Shipped(84)

I run to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. Mascara. Lip stain. Hair thrown in a bun. No time for anything else. Walsh scurries in holding a bundle of hangers containing my best suit coat, a matching pencil skirt, and a silk blouse. I pull them on in record time. I’m still zipping my skirt when I dash into the living room and nearly bump into Graeme. He’s wearing the same polo and jeans from yesterday and he’s scooping my notepad and laptop into my work tote.

“Uber’s here,” he says.

Walsh tosses me one shoe, then another—black four-inch stilettos. My power shoes. Hopping toward the door, I slide them on. “I’m coming too,” she says. Her tone brooks no disagreement. She’s wearing yoga pants, slip-on sneakers, and a hoodie… to my office. And I couldn’t care less.

Two minutes later, the three of us are in the back seat of a Toyota Corolla zipping through downtown Seattle. I dial Christina’s number. She answers on the first ring.

“Hey, Hen—”

“Christina, I need a favor. If I send you a file, can you print it out and put it in a binder for me? Like, right now?”

“Of course, but what’s going on?”

I give her the bullet-pointed version. A string of expletives follows.

“I’ll have it ready when you get here.”

“Thanks a million.”

My phone dings as I hang up—an email from Graeme.

“The mock Facebook post I put together. In case you need extra ammunition,” he says.

Leaning over, I brush my lips against his cheekbone in a quick kiss. “Thanks.”

I forward Christina my roughly scaled-up proposal so at least I have something for Marlen to look at. Stowing my phone, I smooth my coat over my blouse. “Okay. It’s okay. I’m doing this.” My breathing accelerates along with the car. Panic claws at the edges of my mind.

What if Marlen doesn’t like my idea? What if I blow it? What if he doesn’t believe me about James and I come across looking like a vindictive employee with an ax to grind and…

Graeme’s hand lands on my thigh, warm and reassuring. “Take a deep breath,” he says.

“I’m not ready.” Diving into my bag, I pull out my notepad and begin flipping through pages. “I don’t have my presentation finished or the details ironed out or—”

A biting pain explodes in my side. “Ow! Hey!” I jerk around to glare at Walsh. “Why’d you pinch me?”

“Snap out of it!”

I blink at her.

“This is what you’ve been preparing for your whole freaking life. Right here, your chance to take your ideas to the big boss and shine. You might not have the perfect report lined up or the perfect talking points or whatever, but damn it, you’re Henley Fucking Evans. And this is your moment.”

“She’s right,” says Graeme. “You don’t need a fancy presentation or a script. You’re smart, successful, and passionate, and knowing you, you’ve already mulled over every angle of this idea. You’ll sell him on it. I know it.”

I loop my arms through Walsh’s and Graeme’s and hug them tight. “You have no idea how much I needed that.”

The car lurches to a stop. “We’re here,” says the Uber driver.

I check the time: 12:41. Less than twenty minutes until the executive board meets and my career at Seaquest gets permanently neutered.

My chest tightens. “We need to hurry.”

I rush into the building, moving as quickly as my legs, constricted as they are in my pencil skirt, will carry me. Skidding to a stop at the elevator, I jam the up button half a dozen times. The elevator indicator flashes 4… then 5…

“Damn it,” I spit. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Stairs?” offers Graeme, looking around.

“This way.” I burst into a jog toward a back hallway and push open the metal door to the stairs.

Up, up, up we climb. By the third flight, I’m huffing. By the fifth, I’m sweating.

Crack.

My ankle rolls on the sixth-floor landing and I stumble into Graeme, who catches me.

“Shit,” I breathe. The heel of my right shoe has broken clean off. Anxiety siphons down my throat and pools in my chest. I can’t present to Marlen looking like this.

“Here, swap,” says Walsh, toeing off her slip-on sneakers.

Kicking off my ruined heels, I put on her shoes. “You’re a lifesaver.” They pinch—her feet are half a size smaller than mine—but they’re all I’ve got. At least they’re black like my suit. I take off up the stairs with Walsh dashing behind me, barefoot and clutching my ruined heels.

We burst into the lobby, startling Sadie, the receptionist, and fast-walk through the serpentine hallways until we reach Marlen’s corner office suite. Barbara, Christina, and Tory are already there.

“Thank God, you made it,” says Christina.

Bracing my hands on my waist, I suck in oxygen and attempt to calm my roiling nerves.

“Are you ready?” Tory asks.

My stomach churns and I’m grateful it’s empty. I offer a twitchy smile. “Not remotely.”

“It’s now or never,” says Barbara. “You have fifteen minutes.”

I nod frantically. “Okay. I can do this.”