I have the first inkling something is terribly wrong the moment I push through the glass doors and step into the lobby of my office building. My skin prickles with apprehension as I pick up a weird charge to the air, a kind of nervous energy clinging to my colleagues scurrying to the elevator bank.
I head over to Bob, the building’s security guard, and hand him his three-sugar vanilla latte. “Morning, Bob.”
Seated behind the security desk in the lobby, Bob reaches for the cup and clutches it to his chest. “You’re a lifesaver, Tess. Thank you.”
I suspect his pancreas won’t thank me. I probably shouldn’t be doling out sweet treats to a man flirting with diabetes, but I possess a soft spot for old Bob. Everyone in the building does.
He takes a grateful sip. “I’m gonna need my favorite drink with all that’s going on today.”
I tighten my grip on my own coffee cup. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” Bob says in a low voice, “but there’s definitely trouble brewing.”
I immediately lower my voice to match his. “What makes you say that?”
“Calvin came in first thing this morning. Before anyone else.”
Shock ripples through me. Calvin, our CEO, doesn’t do first in to work. He likes to make a grand mid-morning entrance, wanting to make sure all his minions are confined to their soulless cubicles, hard at work paying off the extensive renovations to his lakeside house.
“That’s not good,” I say.
“Nope.” Bob shakes his shaggy gray head, his brown eyes concerned. “Good luck today.”
“Thanks.” I take a fortifying sip of my coffee and make my way toward the elevator bank, where Mark from Finance is nervously shifting his long, skinny frame from one foot to the other and jabbing the Up arrow.
“Hey, Mark.”
“Tess.” Jab, jab. “Good morning to you.”
We stand there in silence while Mark continues to punish the button. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that pressing it over and over won’t make the elevator come any faster, but I know I’d be wasting my breath.
“How are you?” I ask in an attempt to distract him.
“The doctor diagnosed me with a stomach ulcer.”
“Sorry to hear that.” Judging by the pinched look on his long face, a second ulcer is already in the works.
The elevator doors open, and Mark steps inside, shooting me an agonized look that clearly communicates his aversion to sharing a small, enclosed space with me. Today’s not shaping up to be a good workday anyway, so I decide to spare him. “You go ahead. I need to send a text and I can’t get a signal in there.”
Relief softens his sharp features. “Right. Yes. Thank you.”
A couple of minutes later, I exit the elevator on the third floor, dump my empty cup in the trash, and make a beeline for Mevia, the receptionist at Amell Greetings. Also, a flagrant collector and disseminator of office gossip. “Morning, Mevia!” I muster my widest smile, my eyes scanning her short, pink hair and heavily made-up eyes, looking for something I can comment on. “Um, I love your earrings. Where did you get them?”
She pops her bubblegum and strokes the earrings that look like strips of bacon grazing her neck. They are so hideous I have to repress a shudder.
“Flea market. My cousin has a stall there.”
“They’re so…unique.”
“Yeah. Want me to get you a pair?”
I freeze. So even my harmless lies come back to bite me. “Sure.”
I’ll gift them to my sister Kate.
I lean an elbow on Mevia’s desk. “I heard Calvin came in early this morning,” I say in a conspiratorial whisper.
Her eyes light up. “Yeah. And he wasn’t alone.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Anyone you know?”
The phone rings. We both ignore it.
“Never seen him before. Buuuuut—” Her whole body is quivering with her need to tell me. “—he’s wearing a suit and is literally the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.”
I digest that piece of information. Not the hot part, because Mevia’s taste in men is questionable, but the suit part. No one working at Amell Greetings wears a suit. Not even Calvin.
The phone continues to ring. Mevia swears under her breath. “You’ve got to be kidding me. We’re talking here.” She reaches out a rainbow-tipped nail and cuts off the call.
I feel my jaw drop. Not your problem, Tess. If Calvin wants to hire his niece, her receptionist skills—or lack of them—are his problem. Recovering, I ask, “Where’s the suit now?”
“In Calvin’s office. And the door’s closed.”
