Page 24 of Grump and Grumpier

“What the fuck?” Jansen’s back at his computer, and his outburst barely draws my attention, because it’s nothing new. But then he rises to his feet, his eyes still fixed on his laptop screen, and one of his fists pounds the desk. “What the actual fuck?!”

“What is it?”

When he doesn’t answer, I push in beside him to get a look at his screen. I read the beginning of the email twice, then I join him in pissed-off confusion.

It’s a cryptic message from some bullshit email address, saying something about how Community Bean is a fraud, how we don’t source our beans the way we claim, and that our charitable claims are vastly exaggerated.

“What absolute garbage,” he mutters.

“Did you see the end? They say they’re going to expose us.”

“There’s nothing to expose. Probably just some disgruntled former employee.”

My temples burn with an instant headache. “It could be trouble.”

“I’m deleting it.”

CHAPTER 18

ANA

To help foster a welcoming environment, I plan to keep my office door open anytime I’m not involved in a confidential meeting or phone call. And it’s with my door open that I hear strange warbling sounds in the outer office that afternoon.

Pausing from tapping on my keyboard, I strain to figure out what I’m hearing. Now it sounds more like … moaning?

Concerned that someone’s in pain, I go to my door and look out, but I don’t see any commotion. I can hear others typing and holding conversations, even as the strange sounds continue.

Then I make out words. It’s not moaning that I’m hearing, but singing … sort of.

The words cut in and out, they get louder, then softer, then louder again. I’m pretty sure it’s a man’s voice. Then—oh my, he’s singing something about awoman, and something about all night, something about going hard. The only song I recall people singing at my last job was “Happy Birthday,” and this is definitely not that!

I go over to Jackie’s cubicle to see if she’s hearing what I’m hearing, but she’s on the phone with her back toward me.

Down the aisle, Owen is heading in my direction. When I catch his eye, he makes an amused wide-eyed face and shakes his head.

Meeting him halfway, I whisper, “Whoisthat?”

“It’s Rob, the retail manager. He gets a little caught up in his music sometimes.”

I stand on tiptoes and look over the wall to see the man, who’s in his late forties or early fifties, wearing earbuds and typing away, lost in a world of his own.

“I’m gonna do ya down and dirty all night, you nasty girl…”

My eyes bulge out as I hold back laughter. “Is this a regular thing? I’m going to ask him to stop.”

“I wouldn’t bother,” Owen says. “He doesn’t go for long. I don’t think he’s even aware he’s singing.”

“Does he do this often?”

“I usually hear him once or twice a week.”

The singing stops for a long moment, but just when I assume he’s finished, he starts again. My jaw drops. Now he’s singing “Baby Shark,”complete with its upbeat chorus of repetitive sounds.

I can’t resist looking over the wall again, where Rob is now bobbing his head from side to side with the beat, and making swimming motions with one hand, while he pecks at his keyboard using the other.

“Baby Shark?” I whisper to Owen, who’s shaking his head in disbelief.

He reaches out and grabs my arm as we’re both sent into hysterics. “What kind of playlist is that? I have whiplash!”

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