Shipped(12)

“For two pretty ladies? On the house.” He looks exclusively at Walsh as he says this and slips a piece of paper across the bar toward her. A name—Miles—is scribbled in blue along with a phone number.

I strain not to roll my eyes.

“Wow, thank you,” she croons, flashing him a Cheshire cat grin. Her crystal nose piercing sparkles in the dim light as she studies the number, slips it into her pocket with a shrug, and takes a sip of her drink.

The bartender’s eyes smolder as he turns away.

“Hey,” I yell after him. “Can we also get a ginger ale, an order of roast beef sliders, nachos, and four shots of—what should we get?” I ask Walsh.

“Something scrumptious. Surprise us,” she calls to the bartender.

I push my credit card across the bar. My fingers tense automatically at the thought of the charges I’ll see on my next bill. At least a pay raise is on the horizon—hopefully. And besides, I know Tory and Christina will throw a few bucks my way to cover their share.

The bartender takes my card with a nod. “You got it.” He winks at Walsh, who openly ogles him as he puts in our food order. Not that I care if she’s interested in this guy, but the surge of familiarity over the situation makes my chest ache.

My little sister is objectively beautiful. Me? I’m cute. Not pretty, exactly, but cute. I have startingly light brown eyes and nicely defined eyebrows—Mom says they have character—but my jaw is too severe and my nose is too sharp, according to conventional beauty standards anyway.

Walsh is soft curves and gentle slopes, while I’m harsh angles.

Rolling waves vs. a rocky shore. Happy-go-lucky charm vs. resting bitch face.

Don’t get me wrong. Now that I’m older, I’ve embraced my looks, but I haven’t always. Because ever since we were teenagers, given the choice between me or Walsh, guys choose Walsh. Hands down, every time. And damn it if that doesn’t kick my confidence right in the balls. Ovaries? Whatever.

To hell with it. I pull the cocktail over and take a long sip while I stuff my childhood insecurities back inside their mental lockbox. Blueberries and vodka with a tang of lemon bursts on my tongue. “Work’s been stressful lately,” I tell her.

“Shocker.”

“I’m up for a promotion. It’s why they’re sending me on this Galápagos cruise, and I—”

“What?” she chokes, finally tearing her attention away from the bartender. “Oh my God, Henley, that’s great news!”

“But this guy I work with is up for it too.”

Narrowing her eyes, she nods. “Hmmm, I see. Competition.”

“Exactly. And he’s… he’s…” I make a strangled sound. “He’s our social media manager. He lives in Michigan. And he’s the worst. Remember Sean, that guy I used to work with at Prima Health?”

“The one you banged and then he—”

“Bzzzt! We don’t need to rehash it. But yeah, this guy—Graeme—he’s basically Sean 2.0. But without the banging.” I shake my head hard to dispel that nauseating image. “I even had a meeting with our boss today and he listened in on speakerphone, on the sly, to our entire conversation. Then I get a voice mail from him after the fact that’s practically psychological warfare.”

“You shouldn’t take that.”

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“You need to show him what a badass boss bitch you are.”

I smack the bar top. “Yes!”

“You should call him.”

“Yeah—w-what?”

Walsh waves me on. “Call him. Tell him you’re onto him. Let him know he can’t intimidate you.”

The thought of telling Graeme off has me all jittery like I’ve guzzled a pot of coffee.

“There are men out there who think they’re entitled to everything…” She trails off, her expression darkening. I don’t think she’s talking about Graeme anymore. She tosses her head. “What are this guy’s qualifications anyway?”

“I don’t know, he has a dick and so does our boss?”

“We can’t let the dickholes win.”

“Down with the dickholes.”

“Cheers to that.” She clinks her glass against mine and we both drink. After several gulps, I lick the sugar from my lips. My head’s starting to feel pleasantly fuzzy. Like an angora sweater. Or one of those fluffy ponies… Sheepland? Shetland?

“What are you waiting for?” Walsh blurts. “Go! Confront him. Now.”

The bartender appears and lines up four shot glasses in front of us, filling each one with light green liquid from a shaker. I slide open my phone and a notification from my to-do app pops up.

Task #1: Defeat Graeme Crawford-Collins.



A sense of righteous certainty wraps around my lungs. Pushing away from the bar, I return a second later, snatch the closest shot, and toss its contents into my mouth. Fire burns my throat. “I’ll be back,” I wheeze.



* * *



A noisy bar is perhaps not the best place to make a phone call, especially not when you’re firing the opening salvo in a battle against your nemesis, but when I peer out the window, rain splatters coat the glass. Good old Seattle weather. I wind through the crowd to stand at the far edge of the bar, near, but not in, the bathroom—too echoy. This is as good as it’s going to get.