Page 15 of Betting on the Brainiac

“Wow, knocking off early,” she says. “You sick or something?”

I smile. “No. I have a meeting.”

“You said that with the enthusiasm of someone about to go sewer diving.”

“Not a sewer.” I consider it for a second as we pause at the back door for her to enter the alarm code. “You know how if you forget a dryer sheet, your socks stick to everything else in the basket?”

She steps by to let me out. “Are you the dryer sheet or the socks in this analogy?”

“When I show up at the office, I’m the thing all the socks stick to.”

She tests the handle to make sure the door is locked, and we fall into step as we walk to our cars. “Sounds like you’re important.”

Yes and no. “Not as important as they act like I am. It’s stuff they could figure out if I wasn’t there.” This is pretty true, but there’s some kind of employee instinct that sends them my direction because I’m a founder. It’s part of why I prefer being out of the office.

“Have fun with that,” she says, stopping at her car.

Mine’s parked two spaces away, and I want to kick myself for talking to her about laundry.Laundry.I should say somethingmarginally interesting. I turn, hoping something will occur to me in the next half second, but instead, I see her grimacing as she stares into her car.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“I have leather seats, and I swear to you, I wouldn’t complain about that out loud in a thousand years except that now I have to stand out here and wait for them to cool down because I wore shorts today.”

She did. Whoever made them needs to put Madison in their ads, because once again: dayuuuuuum.

“No judgment. I thought Oklahoma was hot—and it is—but Austin heat is extra . . .” I can’t find the word to describe it.

“It’s just extra,” she says, grimacing again.

“Agreed. You going to be okay?”

She waves me off. “Fine. Don’t be late for your meeting.”

I nod and get into my car. Mine isn’t bad because I have a sunshade in my window. I drive to the office, where I deal with the essential work and then about ten nonessential tasks, but the whole time the picture of Madison standing there, staring into her car, nags at me. I should have done something, but there wasn’t anything to do.

After 5:00, the office quiets, so I work for a few more hours to make up for the distractions when I came in. When I leave close to 8:30, I’m still not caught up to the production schedule I set for myself, but I did at least catch up for the lost time today. It’s something.

On the way out of the office, I stop by the supply closet and grab a windshield shade for Madison. At least her too-hot car is a solvable problem.

If only there was a way to solve being distracted by too-hot Madison herself. A solution besides finding a different place to work. Gatsby’s is otherwise perfect.

I have to swing by the office on the way to the club to sign some documents, so Madison’s car is already parked by the time I get there. I grab the sunshade and walk in, hoping I won’t be interrupting her workout. At least, that’s what the non-caveman part of my brain hopes. Luckily, she’s in the office.

“Hey,” she says when I pause in the open door.

“Hey.” I hold out the sunshade. It’s rolled up kind of like a yoga mat. “I thought you could use this.”

She takes it and unrolls it. It has our company name and logo printed all over one side. “You brought this for me?”

Her face is saying something, but I’m not sure what. It’s an odd expression. Maybe confusion? “It’s for your windshield. To block the sun?”

“Right.” Her expression doesn’t change.

It hits me that I’ve made one of two mistakes here or possibly even both. “I’m not trying to turn you into an ad for the company. They’re left over from an event we did earlier this summer, and I thought it might be helpful.” But she didn’t ask for my help, and maybe this feels like man-solving. I don’t even know if that’s a thing we’re not supposed to do, but I do know my younger sister gets on me for trying to solve a problem before I finish listening. “Sorry. I should have asked if you even needed it. I can take it back.”

“No, I want it. Thank you.” She pulls it toward herself before I can grab it, which leaves me grasping at air.

I slide my hand into my hoodie pocket so it’s not out there, clawing like a demented crab. “Sure, no problem.”

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