“He’ll be happy to see you. It’s been several hours since I let him relieve himself on my cigarette break. Go right on up.”
The elevator delivers me to a corridor carpeted to muffle footsteps. Sniper’s door is opened by a keypad. The code is 1967. That’s the year Toronto last won the Stanley Cup.
But, hey. This is Ontario. Half the security codes and ATM-machine PINS might be 1967. We love our hockey.
“Woof!” says Rufus, leaping from the couch. It’s a happy sound, and it’s accompanied by a full-body tail-wagging. I drop down and show him the love. He gyrates and sniffs and bounds around. See what a good boy I am? his body language demands. I’ve been home alone for hours and I didn’t eat Daddy’s furniture.
“You are a very good boy,” I agree. “The best. Why don’t you find your leash so we can go for a walk?”
He gallops off, and I stand, turning toward the immaculate kitchen at the far end of the room. The island countertop is completely bare except for two things. A fruit bowl I picked out to match my client’s dishes.
And a white card, tented on its edges.
I cross the room because I can’t see what’s written there. As I approach the card, I find there are two words inked onto it.
For HotTiE.
When I yank the card off the shiny surface to study the lettering, there’s something underneath. Two tickets. To tomorrow night’s home game.
In row D.
I let out a little whoop of joy a split second before remembering that there’s a security camera in here.
Rufus barks in agreement with me. Sheepish now, I zip the card and those tickets very carefully into my jacket pocket.
I take Rufus out to the park, running all the way there. And then I text Jenny. Change of plans. Come to the game with me tomorrow night. Just scored a pair of excellent seats.
Reeeeeeally, comes her instant response. And how did that happen?
It’s top secret, I try. But who am I kidding? She’ll have me spilling the whole story the instant I get back to the office.
Really, who could keep it in?
I’m weirdly nervous the next night. As if I were actually about to meet Matt Eriksson. Which I’m not. I’ll probably never meet him. But I take a little extra time in the ladies’ room anyway, applying lipstick as if for a date.
Back at my desk, I send Jenny a text. Leaving now. Meet you at the main doors in 20! Then I tuck my keys and phone into my bag, preparing to depart the office.
But there’s one more big decision to make. Jersey or no jersey? That is the question. And I’ve been waffling on this point all day.
On the one hand, a good fan always wears her jersey to the game. And, fine, I’m a little superstitious. The one time I forgot my jersey, my boys lost.
Yet my jersey says ERIKSSON across the back. And just on the outside chance he knows which seats he gave me and looks to see if I’ve used them, I’d rather not out myself as a superfan. Even if my tongue hangs out every time I see his face on TV, I need to at least keep the appearance of professionalism so long as we’re working together.
What to do?
I’ll miss the puck drop if I worry much longer. So I shove the jersey into my oversized bag and leave my office, flicking the lock shut before I pull the door closed.
Outside, in the bullpen area where the other Fetchers sit, I take a quick glance around. Dion is quarterbacking the night shift, and he looks up to give me a salute, which I return. That’s good news for me. Dion is a solid employee who rarely contacts me with problems.
Fetch is open 24/7 in order to serve our rich customer base at any hour. We charge more for services after eight p.m. and before eight a.m., too. It makes good business sense. There are five Fetchers on duty tonight, including Dion.
Since it’s an even-numbered day, I’m on call tonight. There’s a small risk I’ll be yanked back to the office to solve a problem during the game.
But everything looks quiet in the bullpen, so I make my way toward the door. Just before I exit, I notice the strip of light under Jackson’s door. Since I’m the one on call, I’m a little surprised that he’s still here at seven thirty. A problem, maybe?
It’s just four feet or so down the hallway to his door. I lift a hand to knock, but then stop short when I hear voices.
“The property looks great,” Jackson’s voice says. “It’s a first-class place. Melinda went with me, and she loves that neighborhood. It’s beautiful over there.”
My heart plummets. Melinda, huh? I’d heard whispers that Jackson was dating someone. It was bound to happen eventually. But they’re looking at real estate together? Already?
The freak-out I’m having almost prevents me from hearing more. But then I hear my ex’s father speak, and it starts to dawn on me that I’ve misinterpreted something.
“...Great foot traffic,” Mr. Emery is saying. “The income level in that neighborhood is even higher than here in Yorkville. You’re gonna make a mint.”
“But we’re not ready to expand the business,” Jackson hedges. “The timing just isn’t right.”
“And whose fault is that, son?”
In the brief silence that follows, I feel a chill on my back. Jackson’s father is the most argumentative person alive. And Jackson isn’t very good at telling him where to shove it.
“Dad…”
“Buy her out, Jack. Do it now. You can’t grow your business if Hailey is still riding your coattails.”
The chill I’d been feeling becomes an arctic gust.
“Now that’s unfair,” Jackson says softly, while I quietly die on the other side of the door. It’s good of him to come to my defense, but the fact that they’re having this conversation at all makes me want to howl. “Fetch is as much Hailey’s business as it is mine.”
“Which is why she might jump at the chance to cash out,” his father presses. “The way you two have things set up, the girl has to be cash poor. What if I lent you a half million to send her on her way? You could have Fetch offices in four cities by a year from now!”
It’s awful how easy it is to picture myself pushed aside. Mr. Emery never wanted Jackson and me to start this business, but the minute we became successful he’d tried to muscle in as an investor. We always turn down his offers.
At least, we always have until now. But now that we’re divorced, maybe I don’t know Jackson’s mind so well anymore.
There is movement behind the door, and the fear of getting caught unsticks me. I take two quiet steps backward, spin around, and exit as fast as I can.
Dashing out of the office, I hurry down the set of exterior stairs, not even pausing to admire the brickwork and the antique iron sconces. I love this office, hidden just out of view of Yorkville’s multimillion-dollar real estate. And I love this little company I built with my ex-husband.
They can’t buy me out. I won’t let them.