Shipped(32)

“How was it?”

“It was good. Really good.”

“Was Graeme there?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to run interference.”

I shake my head. “Not your fault.”

Graeme. My intestines squirm and I slide into the desk chair and poke my salad with a fork. Have I really been wrong about him this whole time? I dig my phone out of my pocket and plug it in to charge. An email notification pops up, a reminder that registration for fall business school classes closes in a week, along with my task list.

Task #1: Defeat Graeme Crawford-Collins



I gnaw on my lower lip. Snatching my phone, I connect to Wi-Fi and open up a new text to Christina.

Hey, can you do me a favor?





I shovel a few bites of food in my mouth while I wait for her to respond.

Sup?



Are you still friendly with Miriam in IT?



Sure, why



Can you ask her something on the down-low… can you find out if IT replaced Graeme’s work phone about a year ago, shortly after he started his job?



Um, of course but… WHY?



Is there something juicy going on? Tell me!



Just want to confirm something. Thanks!!





Walsh groans behind me. She gingerly places the cracker back on her plate, rolls into bed, and flings her arm over her eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

She burps loudly. “I’ll be fine. I’m just not ready for food yet.”

The clock on my phone reminds me that I don’t have much time until the beginner snorkeling excursion departs. Quickly finishing my lunch, I scoop up my bathing suit and wet suit and head toward the bathroom to change. I pause with my hand on the door handle.

“Hey, Walsh?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever been wrong about someone?”

“All the time.”

“I mean, have you ever thought the worst of someone but it turns out they’re not that bad?”

She snorts. “Not really. It usually goes the other way with me. I think everyone’s great until they turn out to be dicks.” She peers at me from under her arm. “Is this about Graeme?”

“Nah. Well, maybe.” Graeme might not be a credit stealer, but he’s still made work enormously difficult. He constantly argues with me and challenges my ideas, and his one-word emails are so, so rude.

Walsh tilts her chin at me. “Come on, Henley. What’s going on?”

“It’s just… he might not be as utterly horrible as I thought.”

She nods slowly. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters! He’s my coworker, and there might be a chicken-and-egg problem. In the chain of assholery, I thought he started it. But now, it looks like I may have been the inciting asshole all along.”

“And you care if he thinks you’re an asshole?”

A few days ago I would have said no way. But now… “I guess I do.” Shock flickers through my system as the words ring true.

“So, what, you like him now?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

She shrugs. “He’s still your competition though, right?”

My fingers close around the bathroom door handle. The metal is cold against my skin. “Right.”

“So really, for the purposes of this trip, it doesn’t matter how you feel about him or whether he’s the asshole or you’re the asshole. You’ll have all the time in the world after you land this promotion to make nice with him—if you want. He lives in Minnesota, right?”

“Michigan,” I correct.

“Exactly. So it’s not like you’re going to see him every day or anything. Unless he gets the promotion.”

My stomach does a little flop. “You’re absolutely right. Why am I even thinking about him when I have work to worry about?” I step into the bathroom but poke my head out. “When did you get so good at giving advice anyway?”

Snuggling deeper into the pillow, Walsh picks up her phone and studies the screen. “You dummy, I’m the best at giving advice. I just don’t always follow it.”

“Truth.” Chuckling, I shut the door.



* * *



When I arrive in the mudroom several minutes later, wet suit on and snorkeling equipment slung across my back, Graeme is already there along with at least twenty other passengers waiting to disembark. His wet suit clings to him like a second skin and I swallow hard.

Walsh’s advice echoes through my brain—I can ignore him. I should ignore him, but my conscience won’t let me.

Bracing myself, I stride over to where he’s waiting at the back of the room near the staff office. He gives me a long once-over when he spots me, his gaze lingering briefly on my curves. My spine tingles.

“Hey,” I say.

He looks around pointedly. “Oh, are you talking to me?”

“Yes. You’re not an asshole. Mostly.”

“What a glowing compliment,” he says, tone dry.

“I mean, your email etiquette is atrocious and you’re still difficult to work with, but I’m sorry I assumed the worst about you.”