I probe some more, but this is all she knows. After thanking Mevia, I weave my way through the maze of cubicles to my workstation. Because I am fifteen minutes early, not all my writer and designer colleagues are in, but those who are at their desks spare me only a brief greeting before hunching back over their phones, thumbs flying across their screens, their anxiety suspended over the room like a heat haze.
Sofia is waiting for me at my desk, impatiently tapping her foot. Mevia must have alerted her. I take a moment to admire her outfit. A sleeveless white halter top and black leather pants accentuate her lean, athletic body, and her red heels match her blood-red lipstick. Her smooth dark skin glows. She looks good, and she knows it.
Unlike Mevia, Sofia takes her role in Marketing seriously and dresses the part. I also have a sneaking suspicion she dresses like she does to intimidate Calvin.
“Have you checked your email?” Sofia demands, wasting no time on pleasantries. Fortunately, I am well used to my friend’s bluntness.
“No,” I say, depositing my purse under my desk. I make it a point not to check my work email before coming in each morning.
“Calvin has called an all-staff meeting for later this morning.”
“No.”
“Yep.”
That explains everyone’s wide-eyed and bewildered expressions. Company meetings are always on a Monday. Today is Wednesday.
“This can’t be good.” I collapse into my chair. “Calvin’s a stickler for routine. He doesn’t deviate from his Monday meetings.”
“Except that one time,” Sofia points out, and we both blink in remembered horror of a meeting that neither of us can scrub from our brains.
Three years ago, Calvin had summoned all of us to the conference room. In my five years working as a greeting card writer at Amell Greetings, this was the first time an all-staff meeting had ever been called outside of a Monday.
At the meeting, clutching his hanky and sniffing loudly, Calvin had broken the news that his beloved Fitzroy had died. Everyone knew Fitzroy. Calvin had made it his unfortunate habit to bring his dog to work every day. He explained that Fitzroy had been electrocuted and then he asked if anyone wanted to say something nice about him. You’d think a room mostly full of writers would have lots to say, but we all sat there mute because we hated that dog.
Fitzroy, a mean-eyed cross between an American bulldog and a zombie straight out of Walking Dead, dumb as a log, would hunt down whatever lunch we were careless enough to leave lying around, deposit giant rivers of saliva all over our work clothes, and pee mini lakes under our office desks.
I love dogs, I really do, just not that dog. And I never wished him dead, only sleeping peacefully forever in a far-far-away place.
Right after the meeting, I wrote a card about Fitzroy:
He lived,
He died,
No one’s sad he fried.
Sofia had laughed so hard she peed her pants and had to rush home to change, but I’d been full of remorse afterward. I was an awful, terrible person. If there was such a thing as canine purgatory, I’d be consigned to it. Before I could tear the card up, Sofia had taken it to frame for her home office. I’d made her swear, under penalty of dismemberment, to never show it to Calvin.
I startle a little as Kenzie, a senior graphic designer at Amell Greetings, squeezes herself into my cubicle. Along with Sofia, she’s one of my closest friends. “You heard?” she asks. Her fine strawberry-blonde hair is gathered in a claw clip and she’s wearing a pretty floral maxi dress and gladiator sandals, nailing the boho chic look. She’s one of the few women I know who can pull off curtain bangs. “Calvin’s called a meeting in the Fitzroy.”
Yes, Calvin named the company’s main boardroom after his dog.
“We heard,” Sofia says grimly. The three of us exchange unsettled glances. It’s time for our own little meeting. Salt and sugar are urgently required.
“Vending machine,” Sofia announces in a low voice, reading my mind.
Kenzie and I nod in immediate agreement. I feel the stares of everyone on the floor as we exit the workspace area and set off down the long hallway. I’d heard the nickname given to the three of us. Team Trouble. It is not without merit.
The vending machine, tucked away in a quiet corner at the end of the hallway, is our designated gossip station. It’s Kenzie’s turn to choose. She makes her selection, taps her card, and we divvy up the salt and vinegar chips and M&Ms between us. We’d all agreed a long time ago, and not based on any sort of logic, that junk food is perfectly acceptable when shared.
