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But when we get back to our tiny house that I rent, I can’t help myself and start making lists of everything I need to tell my replacement so she can take care of Lance properly. How sad and 1950s is that? Still, I worry about him. I know he likes to bottle up his emotions. I’ve taken it on myself to poke him enough that he lets at least some of it out. I can hardly put that under essential job duties, now can I?
Then, to make myself feel engaged in my decision, I take down my winter clothes and start packing them into the copier-paper boxes I brought from work as a last-minute thought. They’re the perfect size, clean, and best of all, I’m able to still lift them even packed tight with books.
When I have a stack of them neatly piled in the living room, I feel like I’ve accomplished something useful. A glass of wine sounds like the reward I need, so Toby and I move out to the postage stamp-size deck off the kitchen and put our feet up. Literally. Mine are bare and go up on the railing and Toby rolls over on his floral dog bed and puts all four paws straight up in the air. He’s a good friend.
Lance
The only good thing about Isla leaving is that I won’t have to work so hard to hide my feelings for her. I’m hardly going to broadcast them to the rest of the office, but I can stop reminding myself every five minutes not to touch. Days like today when she wears her hair up and the delicious curve of her neck is exposed are the absolute worst.
I sit down at my desk abruptly and force myself to look at email. Until I see an all-company announcement. “Isla!” I bark until she pops her head into my office with a smirk.
“Yes, Boss?”
I growl. “Stop calling me that, and what the hell did you do?”
“Many things. Which one has you grouchy?” She smiles sweetly and comes around to my side of the desk so I can breathe her in. I don’t for a minute think that was her motivation, but it’s true all the same.
I point at the decorative flier in the email with dancing pastel muffins. “That! What the hell is that?”
“Don’t you like it?” She pouts like a sad three-year-old blinking her long eyelashes. It’s all a ploy.
“I hate it and you knew I would. What are you up to?” I ask point blank.
Isla shrugs lightly. “You need a little help finding Muffin Girl. And my replacement isn’t going to have time to run to every bakery and bake sale in town twice a day.”
God, could this day get any worse? “Cancel it,” I tell Isla with satisfaction.
“Can’t. HR loved the idea. It’s wholesome, inexpensive fun.” She uses air quotes for emphasis and I know exactly who she’s imitating and, well, I’m doomed. Unless… “Make someone else the judge then. Or better yet, get a panel.”
Isla blinks. “Am I missing something here, Boss? I thought only you would know the magic muffins when you encounter them. Now you want to entrust that to someone else?” She sits her perfect ass down on the credenza near my desk, her eyes steady on mine.
Going to have to give her a tiny bit of the truth then. Enough to leave this alone and no more. “I, uh, found Muffin Girl a while back,” I confess. Strangely, Isla pales at that. “She had the very good sense to want nothing to do with me,” I acknowledge with a grimace.
“So all the trips to the bakeries were about what exactly?” she asks with at least some sympathy in her voice.
I shrug. “Cover up. I didn’t and don’t need everyone feeling sorry for me. And I definitely do not need everyone in this building vying for the spot.” I shudder, and Isla smirks.
“We’re only at 15% women in this office, Boss, and half of them are married, so unless you were planning on expanding your horizons? We do have quite a crew of bakers in the R&D department…” she muses innocently while I pretend to glare at her. Grateful that we’ve moved off the topic of my rejection.
Isla
Lance is hiding something. Something big because instead of lying, he’s feeding me partial truths. He knows that’s more convincing. Plus, one of his more endearing traits is he’s a crap liar. Even when he’s doing something nice, like paying for dinner when my parents were in town and pretending he was given a gift card he couldn’t be bothered to use. That time, I let him get away with it because pressing would have been awkward for both of us.
This time, though? I need to know what he’s hiding. The question is, where to start looking? I go back through my notes to see if he ever asked me for the name of a bakery or a return visit for more information. Any feedback on the muffins what so ever. But other than a few comments aboutnotreturning to a few bakeries because he didn’t care for the baked goods at all, I can’t find anything. Still, I look at those three again. I only went to those once and none of them were anything to write home about. Reluctantly, I bring up Lance’s book on my phone. It’s research, not reading time. Maybe I missed something about Muffin Girl in here. Or… maybe she pre-dates my arrival as his assistant. Hmm.
I flip back and check the copyright page. Yeah, a full two years before I came on the scene and I think several months before he joined on with Alpha Corps. Huh. I put up my ‘be right back’ sign on my desk and swiftly move to the staircase. Time to pay Lance’s best friend a visit.
Dean looks up from his computer with a wary expression. “Isla? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I shut his door behind me. “Exactly when did Lance go on this giant muffin quest of his?” I ask abruptly.
Dean leans back in his chair. “Why are you asking?”
“Because he just confessed that it’s all been a big cover-up because the right girl rejected him and I’m trying to figure out who it is.”
Dean’s eyes widen. “Well, he never told me if that’s the case. Isla…” he sighs like he needs to say something and doesn’t want to.
“It’s okay, Dean. I’m leaving for a job in Sala Bay in a few weeks. But I’d like to know how the story ends. And quite frankly, if I can fix this for him, maybe he won’t be so grumpy when I’m gone.”
