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“Happy?” I say as she finishes the donut, licking my fingers clean.
“Mmmhmm.”
I reach into the box and take out another one, shoving the whole thing in my mouth. The cream oozes out between my lips, and she smacks me. “You slob! Why didn’t you tell me?”
I hold up a finger, chewing, chewing, and finally swallow. “You can have the other one.”
“Thanks…” She lifts the lid and frowns. “They look so good. But one is enough for me. How do you eat like that and keep those abs?”
“I’m just naturally… incredible.” I push her coffee over to her and take another donut.
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think that excuse is going to work with the partners.” She opens the lid and peers inside, and, satisfied that I got her order right, fixes the lid on again. “Geez. This is nice. It feels like we’re dating.”
I nod. It certainly does feel that way.
“Are we?”
I look up. She looks a little worried. “Yeah. I guess we are. I mean, is that not what we’re doing? We’re together. Right?”
She smiles. “Yes. But…what about work? Company policy…”
Ah, that’s the problem. She has that new promotion now. And secretly dating me is probably not going to do her any favors with the partners, especially now that she’s a part of that upper echelon who both makes and keeps the rules in the firm.
“We should disclose it to HR first thing Monday morning. Is that what you’re thinking?” I ask her.
She nods. “Yes. I think that would make me feel better.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” I reach into the box and take the last Boston cream out, setting it on a napkin in front of her, and fix her with a wolfish grin. “Eat up. You’re going to need your energy today for what I have planned for you.”
35
At seven AM on Monday morning, I arrive at the office building, practically dancing on air.
That all comes to a crashing halt at 7:01 when I try my key card.
Bzzz. Denied.
I try it again. Same thing.
Then I tug on the door handle helplessly, wondering if I left it too close to something magnetic, and that screwed it up.
Shelly comes by a few minutes later. I’ve never said good morning to her, so she doesn’t bother saying it to me now. Instead, she just says, “You forget your ID?”
“No.” I hold it up. “It’s just not working.”
She tries her card, which she perpetually keeps on a beaded lanyard on her chest. But that doesn’t work either. “Odd.”
She tries it again. And again. Nothing.
“It has to be a glitch, right?” I ask.
“Probably.” She sounds doubtful as she shields her eyes and presses her face to the window, looking inside. She knocks hard.
Thankfully, one of the lobby security guards jogs over and opens the door. I don’t know him by name—never bothered to find out—but Shelly does. “Thank you, Bruce. Something’s going on with our cards.”
Bruce lets us in. “Well, that’s not good. You two go on. It’s probably something with the door.”
We watch as another person from one of the other companies in the building swipes their card and passes right through. “Is it happening to anyone else?” I ask, starting to worry.
Even though I asked the question, the guard speaks to Shelly as he guides us to the elevators. “Don’t be alarmed. I’m sure it’ll get sorted out.”
Of course we only wind up getting more alarmed when we reach the floor of Foster & Foster. We’re the first ones there, as usual, so we turn on the lights, go toward our respective offices, and turn on our computers, but a few moments later, we’re back in the hallway. Shelly has her cell phone to her ear and looks just as confused as I feel. “When did you last speak with the partners?” she asks me.
I shrug. I used to get one of them on the horn almost every weekend. But not this time. This weekend was delightfully partner-free. Stress-free.
But now I feel the stress pouring back in, tightening my shoulders. “Have you spoken to any of them?”
“I’ve been trying to call Tom. No answer. I’ll try Ed next. I guess.” She looks at her phone and presses a single button.
I grab my phone. “I can call Lisa.”
I punch in her number, but it rings right through to her voicemail. I leave a message, then end the call, just as Shelly ends hers. “Anything?”
Shaking my head, I say, “Bill Lindsey?”
She nods and starts to punch in the call as the bell above the elevator dings. We both turn, hoping for the solution to our problems, but it’s just Mike. I’m surprised he’s here this early. He looks worse for wear, as if he had a tough weekend—his eyes are bloodshot, the lower half of his face is covered in raw razor burn and his tie is loose and crooked. He’s carrying a giant metal commuter mug.
