Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Bess

W hen I spotted the white envelope on my keyboard, my stomach plummeted. A blank envelope holding a severance pay was George’s way of firing people. Hands-off and impersonal. But to me, this was personal. I couldn’t lose this job. I simply couldn’t.

I picked up the envelope without sitting down, steadying myself against the back of the office chair, which tried to traitorously roll away. I’d received no warning. I hadn’t received any feedback in weeks, other than the odd thumbs-up online. But I’d noticed the frowns, hushed conversation and muffled yells that carried across soundproof doors. Something was up, which was probably why a single envelope could induce such a chilling layer of cold sweat.

With shaking hands, I pried open the glue and pulled out a printout. When my gaze landed on a weekly schedule, relief flooded my veins.

An all-expenses-paid, 6-day retreat at Rubie Ridge.

I blinked, confused. Judging by their cutesy logo, Rubie Ridge Art Retreat was set in the mountains and, according to their by-line, all about supercharging your creativity. It made no sense. I wasn’t the star of the agency, by any stretch. Not like Charlie, the Creative Director. Or even Teresa, our Art Director and my only office friend. But there it was—my name printed at the top of the welcome letter.

I glanced around the production floor. If I was getting this, everyone else must have been gifted a new car. But I saw no other envelopes or anything out of the ordinary. Only neat rows of silver iMacs and the expressionless faces staring at them, filling the room with the ever-present sound of faint clicking. George didn’t believe in playing music. “This isn’t a bar!” he’d shout from the top of the stairs, causing the brave soul who’d thought to cheer us with a song to quickly turn off their speakers. If workers seemed too relaxed, they obviously weren’t productive.

“Anyone else got this? It’s about an art retreat or something.” I raised the envelope. The three people currently sharing the room with me shook their heads and raised their eyebrows.

“Is it like a flyer or something?”

“I guess so.” I slipped the envelope into the pocket of my bulky cardigan—a fashion choice I hoped came across as hipster rather than homeless. At least it was short, not the gathered drape style Mom went for.

I was about to sit and continue Photoshopping another realtor with brilliant veneers for a client website when I noticed Charlie in the doorway.

Tall, blond, and so stupidly good-looking, it always seemed like he was modeling the clothes he wore, making sales on every step. I ordered my eyes to focus on the screen before he noticed the half-witted expression on my face. But I was too slow. His gaze flicked to me, and to my shock, it lingered. Those ocean blue eyes held mine and his lips parted as if words were forming on them, but nothing came out.

Two things were off. Charlie wasn’t usually around on Fridays, and he never looked at me like this. He usually approached me like a smiling hurricane, launching into his first request before he’d even reached my desk, quickly offloading everything that was momentarily taking up space in his uncanny brain. I hadn’t fully figured out why he chose to do that in person when we had online job tracking tools and email, but it must have had something to do with how Charlie operated. Verbally. Enigmatically. With showmanship.

It was hard to say no to him in person. Via email, I could have questioned some of his craziest ideas, but when he stormed my desk and asked, I caved every time. I found the mystery font he thought was called ‘raindrops something’ (it wasn’t). I recreated his corrupted file. I figured out how to roll out his campaign in twenty different formats.

Charlie had free rein. Largely because he was the boss’s son, but also because the clients loved him. I could see why. His work was ambitious and visually striking, albeit a little half-cooked. When it came to the realities of this world, like the pixel ratios or the awkward grills on the back of a bus… well, Charlie didn’t think that far. It was up to me, his trusted production assistant, to make it all work without compromising his amazing idea.

Despite his chaotic ways, he was charming. So charming that every woman under fifty, even Teresa, turned into an eyelash-batting vixen around him. Everyone but me. While they twirled their hair and giggled, I tried to keep my resentment and jealousy under control.

When I saw him approaching, I took a deep breath and repeated my mantra: Oh, Charlie!

It was all about the tone.

Instead of openly despising his disorderly ways, obscene paycheck, and life of luxury, I chose to think of him as an adorable Labrador puppy who also happened to be a creative genius.

When I had to delete 357 items off his paste boards to see the actual design, I sighed ‘Oh, Charlie! He finds inspiration within chaos’.

When I saw he’d been linking from his downloads folder again, I took a deep breath and said ‘Oh, Charlie! His ideas flow too fast for file management’.

The most confusing part of working with Charlie, however, was the way he showered me with exaggerated praise: I was a lifesaver. He didn’t know what he’d do without me…

To a casual onlooker, it may have seemed like Charlie worshipped the ground under my feet.

