“She has tons of minions,” Audrey the Receptionist said helpfully. “Someday you, too, might be one.”

“Dare to dream.” The Old Coot poked at his iPad. “This thing needs charging again? It’s only been twenty hours! In my day—”

“Shut up,” Hailey and Audrey said. Hailey glanced at Jennifer. “Uh, I don’t normally condone telling colleagues to shut up.”

“Like I said: don’t do anything she does.”

“In fairness, she only tells me to shut up. Everyone else she tells to hush. But Aud’s right: not doing anything Hailey does is a surefire way to go right to the top,” The Old Coot said. “Or get saved by It Girl.”

“That makes no sense,” Audrey pointed out. “One thing’s got nothing to do with the other, you twenty-nine-year-old senile freak. And there’s no such thing as It Girl.”

The Old Coot ignored her. “But no fair ‘accidentally’ parking your car on the railroad tracks in the hopes that she’ll save you and you’ll get something new for YouTube. Not to mention a new in-my-day-superhero-vigilantes-actually-tried-to-cover-their-faces-and-not-get-on-the-news story.”

“Oh, I’d never,” Jennifer said, looking from The Old Coot to Audrey the Receptionist to Hailey, her glances so quick they could almost hear her eyeballs clicking: back and forth, back and forth, click-click-click. “I don’t . . . There’s no such thing, anyway, right? Like Audrey said?”

“My name is Audrey the Receptionist.”

“You really should try to get our names right,” The Old Coot said kindly. “It’s the least you can do.”

“The least she can do is nothing,” Hailey pointed out. The least you can do followed by someone doing something besides nothing was a pet peeve of hers, along with people who thought switching sides meant doing a three-sixty.‡

Jennifer tried again but was still giving off trapped-like-a-rat-in-a-room-with-crazy-people vibes. “It Girl—I figured she was one of those, whatchamacallits . . . a meme. Or an urban legend. Something.”

“That’s the spirit!” Hailey cried. Meme! Oh, that’s wonderful! Planking, Faith Hilling, It Girling! Either way, a silly fad no one actually takes seriously.

“Not this again,” The Old Coot groaned. “Of course she’s real. People have seen her.”

“Do you hear yourself?” Audrey the Receptionist cried. “Life is not a Marvel comic book. There are no superheroes. I feel dumb just telling you that. What, did you also see a blurry picture of a Sasquatch and decide Bigfoot’s real, too?”

“It would be terrific,” Hailey said, “if you didn’t compare It Girl to Bigfoot.”

“New kid rules the tie . . . so, Jennifer, is It Girl real? And if she is, is she real-real, or if-it’s-on-the-Internet-it-must-be-true real? Or a hoax or a hallucination or a sinister government cover-up?”

“I’m—I’m not sure.”

“Well, guess. Or narrow the question down further: which one of your new colleagues is batshit crazy for believing everything she sees, and which is the logical fountain of organized thought through which wisdom flows?”

“I’ll just go find my desk and stuff now,” Jennifer said, slowly backing away. She bumped into Hailey and didn’t notice, just backed away more quickly.

They listened to the receding clack-clack-clack of Jennifer’s heels hitting tile, then the thud-thud-thud of them hitting carpet.

“That poor kid.” Hailey sighed.

“She’s not going to make it,” Audrey the Receptionist said. “Not if one harmless conversation about which of us needs psychotropic meds freaks her out. This is no place for the timid. Just the weird. And you.”

“Me, what?” Hailey was fumbling for her phone . . . Linus was texting her again. A good trick, since she hadn’t given him her cell number. “What?”

“Come on. You know what. I know you have hair ADD, but you’ve gone eight shades darker in three days.”

That was only the truth; Hailey’s mop of unruly strands had been medium brown when she woke up two hours ago. She did not want to think about what that meant, and so did not.

“I just think you could try a shade slightly longer than, oh, eleven hours? Maybe? Sometimes you have. Sometimes an entire week goes by and your hair remains the same color. It’s eerie, but also nice.”

“Hush,” she told her absently. Again, Audrey was correct, and again, Hailey didn’t want to think about what that meant.

Besides, she was quite fond of Audrey the Receptionist. It was hard not to like someone who found the whole your-job-is-your-identity thing so silly she referred to herself, constantly, by her first name and job title. All the time. Everywhere: at work, at home, at the grocery story, at family reunions. “My hair is my hair, and it’s silly that we’re talking about it at all.”

