Harlow tilted her head like a puppy that had been asked to solve a differential equation.
"What do you mean what are we doing?"
"I mean." I gestured between us with the fork. "This. The schedule. The rotation. The Christmas rock-paper-scissors tournament that you apparently won through the strategic application of paper."
"Paper is a legitimate strategy."
"I'm not questioning your strategy. I'm questioning the entire premise."
Harlow leaned against the wall, crossing one bare ankle over the other. The hoodie rode up her thigh by about two inches, revealing a strip of skin that was absolutely not relevant to the conversation I was trying to have. I looked at the waffles instead.
"The premise," she repeated slowly, "is that four girls like you and you like four girls and instead of pretending this isn't happening until someone cries or someone gets fired or someone's mother launches a corporate assassination, we're going to try doing it on purpose."
