Page 26 of Not Safe for Work

“Are you okay now?” Lan asks in a tone of equal concern and confusion.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Hopefully, whatever it was got the message and learned to piss off.”

Gabrielle and Lan exchange a wary look.

I’m saved from having to answer any further questions when today’s instructor calls for our attention. She starts handing out papers for our first team-building exercise, and we’re assigned to groups of four: me, Gabrielle, some guy named Pete, and, of course, because the entire universe is conspiring against me, Rafe.

Our task is to construct a fully working Ferris wheel from a collection of household objects and a partially assembled motor. The exercise itself shouldn’t be hard, but apparently, this will demonstrate how some people are leaders and some are followers. I wonder at the point of sharing all this beforehand, but I guess they know what they’re doing.

Sitting before us is a box of dried linguine, a few cans of Play-Doh, a small motor, bamboo skewers, a pile of rubber bands, paper, pens, paper clips, and a pile of thumbtacks. Each group huddles around their tables as we all set to work.

“Okay, so we use the linguine for the spokes and Play-Doh to hold it together. The skewers as pivots to make it spin,” I say.

“That should work,” Gabrielle says. “I can set up the motor.”

“Hmm,” Rafe says, rubbing his chin with his other hand on his hip. He hasn’t shaved this morning, leaving a shadow on his cheeks and along the precise line of his jaw. The rough sound of his fingers against the grain causes a tickle below my navel. “I think we should use the skewers. The pasta won’t be strong enough.”

Immediately, the tickle dissipates, irritated at his questioning. “Sure it will,” I counter. “It’s thick pasta. We’ll use the rubber bands to secure a few pieces together to strengthen them.”

“That’s just extra work when we could just use the skewers. We’d be done faster.”

“I wasn’t aware we were so short on time.”

Rafe taps his temple, and a nonzero percentage of me wants to bend his finger back until it snaps. “Time is money, Trishara. One day, you’ll learn that.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of dig? Why don’t we take the time to do it right? Ensure there are no accidents and delays due to poor construction?”

We continue firing questions, and we both know neither of us is talking about the Ferris wheel anymore. I know we’re remembering the first argument we ever had, along with a similar one last year about a reactor design that both our teams were working on. Gabrielle and Pete watch us with guarded expressions as Rafe and I continue to lob carefully veiled digs, swimming in the murky deep end of appropriate office behavior.

“Should we take a vote?” Pete ventures. “Pasta or skewers? They could both work.”

“Shut up, Pete,” I say, not taking my eyes from Rafe.

“Don’t tell him to shut up,” Rafe says to me as if Pete isn’t there.

“Fine, then you shut up.”

“This is why I got the team lead position,” Rafe says. “You aren’t a team player.”

Red. All I see is red.

Crimson explosions of blood and cinnamon hearts dripping sugary scarlet juice down my chin. Fiery and hot and raging. I’ll lob Rafe into the sun.

“I didn’t get it because I’m not the boss’s son. Everyone knows that.”

Whoa. I know it. He knows it. We all know it, but I can’t believe I just said it out loud.

Tension crackles like an electric storm. Rage simmers in his gaze as I imagine him tossing me in the back of his trunk and spiriting me away to his secret lair carved deep inside a mountain.

That tingle returns. What is wrong with me?

Our voices have risen, and everyone in the room is watching us, including, to my utter dismay, Diane Hart, vice president, superwoman, and bestselling author. She must have slipped in to observe, and I’m arguing with Rafe like a lunatic.

“Is there a problem?” the instructor asks, clearly irritable at being upstaged by our outburst.

Rafe and I stare at each other with so much heat that I’m surprised the carpet doesn’t catch fire.

“Not at all,” he grinds out.