“You just do not even care that you’re so utterly, utterly weird, do you?”

“Not for a while now,” she admitted, and hurried back to her office.

“Twenty-four hours!” Audrey the Receptionist called after her. “Maybe even thirty-six! Hey, how about forty-eight whole hours with the same hair color? Just think it over! That’s all I’m asking.” She plunked back down in her chair. “It’s not that much to ask,” she said to no one, and turned back to her computer.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Ah,” Hailey said upon entering her office. Linus was instantly on his feet when he saw her. “There you are. I got your texts.” Another unpleasant fact she did not wish to dwell on, but had to. Best apologize first, and then get to it. “I know you must be angry about our lunch, and I’m sorry I had to mmmmm uumm mmm.”

She’d mumbled the last because he’d grasped her by the shoulders, and kissed her on the mouth. She was so startled she dropped her briefcase, mentally groaning at the thought of the folders spilling everywhere (stupid broken zipper!). No, wait—that was verbal groaning, specifically, her verbal groans. Possibly because Linus was an amazing kisser. A wonderful kisser. An astounding kisser. What briefcase?

“Astounding!” she said, pulling back with real regret. “You are wonderful! Which is bad. Why did you do that? It was . . . ah . . . astounding. Yes. The perfect word.”

“Yeah, thanks, I had to,” he replied, which made no sense. Worse, she didn’t much care. “I mean, you’re a department head and I’m just an accounting cog. Probably you’d get in trouble if you nailed my lips at the office. Not that I’d mind,” he assured her. “I wouldn’t! And I wouldn’t sue for sexual harassment or anything. Unless that’s what you’re into. So I figured we’d talk and I’d ask you and then I sort of forgot about that and kissed you.”

“I never understand half of what comes out of your mouth,” she complained, but she was glowing. She knew it; she could actually feel herself all warm and flushed and happy and ready for more kisses.

Which was all just awful, really. Under the circumstances.

“You don’t understand half of what comes out of my mouth?” His eyebrows arched; his sweet mouth curled into a darling grin. “Have you heard yourself ever?”

She sighed. By not smacking him, or suing him, she’d made the situation worse. And now there was nothing for it but to plunge. Glowing feeling fading . . . fading . . . gone. “Look, you don’t have to do that.”

“What?”

“Pretend to like me to cover up the notes.”

“What?”

“I just want to know what your purpose is. To out me? To complain about my work habits? To put more pressure on me as an individual or us as a society? What?”

“Are you talking about those Post-its you walk around with all the time?”

“It’s not all the time,” she said, trying to keep her anger in check. “It’s only since you got here, which you must very well know. What I want to know is why—”

“Hailey: I’ve never left you a single Post-it.” He rolled his (big, dark, beautiful) eyes and shook his head. She had the impression he wanted to shake her but had decided against it, at least for the time being. “Why would I ever be okay with words on a tiny yellow piece of paper when I could see you in person and hear your voice and look at your eyes and your weird, always-changing hair and your four-seasons-ago Coach Lena flats?”

She stared down at her feet. “Four seasons—okay, this proves you’re spying on me. How else would you know how long I’ve had these—”

“I am not spying on you! I’m not leaving Post-its and I have no idea where you live, although I’d love to be invited over for dinner and you could run off and leave anytime you wanted though I’d hope you’d stay at least through the first course, and I’ll cook if you don’t want to because—”

He was like a human blender of words. “Again: I never understand half of what you say, and I also never gave you my cell phone number.” She truly hoped he wasn’t going to morph into a full-blown crook weirdo stalker she would then have to pummel after eating the contents of her In bin. “But you’ve texted me multiple times, the notes started showing the same week you did—” Had he only been there a week? Had all this madness been happening for a mere seven days? She felt like she’d been listening to yet not understanding him for much longer. She felt like they’d known each other and amused the hell out of each other for much, much longer.

She also wished he’d kissed her for much longer.

Stupid thinking, especially if he turns out to be dangerously deranged instead of merely deranged.

“Sure, I’ve got your number—you gave it to me.” His hand plunged into his front left pocket (khakis, she noted approvingly, which was fine for business-casual Friday) and he pulled out a tiny yellow stamp.