That's How it Happens

9. Secrets, snobs, and silent treatments

The phone landed in Leo's lap with a soft plop, followed by a louder, more exasperated sigh. He regretted paying for Wi-Fi on the flight – what was supposed to be productive had turned into hours of frustration. Now they were stuck in the terminal, waiting for their next connection.

"What is it now?" Ainsley's voice emerged dryly from beneath the blanket beside him.

He turned, still vaguely amused by how tiny she looked – curled up so tightly that to a passerby, she might appear to be just a pile of fabric. A very cranky pile of fabric. His brows furrowed at the blanket mound.

"Hello," she added, not as a greeting, but as a warning. Ainsley's way of saying Don't ignore me – not that he was. How could he?

He considered a sarcastic reply, but his mouth pulled into a frown, and he shook his head. The day had started badly, and the airport wait had only made things worse. He wanted to tell her what was happening on his phone – he almost did, just to get her take – but decided against it. She was already prickly.

Another sigh escaped him.

"Nothing. I'm bored, I guess." It wasn't a lie. They'd been stuck here for hours, and though he was technically "working," nothing was getting done.

"Take a nap," she muttered.

He rolled his eyes. She'd said that before. She knew he couldn't sleep in noisy places. Not that it mattered – he wouldn't be able to sleep even if it were silent. Thanks to her dear friend, he was now officially running PR damage control for the office gossip mill. Rumors were flying through the company forum, and he was two texts away from sending out a memo titled Defamation: A Beginner's Guide.

The Wi-Fi had been a waste. The catty stewardess had told him as much when he kindly asked for a refund.

He hated the mannequin.

The phone buzzed again. Both of them groaned in unison.

Leo heard a muffled voice from beneath the blanket beside him but couldn't make out the words.

"What are you mumbling under there, doll?" he asked, deliberately using the nickname she hated. Part petty, part hopeful – it was his way of poking the bear and maybe lightening the mood.

"This is your fault, you know," came her ruffled reply, sharp and irritated.

Leo clenched his jaw. Her voice, even dulled by layers of fabric, grated on his nerves. He turned toward the blanket mountain, opened his mouth, then shut it again. She'd probably been reading under there the whole time, trying to ignore the company app's relentless notifications. He decided to play dumb, just for the hell of it.

"Sorry, didn't catch that."

Ainsley threw the blanket off with a dramatic flair, her glare sharp enough to turn heads. Her hair was a mess – wild and sleep-creased – and he couldn't help staring. She noticed, rolled her eyes, and smoothed it down with a huff.

"You're seriously trying to blame me for the plane's engine locking up?" he asked. "That's a stretch, even for you."

Her look said I blame you for everything, and he almost admired the consistency.

"Don't," she snapped, holding up her phone. "I'm talking about this. This mess is all you."

Leo leaned back, unimpressed. "You're blaming me for your friend's lack of character? I don't see how I'm to blame for that, either. It's not my fault she lacks integrity."

"You barged into my office yesterday and insisted on coming with me," she said, jabbing a finger into his chest. He glanced down at it, remembering the last time she'd done that – and the way her shirt had lifted, revealing just enough lace to haunt him for days. Not helpful.