Page 20 of The Exit Strategy

At 2:30, Katie arrives with a bottle of rosé, a tube of SPF 50, and zero boundaries. She drops into the chair across from Junie as if their brief meeting last night has made them fast friends.

“So. Cole,” she says with enough insinuation to power a small city.

“What about him?” Junie asks while my blood pressure spikes.

I roll my office chair to the left to glare at Katie, and she carries on as though she doesn’t see me.

“Nothing. Just…” Katie swirls her wineglass, which is already full. “He’s different since you got here. Less…” She waves her hand in the air. “Broody.”

“Katie,” I say from my open office door, “I’m right here.”

She shrugs but doesn’t take her eyes off Junie.

“I’ve been here for one day,” Junie says, dropping her gaze back to her work.

“Honey,” Katie coos. “He started smiling at six this morning. That man hasn’t smiled before noon in two years. I have the data. And Stanley saw him on his run.”

“Katie.” One word. Full exasperation. “Out.”

“I haven’t finished my?—”

“Take it with you. She’s working.”

Katie stands, but not before patting Junie’s hand and stage-whispering, “He’s always like this. Don’t let it fool you.”

I head for the kitchen before anyone notices the vein in my forehead and pass Bea on my way out. My house has always had a revolving door of Haven residents, but this is getting out of hand.

“I heard she’s having a tough time,” she says, holding up a tray that smells like chocolate.

I step out of the way and watch Junie’s expression go from confused to annoyed towhat the fuck.

“How did you?—”

“Stanley’s newsletter,” Bea says as if that’s supposed to explain everything.

And if you live here, it does. God help us, it does.

Junie catches my eye as Bea sets down the tray. Her expression is equal partswhat the hell’s happeningand something softer.

These people are ridiculous. They’re nosy and overbearing and they have zero concept of boundaries.

They also wore me down inside of six weeks, and I’m twice as stubborn as she is.

So good luck, Junie.

Junie strikesat the end of the day. I’m actually surprised she made it this long.

It happens when I go to pour my evening coffee and it’s been diluted with water. My favorite mug—the oversized one that Bea gave me for Christmas—is on the top shelf where I can reach it just fine, but where Nana Mae would never put it.

Then I sit at my desk to review Junie’s notes, and my chair drops three inches. My knee hits the underside of thetable hard enough to send her neat stacks of paper sliding to the floor.

That’s when I hear it coming from her office. A laugh. Not the polite, controlled one she shared last night. A real one. Quick and sharp and bitten off, like she’d caught herself enjoying it too much.

I should address it. Set a boundary or be irritated. At the very least, inform her that this is a professional arrangement and psychological warfare on her employer is not in her job description.

Instead, I adjust my chair, reorganize the papers, and sit back with my coffee.

Because that laugh? The one she tried to silence?