Betting on You

“Who’s going to go get us a pitcher of Coke?” Nekesa asked.

Planet Funnn’s front desk crews were allowed a complimentary pitcher of soda every shift, which led to a complimentary argument during every shift.

Nekesa looked at Bailey, knowing she’d cave because Bailey always caved.

“Not me,” Theo said from his spot on the floor, where he was crouched and trying to unjam the printer for the third time that day. Theo was an idiot with the tech skills of a senior citizen, but I wasn’t about to help him.

“Fixing” the printer kept him marginally less talkative than usual.

“Not me,” I muttered, “because I got it last time.”

“That doesn’t count because you were working alone.” Bailey rolled her eyes at me, looking at my propped-up feet and the book in my hand as if they disgusted her.

I said, “You know you’re going to do it.”

“Yeah,” Theo said. “Just go, Bailey.”

“Ugh—I’ll go, you bag of dicks,” Nekesa said, splitting a glare between Theo and me. “I’m allowed to walk all over Bay because of our history, but you cannot.”

I actually felt like I was allowed to walk all over Bay because she’d push back—hard—if she didn’t like it.

Theo stopped fucking with the printer. “I’ll go with you, because there’s no way you can carry it without spilling.”

He was terrible at flirting, yet Nekesa seemed to be all about it.

“I can too.” Nekesa laughed, grinning at Theo.

Bailey was watching them intently, a tiny crinkle in her forehead, and I swear to God I could hear the chaos pinging around in her brain. She knew her friend was flirting, could see the chemistry between Theo and Nekesa, and she was desperately trying to find a way to intervene.

Trust me, Bay, I thought as she tucked her long hair behind her ears, coworkers cannot be platonic friends.

“I don’t think so,” Theo said in a nauseating singsong voice, and then the two of them were off, wandering down the hall that led toward the Funstaurants.

Yeah—it was only a matter of time for those two.

Bailey pulled her phone out of the pocket of her flight suit, and I said, “Don’t do it.”

“Do what?” she said, looking startled by the fact that I was onto her.

“Don’t get involved.” I set down my book and dropped my feet to the floor. “Nekesa is a big girl.”

“I don’t care about your bet,” she said, biting the inside of her cheek as she put away the phone and logged into reservations to check for cancellations.

“Really.”

“As much as you do,” she corrected. A long-suffering sigh was followed by a throat-clearing and then, “Anyway, Nekesa is a big girl, a big boyfriend-loving girl.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stop that,” she said through gritted teeth, swinging her gaze to mine. “She is.”

“Sure she is,” I said, stretching out the words just to irritate her. “You just keep thinking that, Bay.”

“I will…,” she murmured, trailing off in that pouty way that made it hard not to smile. “Why don’t you go back to your Murakami and leave me alone?”

I was super into the latest Murakami—as in, I couldn’t put it down in spite of the things I hated about it—and when I mentioned it to her yesterday, she told me she’d never heard of the author until Joe Goldberg mentioned him.

Which led to me admitting I’d never heard of Joe Goldberg, which led to her spending thirty minutes telling me about the You books by Caroline Kepnes.

She offered to loan them to me, which I politely declined.

I offered to loan her my other Murakamis, which she politely declined.

“You can keep your highbrow lit,” she’d said, raising her chin in that defending-my-stance way she had. “I prefer lighter reading.”

And by “prefer lighter reading,” she meant that she read five or six romance novels.

A week.

How did I know that?

Because I’d crept on her social media, of course.

Bailey the Introvert had thousands of followers on her bookish account, a place where she posted pictures and reviews of books she’d read. Her posts were smart and funny and engaging as hell, and even though I knew that side of her, it was wild to see her being bold when she was so… controlled and concerned in real life.

She was a fascinating contradiction.

“Excuse me.”

Bailey and I looked at the desk, and a tiny blond woman in a floral swimsuit cover was waiting with a scowl on her face. She seemed ready to Karen the shit out of us, and I stifled a sigh.

“Oh. Hi.” Bailey went to the counter and said, “Can I help you?”

I could tell just by looking at the woman that she was about to walk all over Bay.

“Yes,” she said, clearing her throat. “There is a tall boy in the World of Water who cut in the waterslide line. Not only that, but he looks entirely too old for the slide.”

“Okay…?” Bailey said, obviously waiting for the rest of the story.

The woman glanced at me, then brought her snooty gaze back to Bailey. “I would like him removed.”

“Um, removed…?” Bailey said, sounding confused. I could see only the side of her face, but I knew Bailey’s brow was creased, even without the visual confirmation. “Did anyone give him a warning, or—”

“No, maybe you could,” the woman said, raising her voice and scowling even harder. “Don’t ask me to do your job.”

I stood, feeling strangely protective of Bailey as the lady snapped at her.

The woman couldn’t have been over five feet tall, but she had that perfectly coiffed way about her that screamed of money and power. Shiny red manicure, big diamond ring, lipstick with a swimsuit, Louis Vuitton beach bag—it looked like the whole package.

“I—I wasn’t,” Bailey stammered, her cheeks turning pink. “I was simply—”

“I’ll talk to the kid,” I said, moving to stand beside Bailey. “You said he’s in World of Water?”

The woman nodded, looking appeased. “Yes.”

I said facetiously, “I’ll go take care of that little whippersnapper in just a moment.”

But then she replied, “Thank you,” gushing and laying some serious See, that’s how you treat a customer eye contact on Bailey before going back down the hallway.

I felt like shouting, “The whippersnapper” was sarcasm, you hag!

“Whippersnapper?” Bailey gave me a look that showed exactly how nauseating she found me. “I think I just puked a little in my mouth.”

I stepped closer. “Quit lying. I was charming as fuck.”

“If ‘charming’ means ‘annoying,’ ” she said, biting her lip and trying not to smile as I towered over her, pretending to be threatening, “then yes, you were totally that.”

“Bailey Glasses Mitchell, are you telling me,” I asked, smirking and using my index finger to poke the tip of her nose, “that you don’t even know the meaning of the word ‘charming’?”

She said around a breathy laugh, “I just know that you are not it.”

We were both grinning, and for some reason, I felt an invisible string pulling me closer to her as she smiled up at me.

“For someone who I recall having unflinchingly rigid rules about line cutting,” I said, not moving as the crinkle of her nose did something to my stomach, “your reaction was surprisingly lax.”

“Yeah, um,” she said, her voice suddenly a breath away from a whisper, “I think the airport situation had more to do with the cutter than the cutting.”

“Did it, now?” I said, fighting the urge to lean closer. But, fuck. I wanted to lean closer.

Only… this was Bailey.

We were at work.

There was definitely an undercurrent of electricity in the very small space that existed between the two of us—shit, shit, shit—which is what made me take a step back and say, “Time for me to go kick some whippersnapper ass.”

“Yes,” she said, blinking fast and clearing her throat as she turned back to the computer. “Go kill some whippersnapper ass.”