Shipped(9)

* * *



I stumble back to my desk at five, dump my pile of papers next to my keyboard, and collapse into my squeaky chair. The office is quiet, and Christina’s not at her desk.

What was supposed to be my big chance, my time to shine, turned out to be a Henley Humiliation Fest followed by half an hour of nitpicking my direct-call idea for British Columbia. To cap it off? As I walked out of his office, James openly perused my tea-splattered boobs and suggested that I might want to start using a straw.

At least he ultimately approved my British Columbia idea—except of course he did, because it’s freaking brilliant.

I scrub both palms over my eyes and flop my head against the top of my chair so I’m staring at the exposed ductwork on the ceiling. Sure, I may technically be up for this promotion, but James might as well pat me on the head and hand me a participation ribbon right now. It’s obvious Graeme is his favorite.

Graeme. That snake. Listening to our entire conversation and not having the decency to announce himself. How is he even qualified for this promotion? A social media manager making a leap to director of digital marketing? Ridiculous.

Rolling my hands into fists on top of my armrests, I sit up.

I’ll show him. I’ll show them all. I’ll simply have to knock my proposal so far out of the park that they’ll need to drive to Canada to find the ball. And Graeme? He can stay in Michigan and rot.

A light on my desk phone catches my eye and my fury recedes a fraction. I have a voice mail. I punch in my code and shove the phone tightly against my ear.

“Henley, it’s Graeme.”

My lungs inflate like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon.

“I just wanted to say, ah, congratulations.” He blows out a breath and mumbles something unintelligible. “I know this is awkward, being up for the same job. And I hope it doesn’t get in the way of us working together. I posted your British Columbia content this morning. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you. I”—he clears his throat—“I’m looking forward to meeting you in person finally. And… and that’s it.”

Just as I think the message is over it keeps going.

“You know what, that’s not it. There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you…” He sucks in a deep breath. “You shouldn’t let James talk to you like that. It’s unprofessional. Take care.”

Unprofessional. Unprofessional?

The synthesized voice of a woman cuts in. “To delete this message…”

I slam the receiver down. Pick it up. Slam it again.

As if I have any choice in how James talks to me. He’s our boss. What the hell am I supposed to do? My chest constricts and I slow my runaway breathing. I know what’s going on here. Graeme is trying to psych me out. Throw me off my game. Well, guess what, Graeme? It’s not working.

In fact, I’ve learned something. If I want this job, I need to stay a step ahead of the competition. I need to be tireless. I need to crumble that Graham Cracker into dust. Setting my jaw, I scoop up my cell phone and enter a new item in my to-do app. Highest priority.

Task #1: Defeat Graeme Crawford-Collins.





* * *



I intercept Tory and Christina at the elevator.

“Who’s ready for happy hour?” Tory loops her arms around our shoulders. She’s five foot nothing on a good day, so she has to stand on tiptoe to do it.

“Me,” I say as I push the down button. After the roller coaster of a day I’ve had, I definitely need a drink. Or ten. My phone buzzes in my bag and I dig it out. It’s Walsh. I forgot she was going to call. “Sorry, I have to take this.”

The elevator doors open and I file inside behind Tory and Christina. I tap the green accept icon and hold the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Henley!” says Walsh in her smooth alto.

“Hey, baby sis, what’s up?”

“Not much. Are you leaving work now?” Her tone is light, but there’s a tension to it that has my alarm bells jerking awake.

“Just about, I’m in the elevator. So, what’s the big surprise?”

Walsh hesitates. “Oh, you know. The usual.”

Way too breezy. My chest tightens in warning. “Walsh,” I grate.

“I’m moving,” she says. I can practically see the overly bright, forced smile she must have plastered on her face. “Surprise!”

I groan. “Again?”

“Boulder was too… expensive.”

I roll my eyes so hard at the bronzed ceiling I nearly give my eyeballs whiplash. If she had a full-time job, it wouldn’t be so expensive. “Where to now?” I ask. I try to keep my tone casual, but I’m not sure I’m nailing it. Blood is pounding in my ears. With everything else going on in my life, Walsh couldn’t have picked a worse time to pull a Walsh.

She’s twenty-four. If you think she’d have her life figured out by now, you’d be wrong.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about…”

The elevator doors rattle open. I look up. And find myself face-to-face with my sister.

“Walsh?” I splutter in disbelief, lowering the phone.

An imaginary engine revs as the Walsh surprise bus crashes into me, running over my stunned body with a double thump.