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I’m unapologetic as I leave the men to their whining and exit the conference room. Nicky is hot on my heels, an iPad and a slim file folder neatly gripped in her manicured hands.
“Traffic is gonna be a mess at this time of day, and you still have to swing by the bakery,” she reminds me as we hustle down the carpeted hallway back toward my corner office.
Through the gleaming floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see the sun diving behind the skyscrapers embellishing the Chicago skyline. The clouds are dark and thick.
That’s not a good sign.
I throw her a scowl over my shoulder. “You’re not helping.”
She shrugs, struggling to keep pace with my long strides. “I told you I could have gone to the bakery for you.”
“And I toldyouI’d handle it myself.”
“The CFO of the city’s fastest growing wealth management company fetching a birthday cake from a bakery halfway across town—on the company dime, no less. Yeah, that’s fiscally efficient,” she bites, unfazed by talking back to her boss.
“The icing gets smushed every single time you go to the bakery.”
“That wasonetime.”
“Every time, Nicky. Every time.”
Agnes from Human Resources looks up from her fax machine and catches my eye. She gives me a grandmotherly smile. “Good luck tonight, Cash. If everything goes according to plan, next time I see you, you could be a married man!”
I crinkle my brow.Uh…um, huh?
Nicky snickers into her sleeve.
I turn my glare on her. “Do I even want to know what garbage the office rumor mill is spewing today?”
She flinches. “Probably not.”
I shrug it off. Isodon’t have the time to deal with this.
“Were the balloons delivered?” I demand as we turn a corner down another long, busy hallway.
“For the seventeenth time, yes, the balloons were delivered. They’re in your office.” She pauses. “I still say you should go with roses. Red roses. Nothing says I’m here to collect my mail-order bride like red roses.” The little devil smirks.
My younger sister has never shied away from pushing my buttons. I hired her as an intern here a few weeks back. More and more, I’m regretting that decision.
“She is not my mail-order bride.”
“What do you want to call her?”
“She’s my friend,” I state as we enter my office.
And—whoa!—the balloons are here. Alotof them. I may have gone a bit overboard with my order. I have to twist my body like a contortionist just to get around my desk.
Nicky sets the tablet and folder on the edge of my neatly-organized wood and chrome tabletop. “Your friend who you promised you’d marry if she was still single at age thirty. Newsflash, boss—as of today, she’s officially age thirty. Time to redeem your marriage pact,” she sings.
“Jeez—that was a stupid joke Meghan and I made. A million years ago. You should quit spreading rumors about your superiors if you want to keep your job here. There is no marriage pact.”
I check the time again. Shit. I should have hit the road hours ago.
“So I’m supposed to believe that you’re driving the next six hours to deliver a birthday cake to a friend?”
“You can believe whatever you want to believe, Nicky,” I deadpan, growing tired of this little chit chat, especially when I’m running so late.
“Admit it—at night, you lie awake thinking about wedded bliss with Meghan Hutchins.”
