Between the Stacks

Chapter 45

"There's nothing wrong with the spreadsheets, by the way," Wesley said, eyeing the miniature windmill. He crouched down and looked through the small hole at the base. The revolving blades would make it a difficult shot. "Lots of projects have unexpected costs."

"Then why aren't the costs detailed?" I asked, leaning on my golf club. I tried to look cute even though I was sweating through my dress. "And why was Scott fired?"

Mini-golf had seemed like a cute idea at the time, but going at noon in the middle of the summer perhaps wasn't my finest idea. I didn't want to explain to Wesley that boob sweat was a thing.

I'd sent Wesley the spreadsheets a few days ago. I had been waiting for him to bring them up - I hadn't wanted to mention them at the risk of sounding obsessed. Even if they were, in fact, the only thing I could think about.

"Don't get me wrong, it's not the best accounting I've seen," Wesley said, placing his golf ball on the green. He took a careful swing and completely missed - he hadn't even hit the ball. "I hope you'll still think I'm sexy after this," he said.

"Since when did I say you were sexy?" I asked. I placed my own ball, swung, and it went shooting past the spinning blades of the windmill and straight into the hole at the other end. I blew on my nails. "Leave it to the pros."

"You never fail to impress me." He grabbed me in a side-hug and kissed the top of my head. "Anyways, like I was saying. There's nothing illegal about less-than-stellar Excel skills."

"And Scott?" I prompted.

"That's bizarre," Wesley admitted. This time he managed to hit the ball - and it jumped off the course and onto the little gravel path. He trotted over to retrieve it. "Maybe he was a bit aggressive when he confronted his boss? We weren't there. He did swipe your Mr. Oodles of Noodles thing. Obviously he's my friend, but even I'll admit he can be a little impulsive."

"What's your accounting background?" I asked, then realized I was coming off a little strong. Wesley shot me a concerned look. He propped his putter against the windmill, strolled over to me, and placed his hands on my shoulder.

"What's this really about?" he asked, before moving his hands. He laughed. "You're really sweaty."

"I've been trying to hide just how sweaty I am," I said, grinning. "And it's not about anything. I just want to make sure there's nothing funky afoot."

"I don't think so," Wesley said. "I really don't. Oh, um - maybe we should speed up."

A line of impatient children had started to form at the beginning of our course. We apologetically waved and said we'd skip this one.

"Am I making a mountain out of a molehill?" I asked, stepping closer to Wesley's side.

"Not at all," he said. "It's important, and I'm glad you brought it up. I'm just happy that it's nothing."

"Me, too," I said, and ignored the itch at the back of my mind.

---

I settled into a routine.

During the day, Melissa and I would send selfies of us pretending to cry to Matteo, who would send pictures back of him doing shots at 2pm in the afternoon. (I knew he was faking it - he couldn't handle tequila.) At night, Wesley and I took turns making dinner for each other. He wasn't a fan of spice; I didn't like peas. We learned to navigate the domestic quirks of each other.

We didn't interact much at work until the morning he called me into his office. I left the door wide open. If I thought about what almost happened the last time I was in the office, I would combust in embarrassment.