“What are the rumors?” I ask.
“The usual bankruptcy ones,” Kenzie says, picking out all the yellow and orange M&Ms and giving the rest to us. “But that’s doubtful.”
She’s right. There’s very little likelihood Amell Greetings is facing bankruptcy. A couple of months ago, we caught the attention of a reality TV star who gushed about our card range to her fans. Since then, sales had soared, and we’d acquired a small celebrity following of glamour models and lifestyle influencers. Calvin is even toying with the idea of expanding our product line to incorporate other novelty items, including mugs, balloons, and notebooks.
“There’s talk of a possible merger,” says Sofia. “And we all know what comes with that.”
“Layoffs,” I state glumly. I have no merger survival plan. I’m a good writer, but good writers are not exactly an endangered species. There are way too many of us floating around. Kenzie, on the other hand, is wildly talented, her whimsical card designs consistent hits. And Sofia…well, she is a force to be reckoned with, the marketing genius who’d landed the celebrity fan club for Amell Greetings.
Kenzie squeezes my arm. “Hey, don’t be so pessimistic.”
“Ash brought me a dead mouse this morning,” I say, referring to my rescue brown tabby with the attitude of a Russian Blue. “That should’ve been my warning about the day ahead.”
“Actually, he was bringing you a present,” Kenzie explains, because she has a positive take on everything. “That’s how cats show their affection.”
Sofia snorts. “Oh, please, that’s not affection. That’s her cat saying, ‘here idiot human, this is how you hunt, now get to it.’”
It’s not that Sofia doesn’t like cats. It’s just that she insists she knows their true nature, which is to subjugate all humans and take over the world. She’s even nicknamed Ash Thanos.
“Well, at least if we’re being laid off, we all look good,” Sofia says, patting her dark hair.
I glance down at what I’m wearing. Calvin, for all his uptightness in certain areas, has a relaxed dress policy at the office, which we all embrace. I’d dressed for the warm May day in tight black jeans and a colorful embroidered top. I’d had my hair done over the weekend, adding caramel highlights to my long, chestnut-brown curls. My hairdresser had assured me this would “freshen up my look.” What I am most grateful for, though, are my sexy ankle boots in soft suede. Just looking at them gives me the confidence boost I need.
“You know, maybe we’re overthinking this,” Kenzie suggests, her delicate, elfin features alight with optimism. “Maybe this whole meeting is about something really trivial.”
Sofia arches a skeptical eyebrow. “Such as?”
Kenzie shrugs. “Maybe Calvin wants to push for bulldogs on the cards again. Like he tried to do after Fitzroy died.”
We all make a face. That had been a delicate time. In his grief, Calvin neglected research findings that suggested card buyers (the majority of whom were women) liked cute, relatable animals on their cards. Think kittens and rabbits, hamsters at a stretch. Certainly not bulldogs.
“All this speculation is getting us nowhere,” Sofia declares. “We need to go straight to the one in the know.”
Kenzie’s eyes widen. “Not Dana.”
“Yes, Dana.”
I shake my head. Calvin’s executive assistant is a vault. “You won’t get anything out of her.”
“Probably not, but at least I’ll have fun trying.”
Kenzie frets her bottom lip. “Don’t do it. She’s still mad at you for the last time.”
Sofia gives a no-problem flick of her hand. “That old battle axe is always mad. Okay, let’s go. We’re all in this together.”
Kenzie and I trail after Sofia as she strides ahead with an easy grace. She’s so formidable she fills me with awe. Calvin’s giant corner office is on the same floor as us, but on the opposite side of the building. Mevia, sensing where we are going and why, raises her fist in solidarity as we pass. A few feet from Dana’s desk, Kenzie bails, as I suspected she would. Any sort of confrontation stresses her out.
“Traitor,” Sofia says without heat, not breaking her stride.
I briefly consider ducking out as well, but honestly, I derive great pleasure from watching Sofia interact with Dana. It’s like my very own never-ending soap opera.
The moment Dana spots Sofia, her thick, gray eyebrows snap together, like two caterpillars squaring off. “What do you want?”
