C5 Violet

I flip through the pictures one more time. There’s the airy, bright loft space. There’s the small-but-modern kitchen, complete with a farmhouse sink. There’s the open plan living and dining room; also small, but bright, sunny, welcoming, and all the things that my trailer isn’t.

Last but not least: there’s the view of Deepwood Lake, shot from the cabin’s deck, the day outside perfectly cloudless and beautiful.

I bet it’s always sunny at this cabin, I think wistfully, sitting in my tiny office. I lean my chin on my hand, staring at my computer, phone held to one ear. I bet the neighbors there never shoot beer cans off the top of a fence post with a BB gun at three in the morning when they’ve been drinking for twelve hours straight.

Also, nothing there leaks when it rains. Ever.

I glance at the price one more time. $97,000.

I’m so, so close. And yet...

“Thank you for holding, Miss Tulane,” a voice on the other end of the phone line says, jerking me out of my cabin-by-the-lake reverie. “And thank you for that you did not purchase the Wet And Wild Pool Party Floating Mechanical Bull With Real Bull Sound Effects And Bonus Accessory Drink Floats.”

“Not a problem,” I lie. It’s actually been at least three days’ worth of problems, but given that it seems like my stolen credit card woes are coming to an end, I let it go. I’ve already requested replacements of everything else in my wallet and this is, at last, the final piece.

I’m pretty sure I left it on the counter at the Mountain Grind on Friday morning when I got coffee. Someone must have taken it. I’d love to know who so I could give them a piece of my mind, but I’ll settle for having fraudulent charges removed from my credit card.

“Now, just to check, these other purchases on your card are correct, yes?” she asks.

I frown. I froze all my credit cards first thing when I woke up Sunday morning, and at the time, the only suspicious purchase was a floating mechanical bull. I don’t even understand how a floating mechanical bull works. Doesn’t it capsize and dump its rider directly into the water the moment it starts moving? Doesn’t the bull have to be braced against something more substantial than water? Though maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s some sort of special fraternity edition, used for wet t-shirt contests on spring break or whatever it is fraternities do. I don’t know. I went to a frat party once for about five minutes before some guy asked me if I had any Alpha Pi in me, then asked if I wanted some. It didn’t even make any sense.

“Miss Tulane?” the woman on the other end of the phone says, pulling me from my mechanical bull contemplations.

“What other purchases?” I ask, wondering what one buys to go with a floating mechanical bull.

“There are just a few,” she says, and I hear clicking in the background. “A fuel purchase in Iron River, Wisconsin for forty-two fifty-four, a charge for one hundred nineteen dollars and three cents at Mickey’s Candy Castle in New Haven, Connecticut, and another charge for three seventy- five and seventy-four cents from We Love Wrapping Paper Dot Com.”

For a moment, I’m speechless. Whoever stole my card has been getting around, and they’ve been buying some weird stuff.

“Was it all wrapping paper?” I ask.

“I’m sorry?”

I glance at the clock. I’m supposed to be at the all-staff meeting in seven minutes, but I also really want to know how much wrapping paper three-seventy-five-seventy-four buys. A lot, right?

“Did someone use my card to buy almost four hundred dollars’ worth of wrapping paper? From We Love Wrapping Paper Dot Com?”

There’s a pause.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell from this transaction report,” she finally says.

I look around my office, crammed full of wedding ephemera for the upcoming weekend, and wonder exactly how much wrapping paper that is. Maybe whoever stole my credit card really, really likes giving gifts. Maybe they’re going to wrap several cars in wrapping paper as a prank. Maybe they have a fetish and need to be wrapped before they can achieve orgasm.

If it’s that last one, I actually kind of feel bad for them.

“Can I assume that you didn’t make any of these charges?” she prompts.

“Yes,” I say, my mind still half on the possibility of wrapping paper fetishes. “I mean, no, I didn’t make any of them. I thought I froze my cards on Sunday morning, so I’m not sure how those charges got there in the first place.”

“Thank you. Do you mind holding for one more minute?” she asks.

The hold music starts before I can say please don’t make me hold any more. I sigh and go back to flipping through the pictures of my dream cabin: a bathroom with a real bathtub. Hardwood floors. A big oak tree out front. Sure, it’s only about a thousand square feet, but I can deal with that for that kitchen and that view.

Besides, I really, really don’t want to live in the trailer for much longer, but it’s cheap while I’m saving up. In a few more months, I’ll have the down payment and then it’s sayonara, Pine Estates. Someone knocks on my door, and a moment later, my intern Kevin pokes his head in.