Yeah, right.

But Charlie wasn’t smiling now. He wasn’t walking towards my desk with that ‘I just emailed you…’ face. After a moment’s intense staring that transferred a fresh chill into my spine, he swiveled on his white sneakers and headed towards the staff kitchen.

My fingers slid into my pocket, grasping the odd letter. Did Charlie know something about it? I gathered my courage and followed him, my heart pounding somewhere behind my forehead.

“Charlie, hey…” I waved my hand at his back, waiting for him to turn. “Do you know what this is?”

He leaned on the fridge, running his fingers through his perfectly, purposefully messy hair. “Looks like an envelope.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I’m talking about what’s inside. Some sort of art retreat program. Nobody else got one so I assume it’s a mistake, or a clever ad. Maybe they expect me to call and then try to sign me up for a timeshare.”

His brief smile was chased by an uncertain look as he studied me. What was this new intensity in him? What was going on?

My chest and cheeks felt warm, and I fixed my gaze on the fridge door. Someone had written an ode to beer or urine using poetry magnets.

The golden liquid glistens…

“Relax, Bess.” Charlie grabbed the envelope, forcing me to look at him. “George wanted to reward people who worked on the Biased beer campaign.”

I always cringed when he called his dad George but kept my face neutral.

“Teresa was in the Biased team and she didn’t get one. Nobody else in Production did.” I folded my arms, fighting the urge to look away.

Charlie finally broke eye contact, pulling a bottle of organic cola from the fridge. “I think she’s getting a bonus,” he said evasively, taking a swig. “Personalized gifts and all.”

I stared at the envelope he’d placed back in my hands. Why, oh why couldn’t it be a bonus? Instead, I got a week’s getaway I couldn’t possibly make use of. I opened the envelope again, browsing the details.

“I appreciate this, but it’s next week. I have work lined up. I can’t just go.” I hoped my expression said I was grateful, yet conflicted.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. There it was. The true reason I couldn’t ‘just go’ anywhere.

“Sorry, it’s the school.” I gave Charlie an apologetic smile and backtracked into the hallway, searching for a quiet corner.

He followed me, halting a few steps away. My stomach tightened as I listened to the teacher’s disapproving voice, telling me that my child had thrown up in the middle of the classroom. Again.

“Was she coughing?” I asked. “If she coughs a lot she will easily throw up. It doesn’t mean she’s sick. It might just be a one-off.” I was grasping at straws.

“She coughed for a bit, but we can’t risk it. I’m going to need you to pick her up right now.”

“Okay. Okay.”

I finished the call, mortified to find Charlie still standing behind me.

“Is Celia okay?” His thumbnail scraped at the cola bottle label, peeling it off at the corner.

“Yeah, she’ll be fine. But I have to pick her up. I’ll call my mom. Maybe she can get her so I can finish work.”

I had to finish clearcutting those pictures. They were due today. If I left, I’d lose my extra hours.

“Bring her here. She can hang out with Rhonda.” He gestured with his bottle at the hallway leading to the private offices, including the one belonging to our elderly accountant. “And me. I have a new robot she can play with. It just arrived.”

I huffed at the ludicrous idea. “You don’t have time to babysit. You’re working on the credit union campaign, right?”

Charlie’s eyebrows drew together as he stared at his cola bottle, that thumb working tirelessly to remove the label. “You mean Thriver? Yeah. But you should talk to Rhonda. I think she organized the art retreat, too.”

“Oh? Okay. I’ll see her after work.”

“You should go now. I heard she might be leaving early.” His voice rang with urgency as he took me by the shoulders and pointed me in the right direction.

A strange vibration travelled through me at his sudden touch, leaving its warm, confusing glow as I walked towards Rhonda’s office.

Once I was past the production desks, I called Mom.

“Yes?” She chirped, then quickly followed up with a ‘no’ as I stated my case. “I’d love to help but I’m seeing my gynecologist in one hour. I’ve been waiting for this appointment.”

Mom worked from home and had a far more flexible schedule than I did.

“Can you please just pick her up and bring her here?”

“Is Rhonda there?”

The last time she’d visited the office, she and Rhonda had bonded on their mutual love of Bridgerton.

I glanced through the small window into Rhonda’s office. “Yep.”

“Great! I can… great! I’ll pick up Celia on the way. See you soon.” Her tone brightened so suddenly I would have questioned it, had I not been desperate.