“How are you today, Dana?” Sofia asks. She’s trying to channel Kenzie’s sweetness, but she’s not pulling it off. It’s like Black Widow starring in The Sound of Music.
Dana glares at Sofia. “Worse for having to answer banal questions.” She shuffles a stack of papers on her desk, projecting unmistakable busy, busy vibes. She wears her usual no-nonsense outfit of matronly skirt and pastel blouse buttoned so tight around her neck it’s like a chokehold.
“About the meeting this morning,” Sofia begins.
Dana flashes a knowing smirk. “So that’s why you’re here disturbing me.”
“Disturbing, tormenting…tomato, tomahto.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“Why, Dana, you’re so charming it’s never a waste of my time chatting with you.”
“Then you’re wasting my time.”
“One little hint?” Sofia persists.
“You’ll have to wait and see like everybody else.”
I swear I glimpse the hint of a smile ghosting Dana’s lips. It occurs to me then that the two of them display an odd level of enjoyment in these interactions. Before I can examine that thought further, Dana barks, “Don’t think I don’t see you skulking there, Tess!”
I jump a little. “Uh, morning, Dana.”
She makes some sort of harrumphing sound. “Nothing good about it. Not with the two of you intent on ruining it.”
Sofia taps a fingernail to her chin. “So not even Calvin’s praetorian guard has any idea what the meeting’s about.”
Dana narrows her eyes. She’s been around since the very start, the resident dinosaur of Amell Greetings. Except, where the dinosaurs didn’t survive whatever wiped them out, it’s my belief Dana would survive even nuclear fallout.
I grab Sofia’s arm and tug her away. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Dana.” When we are a safe distance away, I mutter, “You like to live dangerously.”
“What other way is there to live?”
Safely. Cautiously. Minimal risk. All the ways I prefer to live. How I’m friends with a personality like Sofia’s remains a mystery to me.
I say, “I think Dana’s still smarting over you calling her Cerberus.” Cerberus is the three-headed dog guarding the gates of the Underworld. I had to Google it.
“If you really think about it,” Sofia points out airily, “that was more insulting to Calvin than her.”
Sofia heads to the bathroom to freshen up and I return to my desk. I check my email and see I have a new assignment—a sentimental piece for a silver wedding anniversary. I bite back a groan. I am not in the right headspace for this. One of the tricks to writing cards is to put yourself into the mindset of a person sending or receiving the card. I typically relish the challenge of stepping into someone else’s mind, but not today. Not when I’m acutely aware of my status as a twenty-eight-year-old woman whose ring finger is bare. What do I know about celebrating twenty-five years of marriage?
When 11 a.m. rolls around, I join the rest of my coworkers streaming into the huge conference room, taking a seat between Sofia and Kenzie. All the chairs are quickly taken and latecomers slouch against the walls. Rick in Sales is talking loudly on his phone, picking at his teeth with a fingernail as he broadcasts to the entire company that he’s closing a deal. It’s as though he’s so enthralled with the sound of his own voice he believes everyone is equally fascinated.
“Ugh, I can’t stand show-offs,” Sofia mutters. I share her sentiment.
When we’re all assembled, Calvin enters the conference room, and the low buzz of conversation grows more animated. Calvin Amell is a short, stout man, excessively fond of his thick silver hair and ruled by his expansive ego. There’s something to be said about a man who names his company after himself. Even in an age of great egotists, there’s still no Zuckerbook or Jobs-phone or Bezoson. Yet when you exit the elevator onto the third floor of our building, the first sight that hits you is AMELL GREETINGS emblazoned in giant red letters on the wall behind the reception desk.
My attention veers away from Calvin to the tall, dark-suited man behind him. There’s a powerful, barely contained energy about him and I have the stomach-plunging feeling he’s about to upend my world.
I’m aware of Sofia sucking in a shocked breath and Kenzie raising a hand to her lips.
What had Mevia said? The hottest guy she’s ever seen.
For once, she hadn’t exaggerated.
Lara Martin 