“Oh, perfect!” The receptionist grins just as the doctor and Nathan start walking toward us.
I hide behind a pillar, and the little girl laughs. I mime a shush with my finger against my lips, practically begging for her to stop.
The doctor speaks to Nathan. “Like I said, you’ll be just fine. The stitches will dissolve on their own.”
Nathan looks up at her unfazed as though splitting a knuckle is a weekly thing. “Thank you, Dr. Annabelle,” he says and walks out the front door without spotting me.
Ten minutes later, I have a plastic bracelet on and a spot in Quick Care. As soon as the coast is clear, I cancel my “appointment” and run like I am being chased by logic.
By the time I make it back to the bakery, breathless and soaked in guilt-sweat, Ashton has the delivery already packed in the van.
“That,” she says, tossing a final box of muffins next to the tower, “was more than thirty minutes.”
She turns, hands on her hips, eyes laser-focused on my wrists. “Why are you wearing a hospital bracelet?”
“I don’t really know, if I’m being honest.”
I tug at it, as if it might disappear on command. I’m going to need scissors.
“Can you text me the address?” A small bead of sweat chooses that moment to take its journey down the small of my back into my new jeans.
“You’re sweating.”
“It’s hot.”
“Uh-huh. Are you sure you’re okay? I can do the drop-off if you want. It’s just a quick contract signature.” She hands me the work iPad, and I jump into our delivery van, slam it into drive, and take off to the Union Tower Building “RMA.” Our biggest order yet.
I may be a hot mess, but there is something about the owner delivering the product, especially on the first delivery. It’s a nice touch. It shows I care.
The elevator doors at Union Tower glare back at me like they know I don’t belong.
I adjust the muffin tower with one arm, balance the coffee tray with the other, and give the button panel a solid jab. The elevator lets out a loud ding.
“I swear if this elevator drops…” I hiss at the precarious cold brew jug. “…I’m gonna lose my mind.
Minutes later, the elevator opens on the sixteenth floor.
I move fast—too fast—sign in at reception, grab the badge with a sticky note slapped on it.
Follow the long hall. Turn left. First conference room.
Glass walls. Frosted doors. Voices inside.
I don’t knock.
I push in?—
And immediately lose my footing.
The room flips.
The tray tips.
Coffee goes everywhere.
Cups hit the floor. A lid pops off. Something splashes across my wrist. I stumble, catch myself on the edge of the table, and still end up on one knee, surrounded by a small disaster of muffins, cups, and napkins.
Silence.
