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“Thaaaanks!” Emerson Leigh trilled. “You’re the best, Julie!” Then she actually looked down, and she frowned. “Oh wait. These are upside down.”

I ground my teeth. “I’ll fix it. Would you go out to my desk and hit print in, like, thirty seconds?”

“I guess,” she said. “But what if I hit the wrong thing?”

I ground my teeth harder. I hoped dentures were included in my fancy health insurance. “You just have to hit print.”

“Ooookay.” She looked way too nervous for someone being asked to hit a button.

It took her longer to hit print than I expected. It got to the point where I almost went out there myself to make sure she hadn’t gotten stuck between the couch and the armchair, but then she popped back in, her cheeks rosy red. “Okay. I think I did it?” The printer roared to life, and she beamed at me expectantly, as if she were waiting for praise.

Because that was my role. I worked for her family. Bennett probably had people like me who worked for his family, too. “Nice job,” I said, and she beamed even harder. She even gave me a spontaneous little hug as she left. “Don’t worry,” she said into my ear. Her breath smelled like cinnamon. “I’ll make sure to pick colors that make your eyes pop.”

For when I’d be working the party. Serving her and Bennett drinks as they laughed and talked to each other, to the real party guests, to most of whom I wouldn’t even exist.

10

As it turned out, Bennett’s email was fizzing and sparking with so much enthusiasm that I was surprised it hadn’t short-circuited my computer. He’d sent two follow-ups to make sure I’d seen it by the time I made it back to my desk chair. I clicked on the most recent one before I even kicked my shoes off and dug my toes into the plush carpet, which is how you know it was serious.

Hello, Julie. You didn’t respond to my previous messages, so I went ahead and booked the table. If you object, then . . . well, then I suppose I’ll just go without you, because I would not just kill to eat at this place but kill something I loved. Like a puppy. Okay, I wouldn’t kill a puppy to eat here, but I’d at least think about it.

I quirked an eyebrow with amusement, and then, as I scrolled down to the original message, my jaw dropped. Bennett had scored a reservation tonight at one of the hottest new restaurants in town, booked solid even for those of us with professional connections (him, not me): West. The unassuming name stood for West Africa; the restaurant explored West African cuisine and the food of the West African diaspora scattered throughout the world. Forget the Nordic restaurant we were supposed to go to tonight.

I messaged back, I would kill YOU to eat at this restaurant, so it’s a good thing the reservation’s for two. I hesitated, then added the crying-laughing emoji to be absolutely clear that I was kidding.

Mostly.

I spent the rest of the day dreaming of tuna tartare scattered with benne seeds, which Jada Knox said tasted like coffee in the most pleasant way. At least, until it came time for me to gather the contracts I had to messenger to Mr. Decker for his signature. They’d come in yesterday, and I’d been waiting to send them out until end of day, when he’d be back at his apartment in the city. I’d left them in a manila folder on the other side of my desk, except . . . the manila folder was gone.

I blinked hard at the empty swath of desk, like that might make the contracts suddenly appear. Nope. Shockingly enough, it didn’t work.

Shit. They’d already been signed by the other party of the business deal Mr. Decker was doing, so it wasn’t like I could just print out another copy for him. I lifted every book and paper on my desk, paged frantically through the filing cabinets in case I’d had a brain fart and stowed them away, even got down on my hands and knees to peer underneath. Nothing there but dust.

Shit shit shit. If I didn’t get these contracts off to Mr. Decker by end of day, he’d be furious. He didn’t like leaving things hanging. So everything else flew out of my mind, replaced only by the steps I needed to take to not get fired. Call the business partner’s assistant on her office phone and her cell phone until she finally picked up, an after-six surliness in her voice. Beg her to hang around long enough for her boss to sign and then messenger the copies over to us at our expense. Assure Mr. Decker when he inquires about where the contracts are that they’re on their way, the messenger must just be held up.

It took almost an hour to get it all done. By the end, I was sticky with sweat all over, panting like I’d just raced my brothers to the jingling ice cream truck for the last SpongeBob pop, the one with neon-colored gumballs for eyes. I leaned my knees onto my elbows, lowering my head into my hands . . . only to catch a glimpse of a manila scrap stuck behind the desk against the wall.

I cursed as I sat up, but it was too late to go back. To distract myself from what an idiot I was, I grabbed my phone. Six calls, missed while on silent. I froze. Someone had gotten into a car accident and died. A troll was wreaking havoc on my page, being so foul and crude that my account had gotten suspended. I’d left the stove on in Alice’s apartment that morning and burned her building down. It had to be something that bad to merit—

No. They were all from Bennett. And just like that, I remembered our reservation at West. The one that was set for—I glanced at the time—five minutes ago.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.

The idea of actually calling someone on the phone was loathsome, but I didn’t think twice before returning Bennett’s call. He picked up on the first ring. “Where are you?”

I didn’t even bristle at the impatience in his tone. I deserved it. “I’m so sorry.” The words tumbled out of me. “Work stuff killed me. I’m running out now, be there ASAP.” I hung up before he could say anything else and literally ran out the door. It was a good thing the office door locked automatically, because I thought I might otherwise allow random thieves to pillage our computers and Mr. Decker’s ovarian cancer charity merch rather than take the fifteen seconds to lock it.

The rush to the restaurant—I splurged for a cab and, with a thrill like I was in a movie, told the driver to “step on it, please”—kept me from dwelling too much on my resentment. On the point that of course Bennett could get there on time; getting there on time was literally his job. While I had to balance getting there on time and writing my review with another job.

Okay, maybe I was dwelling a little.

West was housed in the lobby of a fancy hotel in Chelsea, and when I burst into the lobby, my eyes wild and my hair taking whatever opportunity it could to match, the host behind his sleek stand widened his eyes. But I had no attention for him—only for Bennett beside him, who was polishing his glasses on his blue-and-green plaid sweater in what I could only describe as an agitated way.

“I’m here,” I cried, and he shoved them back onto his head only half cleaned. He spun back around to the host stand so fast I worried they’d go flying off.

“My entire party is here now,” he said. “Can we still—”

His shoulders wilted as the host shook his head. “I’m afraid we only hold tables for fifteen minutes, sir.”