Shipped(7)

“You’re welcome, honey. I’m pulling for you.” Click.

I only realize I haven’t hung up when an insistent buzzing sounds in my ear. Shaking myself, I stuff the receiver back in the cradle and run my fingers through my hair, pulling slightly.

Okay. This is happening.

And I’m not the only one up for the job. Who else could they be considering for this? Eyeing the occupants of the cubicles across the way, I quickly flip through the possibilities—no, no, nope, unlikely, hells to the no. Not to toot my own horn, but Christina was right. There’s really no one else on the marketing team who’s in the same league.

If they’re looking at an outside candidate, someone who doesn’t work for Seaquest Adventures, then I have no idea who that could be. I shrug. All I can focus on right now is myself. Once I find out who the other short listers are, then I can strategize.

After taking the morning to address some urgent emails and coordinate with the art department on next quarter’s Central America mailing, I spend the afternoon preparing for my meeting with James.

I polish my British Columbia proposal, send my updated résumé to HR, and draft talking points for why I’m the strongest choice for the director role. I’m so engrossed in what I’m doing that I barely register when my computer thrums. I glance at the screen, and choke on my iced tea. It splatters down the front of my shirt.

“Shit, shit, double shit,” I grate. It’s four o’clock. I snag a notepad, my résumé, phone, and a printed copy of my proposal and launch out of my seat. James is all about punctuality. If you’re on time, you’re late. Christina raises her eyebrows at me as I jog past her desk, but I don’t stop. I scurry down the hall, coughing to clear my stinging throat, and try not to drop anything.

Barbara is sitting at the desk outside James’s office. I can hear his trumpeting voice on the other side of the closed door. When she sees me coming, she touches her shoulders in the sign of the cross.

I pause by her desk. “That bad?”

“He just got off the phone with his ex-wife.”

I wince.

“And he wrote a tuition check to UCLA for Toby today.”

I groan. A conversation with his hated ex-wife and dropping serious money on his kid’s college tuition? He’s going to be in A Mood. Great.

“Thanks for the warning.” Straightening my skirt, I cross the final three steps to his door and knock.

Wait. Ack, I forgot something to write with. I lunge toward Barbara’s desk.

“Pen?” I ask, scrunching my eyes.

Her hair bounces as she fishes one out of a coffee mug and hands it to me. “Here. Oh, you have a little…” She motions at her chest. Crap, the tea. I flick my hair over my shoulders, light brown over white silk, and rearrange it to cover the worst of the spill.

Barbara gives me the thumbs-up, turquoise nails flashing.

“Come in,” James barks.

“You’re the best,” I mouth over my shoulder as I push open the heavy wood door and breach the threshold into his corner office.

“You’re late,” he says without preamble, nodding at the door. I close it softly behind me, stomach knotting. The pervasive smell of tuna, presumably leftovers from James’s lunch, does nothing to quell my nerves.

Infusing my spine with steel, I cross the room to sink into one of the square orange chairs facing his monolithic desk. “Sorry about that.” My heart thumps against my ribs as James dips his chin to peer at me over his wire-rimmed glasses.

James Wilcox, chief marketing officer, has buzzed, thinning gray-brown hair, the crinkled, papery skin of a pastry bag even though he’s only in his late fifties, and enough self-importance to fill a football stadium.

“Thanks for making time in your schedule to meet with—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“I have some interesting news for you, Henley.” He folds his hands over the stack of papers on his desk, mouth twisting into a frown. I sit there, my own hands clasped in my lap, legs crossed at the ankle, looking what I hope is pleasantly surprised and not dog-panting excited.

“Marlen and I had a meeting this morning, and we both agree it’s time to pull the trigger on hiring a director of digital marketing. We’re eyeing you for the job.”

I smile broadly as every cell of my body exhales at the confirmation. “Oh my goodness, James, that’s wonderful news. Thank you, I—”

“Don’t thank me yet, sweetheart. You’re not the only one up for the promotion.” He leans back in his chair with a thud. “We’re considering Graeme for the position too.”

The world slows. A fly hopscotches across the window behind James, and I imagine I can see every beat of its tiny, transparent wings.

“Graeme…” I repeat. My own voice sounds far away. “Graham Cracker—Crawford—Crawlin,” I stutter. Oh God, I’m losing my mind. I swallow. Get a hold of yourself, Henley. I give myself a mental slap and the world rights itself. “Graeme Crawford-Collins?” I finally manage to get out.

“Oh good, you know his name.” James tips his chin and stares down his stubby nose at me. “Graeme has experience in the digital marketing arena, and he’s done a bang-up job for us on social media over the past year. He’s a strong candidate.”

“But he lives in… Michigan. Wouldn’t it be more beneficial to fill the position with someone from Seattle?”