Page 2 of Dear Grumpy Boss

Lani scribbled again.

Probably sussing out your boobs. Did I mention how hot they look today?

I tapped on my phone.

You did. Thank you for that. We’ll discuss my boobs and the brunette with the staring problem later.

The meeting ended after an interminable hour. We were instructed to mingle, which was laughable. We all had deadlines—mingling hadn’t been built into our time lines.

I headed back to my cubicle, my mind on all I needed to get done today. I didn’t notice the person following me until I sat down at my desk and she was there, in the opening of my cube.

Startled, a hand flew to my chest. Her cheeks flushed.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“That’s okay. I wasn’t paying attention.” Letting my hand fall to my desk, I waited for her to say something. She kept standing there, shifting back and forth between her feet. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Actually”—she peered at her phone—“are you Patrick Lincoln’s girlfriend?”

The hairs on the back of my neck rose. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, we haven’t met yet, but my name is Kara. I’ve been dating Steve”—Patrick’s college roommate and best friend—“and they added me to the group text a while ago.”

“The…group text?”

She nodded, taking a step closer, her phone clutched in her hand. “The one with all the guys from college.”

“The Drunk Tank?” Patrick’s special name for that particular group text, which, as far as I had known, wasstrictlyguys he went to college with—no significant others.

“Yes. That’s the one. I don’t know why they added me since I’ve only met them a couple times.”

My stomach lurched. “You’ve met Patrick?”

Her nod was slow, and in the space of seconds, she seemed to realize I hadn’t known that either.

“Yes, I have. Steve brought me along to the bar. It was a mixed thing. Some of the other guys had their girls with them. Patrick said you were busy with work.”

I couldn’t quite process what she was saying. It felt like someone had draped fabric between me and the rest of reality, an invisible hazy gauze between us. I couldn’t truly understand what was going on.

“How did you recognize me?” I heard myself ask.

This woman was a stranger, yet knew things about my boyfriend I didn’t. She was in his group text—the one that was supposedly all “inside jokes” and “college references”—the one Patrick was always tapping away in when we were together—the one I’d never worried about because I trusted him.

“Well, that’s what I wanted to tell you. I assumed you didn’t know and couldn’t in good conscience work with you and not tell you about this.”

She held her phone out to me, and I took it, blinking a few times so I could focus.

There was a GIF. Not sent by Patrick, but his frat brother, Chance. That was normal, fine, no problem, except for the subject of the GIF.

It was me, bouncing on my knees, in a bikini.

Chance had sent it.

Not Patrick.

“What is this?” My throat had gone desert dry, my question coming out as a rasp.

“I don’t know how it started orwhostarted it, but all the guys use that GIF. If you scroll back, you can see—”

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