“Paper lanterns are here?” he asks.

I point to a corner of my office, the one I use as a staging area for the upcoming wedding of the week. It’s piled high with brightly-colored seat cushions the bride didn’t like the standard colors that we offered sparkly

gold tablecloths, five-foot-high glass tubes to hold flower arrangements, the lanterns Kevin is looking for, and bags upon bags upon bags of M&Ms with the bride and groom’s initials on them. To my credit, I’ve eaten absolutely none of them even though there are way more than they’re going to need and I’ve been on hold for what feels like a year.

Kevin grabs the lanterns and takes off, leaving me still on hold. I glance up at the clock again: five minutes until the meeting. I squeeze my eyes shut to quell my rising anxiety, because if I weren’t stuck on the phone, I’d be there already. I like being early, by at least five minutes if not a little more. I don’t like feeling as if people are waiting on me, and I especially don’t like that feeling if some of those people are my bosses. The seconds tick down on the clock. I have visions of all my coworkers arriving in the meeting room, milling around, getting coffee. Calmly putting their folders and notebooks down on the table. Everyone perfectly relaxed, knowing that they still have several minutes before the meeting begins. Everyone but me, because at this rate I’ll probably run in there two minutes late, with a post-it probably stuck to me somewhere.

I check myself for stray post-its while I wait. None. Finally, after another excruciating minute, the other end of the line clicks.

“Hi, and thanks for holding,” says a brand-new voice. “All right, Miss Tulane, I’m happy to tell you that we’ve updated your address on file and sent it to Pool Accessories On Fleek LLC, and it looks like the Wet And Wild Pool Party Floating Mechanical Bull With Real Bull Sound Effects And Bonus Accessory Drink Floats will be on its way to you very shortly.”

“What? No,” I say, sitting up straighter in my chair. “There’s been a mistake. I didn’t order that, my card was stolen and I asked for it to be canceled.”

He just makes a noise. It sounds dubious, and not terribly unlike a bull. I think.

“Please don’t send me a mechanical bull,” I say, starting to panic. “Or a thousand pounds of wrapping paper. Or a ton of candy. I’ve got absolutely nowhere to put it and I really, really don’t want it.”

“Hmmm,” the new person on the phone says. “Can you hold for a moment?”

“Yes,” I say, but the hold music is already on again. I look at the clock again. Three minutes until the meeting. I could hang up right now, but then I’d be throwing thirty minutes of wait time down the toilet, and I don’t like that possibility either. You can be a minute late, I tell myself. You’ve never been late before, and besides, it’s an all-staff meeting. Montgomery won’t even start the thing until five after and no one will notice when you walk in.

I get out of my chair and start pacing my office as far as the phone cord lets me, which isn’t very far. Two minutes. I remind myself that thousands of people all over the world are late to meetings all the time and usually nothing bad happens. At last, the line clicks on again.

“All right, ma’am, I’ve spoken with a representative at Pool Accessories On Fleek and apprised them that you do not want the mechanical bull,” he finally says.

I sigh in relief, leaning against my desk and slump over.

“Thank you,” I say, looking at the clock. If I power-walk, I’ll still be exactly on time.

“However, they asked me to tell you that if you do receive a mechanical bull, you can just ship it back at no cost. Just give them a call and they’ll pick up the tab.”

“No!” I say, too loudly.

“I’m sorry?” he asks.

They’re going to send me the damn bull. I know it. I know, deep down in my bones, that there has been some sort of deep rift in communication in the depths of this particular financial institution, and I’m going to get a floating mechanical bull in the mail. With bonus accessory drink floats. Also, I have one minute to get clear across the building to the wedding season kick off all-staff meeting, and I’m going to have to run.

“Listen,” I said, standing up straight. “I would very much appreciate it if you could make it clear to the bull company that I do not want a mechanical bull. I don’t have a pool. I don’t like bull riding. I have absolutely no use for a mechanical bull and if you send me one, I’m not going to send it back. I’m going to keep it, put lipstick on it, name it Martha, and never ever pay for it, is that clear?”

I may have gone slightly off the rails there at the end. There’s a long, long pause, and I start to wonder if he’s hung up on me for being a lunatic.

“Yes, ma’am,” he finally says.

Another pause.

“Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

I thank him, get off the phone as quickly as I can, grab my notepad and pen, and book it out of my office. The biggest conference room, where the all-staff meeting is taking place, is clear on the other side of two former dairy barns. Sometime in the 1970s, when Bramblebush went from being a working farm to the venue and inn that it is now, the space between the two was enclosed and the whole thing turned into one big building

that houses staff offices, storerooms, and the kitchen. I break into a half-walk, half-jog, my heels clicking on the tile floor. Every office I pass is empty. It doesn’t help the anxiety slowly blossoming in my chest, so I pick up a little

speed, rounding a corner. Right into a brick wall. I bounce, then flail backward, stumbling several steps before finally landing on my ass, my notebook and pen flying in opposite directions.

“Are you okay?” the brick wall asks.

It’s not a literal brick wall.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say, already collecting myself, grabbing my notebook and pen from where they flew, my face red hot with embarrassment already. “Sorry, I was in —”

Hold on.

I look up. I’ve heard that voice recently, like last weekend recently.

“No,” I say, my gaze crashing into his.

Eli’s mouth hitches up on one side, both eyebrows rising. I wish for the thousandth time that he hadn’t turned out so damn handsome, because I definitely feel that smirk somewhere deep inside me that Eli isn’t supposed to have access to. Somewhere personal.

“Yes,” he says after a moment.

“What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was having a leisurely walk down a hallway, when —”

“I mean here here. At Bramblebush.”

“I work here. What are you doing here?”

I’m still on the floor, butt still throbbing. I’ve managed to sit up cross-legged while I stare up at Eli Loveless, who’s claiming that he works here after showing up in my life for the second time in four days. Also, he still has that expression on his face. The obnoxious one that gives me some funny tingles that I do not approve of.

“No, you don’t,” I say, ignoring his question.

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

Eli leans down, offering me one hand. I look at it. He rolls his eyes.

“It’s my hand, not a cobra,” he says.

I put both my hands to the floor and push myself up, ignoring Eli’s outstretched hand out of sheer pettiness, brushing the floor dust off my black pants. I silently offer a quick prayer of thanks to whichever deity oversaw my wardrobe decisions that morning. I wore pants and not a skirt. If Eli ever saw my panties I’d probably have to murder him, and then I’d have to spend the rest of my life in jail because I’m not the kind of person who could get away with a murder. The police would look at me sideways and I’d break down in tears and confess, I’m sure.

“What do you mean, you work here?” I say, ignoring my now-sore butt in favor of the uneasiness crawling into my chest.

“I’d have thought it was self-evident,” he says, crossing his arms. “But if you’d like, I can really break it down for you. See, I’ve got what’s colloquially known as a job, where I come into a place of business and exchange my services for money —”

“You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

“I’m being a dick about it? You just crashed into me and then told me I was wrong about working here before you’d even gotten off the floor,” he says.

“Why were you standing in such a weird place?” I snap back. I’m losing the argument and I know it, and that annoys me more than almost anything else. I hate losing. I hate being wrong, I hate being late, and I definitely hate literally running into my former nemesis when I thought I was safe. Also, if we’re listing things that I hate: his smirk, the way his forest-green eyes feel like they’re looking straight through me, the way his button-down shirt is an iota too tight, the fact that Eli clearly works out and isn’t at all bad to look at. Too bad about the personality, though.

“You mean, why was I walking through the halls of my workplace in a perfectly normal manner?” he says, still sounding calm. “I’m going to a meeting. Though now I’m going to be late.”

Tell him it’s in another building, I thought, suddenly feeling devious. Then he won’t show up at all and maybe his boss will realize he’s not there and then he’ll get fired and you’ll never have to see him again.

I take a deep breath, exhale, and remind myself that I’m twenty-nine, not fourteen.

“The all-staff meeting is the other way,” I say. “You’re staff?”

“That’s what I meant when I said I work here, yes,” he says. “I’m the new Executive Chef. And I thought the meeting was in the Cumberland conference room, over that way.”

I decide to be an adult and bite back a retort to the first part, even though every fiber of my being is itching to further the fight.

“It’s in the other building, but they have the exact same layout. It’s confusing,” I offer. “Come on, I’m going there too.”

I walk ahead of him, quickly, because I don’t want to look at Eli any more than I have to. He follows me down the hall, through the glassed-in atrium, and to the other barn- turned-offices.

Mercifully, he doesn’t say a word, and neither do I. You’re adults now, I remind myself over and over. He’s not going to call you names or tell anyone about your farts.No one is asking you to be friends. Just do your job, Eli will do his, and it’ll all be fine. Right?

I’m a grown-ass woman. How hard can it be?