I approach slowly, already mentally drafting a text to tell him I’m allergic to saccharine bullshit when I see the pink card. My name’s printed on the front in a scripted gold font, and I already hate it.
Shannen, thank you for lunch. It was lovely to finally meet you, and I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do for me. Looking forward to the gala. James.
It’s been an hour, and I swear I can barely breathe. The scent of the flowers is practically strangling me. I can feel it coating my throat, burning my nose, and making my head feel stuffy every time I inhale. I’m only keeping them because I’m not a disrespectful asshole. But I won’t lie, I’m counting down the days until they shrivel up and die so I can toss them out without guilt. Honestly, I might start turning the air conditioner up just to speed things along.
A knock at the door interrupts my murderous thoughts about the bouquet, and Xander walks in—full charcoal suit and tie, completely oblivious to the concept of casual Friday. I’m pretty sure the guy’s never even heard of jeans.
I’m dressed up too—pencil skirt, blouse, heels—but only because I had no fucking clue what day it was when I dragged myself out of bed this morning.
Dreams: 1, Sleep: 0.
“Morning, Shannen,” he says with a smile as he steps inside. “I sent over the proofs you asked for on the Morrison account. I went with a navy and gold palette.”
“Oh, awesome. Let’s see.”
He sits across from me as I pull up the email and click through the designs for the seafood restaurant, each one featuring deep-navy backgrounds with sleek pale-gold accents.
“Nice flowers,” he says, nodding toward the bouquet and pulling my attention back to the monstrosities taking up too much space in the room.
My eyes lift slowly—death stare. No smile.
He holds up his hands, smirking. “Or not.”
“If you were buying a woman flowers, is this what you’d go for?”
“Probably not. This is the kind of thing I’d buy for my grandma though.”
Perfect.
“Do I give off grandma vibes?”
“I know you’re not actually asking me that.”
I let out a small laugh, shaking my head as I scroll through the next design.
“These are great. Do you have a favorite?”
“Yeah, the third one,” he says. “But I wanted your opinion.”
“They’re all strong,” I tell him honestly. “You could pick any of them, and it would work.”
“Would it be worth developing a couple more so the client has more choice?”
I purse my lips, thinking. “Probably not. Not for this one. Sometimes giving them choices backfires. If we show them what works and why it works, they’ll usually respond well. If they want revisions, that’s when it becomes collaborative, but we need to lead first.”
He stands up, tucking his tablet under one arm. “I’ll move forward with the third and send it back over to you when it’s done.”
“Thank you, Xander.”
It’s been an hour, and all I’ve done is procrastinate like a champ. I’ve been refilling my coffee, replying to emails I don’t care about, and trying to remember whether I’ve eaten anything today. Then, like someone flipped a switch, the ideas start pouring out of me.
The sun’s been down for hours, and I’m still sitting here at the office long after everyone else has headed home. My back’s aching from being hunched over this desk, and my neck is a little stiff from staring at the screen all day. The last person I saw on their way out was Hilda, and that must’ve been at least an hour ago. She finished putting the cleaning supplies away in the closet, then waved goodbye, wrapped up in her oversized winter coat that swallowed her tiny frame whole.
So when the elevator kicks up, and I hear the cables whine as the car rises, something inside me snaps tight.
There shouldn’t be anyone else here.
I shut off my computer screen, giving myself a clearer view of the hallway outside my open door, and… yeah. Not gonna lie. I’m shitting myself just a little.