I thanked her, slid the phone in my pocket and rapped on Rhonda’s door. An absent-minded ‘Come in’ sounded behind it. As I stepped into her potted plant adorned lair, my stress levels dropped. Rhonda was the polar opposite of every other person at Wilde Creative—well into her sixties with zero interest in fashion and defiantly unhurried manner. Her office even had a couch, making it my favorite spot in the whole building. As a bonus, she loved my daughter and kept lollipops in her desk drawer.

“Bess!” She beamed at me from behind her laptop. I heard the faint sound of Bridgerton playing on her screen, all proper and English. “Come, sit. Have a cookie.”

She gestured at a packet on the table. I wasn’t sure how she kept her job, going about it the way she did. Maybe she had some leverage, like compromising photos of George.

I sank into her couch, blowing out a breath. “Thank you.”

Rhonda closed her laptop, turning her attention to me. Noticing the envelope sticking out of my pocket, her mouth curved into a smile. “I see you found the gift.”

I took a cookie she offered, eating it over the envelope. “Yeah. What is this? Why me? I did nothing special. Charlie said they’re rewarding people who worked on the Biased beer campaign but that makes no sense.”

“But you do wonderful work. If everyone’s getting something, why not you? They love doing this sort of thing for tax deductions.”

“What is Charlie getting? A new Porsche?” I huffed.

She smirked. “Don’t be too harsh on Charlie. He’s a good boy. Even if he needs someone to confiscate his credit cards.” She laughed, and I joined in, feeling a little lighter. This was the safe zone where I didn’t have to filter myself quite so hard. Rhonda knew my struggle. She knew Charlie’s lack of struggle.

“But… you know I have Celia. I’m actually waiting for Mom to pick her up right now. She threw up in class.”

Rhonda’s eyes filled with sympathy. “Oh, poor child. Is she okay?”

“I think so. She was coughing and when she coughs, she vomits. Probably because she can’t burp.”

“That’s fascinating.”

I finished the cookie, catching the crumbs on my thumb. “No, it’s disgusting. And a huge waste of food.”

“Well, she can stay here with me if that helps you get through the day. But you don’t have to worry about next week. I’ve already reallocated your work so you can attend the retreat. I called your mom. She took the week off to look after Celia. She thinks this is a great idea.”

My jaw more or less dropped off and landed at my feet. “What?”

Rhonda’s smile turned cheeky. “Well, we think you really need a break and we wanted to make sure you had no excuses.”

“But… but…”

“No ifs, no buts, no coconuts.” She picked up a cookie and took a big, crunchy bite, shaking the front of her tunic to help the crumbs over her sizable chest.

The whole thing was coconuts. Rhonda had met my mom a couple of times during childcare emergencies, but the two weren’t exactly besties. How had they cooked up a plan like this behind my back?

Rhonda shrugged, propelling more crumbs down her shirt. “Talk to your mom. You’ll see it’s all sorted. I hope you have a wonderful time. I’ve heard great things about this place.” She pointed at the envelope. “It’s right outside Cozy Creek, which is this divine mountain town with incredible views. I checked and next week is the Fall Festival. The autumn colors are exquisite up there.” She sounded like a Bridgerton character come to life.

I sighed, allowing myself to imagine it. After working non-stop for weeks, every cell in my body cried for a break. I managed, by sticking to healthy eating and daily exercise. No vices of any kind, other than too much sitting. But I still felt the little cracks—my temper getting shorter and the occasional meltdowns over minor things. So far, it had only happened at home, and once in a grocery store, but lately, it was getting harder to maintain the professional smile at work.

“I’ve never actually been away from Celia for more than one night.”

Rhonda’s eyebrows lifted in shock as she leaned back in her seat. “Really? She’s five years old. It’s okay.”

“I know it’s okay. I just haven’t had any reason.”

Where the hell would I go? I couldn’t afford a vacation. I wasn’t in a relationship. I didn’t travel for work.

Rhonda watched me for a moment, silent. She was one of the few people who could do that without making you uncomfortable. Watching and waiting with no judgment.

Her voice was soft and warm like a hug. “Bess. This is a good thing. Don’t question it. Just enjoy, okay?” She stood up and ushered me out the door. “Now go. Finish your work. I’ll grab your daughter when she arrives, and I’ll give you a buzz. Then you can go home and get ready.” She gestured at the little window on her door, which had a view of the elevators.

With a receptionist who spent half her time vaping on the balcony, Rhonda was the true ears and eyes of Wilde Creative. The one who saw everything and knew everything.

I left her office on wobbly legs. She was right—I needed to finish those agent headshots. But on the way back to my desk, I allowed myself a quick detour.