During our first year of dating, Aidan always insisted on a late-night drive to McDonald’s whenever I was down, convinced that there was no better cure for a dreadful day than some loud music and greasy food.
Last time that happened—well, I can’t even remember. Maybe he hasn’t noticed that I’ve been off. I walk away from her doorstep with the weight of it all pressing on me, heavy and debilitating.
My thoughts have been a nonstop race where I am desperate for a pit crew—someone to hand me water and just give me a few seconds to regroup. It doesn’t help that Chris appears to be wide awake as well.
A text from him at five thirty in the morning, packed with new demands, sets off my nervous system. It’s never a good sign if I am on Chris’s mind this early in the morning.
Unfortunately for me, I don’t have the luxury to regroup. I’m back to my regular scheduled program of my everyday life.
First stop, coffee run.
My online pick-up order is ready as soon as I walk into the shop. Another day of rinse, wash and repeat.
Chris’s order is black. No extras. An order fitting for his personality. What sane person doesn’t add anything to their coffee? I call it a strange, acquired taste, drinking it straight just to seem cooler. Not me, I require all the sugar and pumps of vanilla. My order: an iced oat-milk blueberry vanilla latte with two sugars. Pure heaven in a cup, slipped into the daily pick-up, charged to the corporate card. My small act of selfish rebellion at Blackburn Press.
My collapsible cart is always ready to go in the mornings when I hop into my rideshare from my house to the coffee shop. I would never have enough hands for the tasks Chris assigns me, so a cart felt like the most natural thing to order on Amazon within the first month of working here.
Placing the last cup into the carrier, stacking each tray in my cart, carefully creating five neat rows of coffee, I walk from the shop to the lobby where I pray that nobody speaks or bumps into me as I head to the fifteenth floor.
When I get to our suite number, a sigh of relief always hits me. I’m giddy when I can finally start my day. I unload my cup, laptop, planner and lunch from my heavy tote, arranging my things along the edges of my cubicle as I boot up my computer.
My first order of business is to review the emails from Chris, all time-stamped before nine a.m.
Once I’m done with that, a new calendar invite catches my eye. A calendar invite was sent at 11:57 p.m. that included eight attendees to be at Giardino Segreto’s by one o’clock this afternoon.
The organizer? Holden Strauss. I am an invitee to the meeting. My shoulders stiffen as I reread the meeting instructions.
1. Pick a table near the exit sign.
2. Use the name “Lorenzo Bellarosa” when making the reservation.
3. Don’t let anyone know I will be there.
I mime slamming my head repeatedly into my computer when it hits me. This is a same-day reservation at the busiest Italian restaurant in LA…
Ilovemy job.
And the code name? Never have I had to use one when calling up for a reservation.
It’s funny having to relay a weird, made-up Italian name over the phone to the hostess. My body seemingly rejects it as the name barely comes out of my mouth. She seems to notice too when she cuts me off mid-sentence. “This seems like an important gathering. I would love to accommodate you, but I can’t make this time slot. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Generous tips are welcome. Digitally, of course.”
“Of course.” I pause, pulling out the corporate card.
“What’s your number?” I ask.
“234-6782.”
Once the hundred-dollar tip goes through, the call drops. I send a follow-up message to the invite that everything is secured for this afternoon.
The rest of the morning, all I can seem to notice is Chris missing from his glass box in the center of the office.
With his ominous early-morning text hanging over my head, I’ve been riddled with anxiety. He was just another prospect…
Why did Holden Strauss matter this much?
