I’m reminded of how demanding he can be, to the point where he asks for the impossible to happen. Especially over things I have no control over.
The message was this: I’m on the line for everything, held accountable and to a ridiculously high standard. As the one leading QC, I need to put quality in quality control.
Maybe it’s a good thing I plan to leave the company next month. I don’t want to deal with any more stress.
“You’re not trying to get me fired?”
A frown forms between his eyebrows. “No? Hold on, have you been trying to get me fired because you think I’ve—”
“I’m not trying to get you fired,” I say.
“Just my team?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t want anybody fired—from your team or mine. I swear, Ethan. You’re super stubborn, but you’re also… like… the only person there who responds to my emails and pings immediately. You don’t take four hours to send me the SOPs I need. You’re reliable.”
“Like a compact sedan?” he says dryly. “If you don’t want my team fired, why are you always nitpicking the most random things?”
There’s a long list of things I can bring up. “Because Ed told me to take the initiative,” I begin, “and every time I float these ideas by him, he gives me the go-ahead—”
“He does?” Ethan straightens himself. “Ed always tells me not to let anyone commandeer my ship and to reject…” He trails off, his gaze going over my shoulder. I follow his line of sight, catching a glimpse of our manager, mid-belly laugh.
Well.
I’m not sure what we’re supposed to do with this information. I return my attention to Ethan, forcing my features into a pleasant expression when our server returns with our drinks.
“Why don’t we enjoy our honeymoon?” I say with a tight smile. “And then figure out our next steps.”
Lifting his glass, he looks steadily into my eyes. My stomach does a little flip. “That works for me.”
“That does not work for me.” He scrubs his hand down his face. “That is a felony, Barbie.”
“I was just joking,” I say. “I paid attention to the compliance videos. I’ve seen the emails from HR. Obviously, insider trading is off the table. You wouldn’t last in prison, and I would look terrible in orange.”
He lets out a muted sigh and pinches his nose.
“Here’s an idea,” I say, as Bell’s suggestion to embark on a fruity drink journey rings in my head. “What if we just blow off the conference as payback—”
“And risk our jobs?” he asks. “No. Tomorrow morning, we should corner Ed and ask him why he’s giving us mixed signals.”
“I mean, isn’t the answer obvious? Higher-ups and poor management,” I mutter. “They go hand-in-hand like peanut butter and jelly.”
He chuckles and lifts his head, only to grunt a split second later. “Fuck. I think the hot tub wore off.”
A flicker of guilt threads through my chest. “Okay, you can have the bed tonight.” My bottom lip almost quivers. “I’ll take”—my gaze goes directly to the couch cushion that’s been flipped over—“the floor.”
Ethan brings his hand to his neck. “Don’t be ridiculous. We can share the bed.”
My line of sight shifts to the fluffy pillows and luxurious sheets. Way superior to the carpeted floor. No contest. “I don’t know, Ethan. Don’t you think we’re moving a little too fast?”
“Well, we are newlyweds,” he says dryly. “It’ll be fine. I can behave. Can you?”
I level him with the most withering glare I can muster. “Of course, I can behave. I’d promise to never, ever, ever touch you, but I’d hate to crush your dreams.”
He makes a hacking sound, then thumps his chest, before casting a glance over my head. Realization creeps in, and my mouth parts in shock.
“Wait, have—”
“I’ll take the left side; you can have the right.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Let me get ready for bed, and then the bathroom’s all yours.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” I gasp, but he’s already hustling for his suitcase. “Ethan, what kind of dream?”
“I plead the fifth.”
“Was I hot in it? Tell me I was hot. Ooh. Wait. What was I wearing—”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he murmurs, then gives me a blank stare. “Barbie, you don’t have to fish for compliments. We both know you’re hotter than a summer day, regardless of what you wear.”
My face goes warm. Not as blazing as a summer day, but quite warm like a sunny afternoon, nevertheless. “Oh.” I pause. “Follow-up question. Was I any good while we were going at it in your dream?”
He groans. “Just for that, you’re getting one less scoop of pistachio ice cream.”
“So we were going at it in your dream.”
“Make it two less scoops.”