Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Bess

T eresa stared at the screen, her forehead pinched in concentration. She had an elegant posture, a killer wardrobe and a mouth that always spoke her mind. I found her slightly terrifying, but she’d been on my side from the start, defending me with such ferocity I felt equal parts grateful and uncomfortable. It was still better than the whispers and sideways looks I received as the odd one out.

I knew I wasn’t fun. I never had money for after-work drinks. I couldn’t discuss the best designer outlets, restaurants, dating apps or whatever else they found interesting. Instead, I hung back, finishing mine and other people’s jobs. Not because I wanted to show off. I just couldn’t sit idle. And the last thing I needed was for anyone to question my output.

A scattering of money-related icons filled Teresa’s screen as she scratched her head, making her short, black hair stick out in every direction. She could pull it off, though. She was born fabulous.

“What do you think?” she asked. “Notes, coins or dollar signs? Or something vague? I’m losing my mind here. Money is the most visually uninspiring subject in the world! Everything looks… tacky. Ick.” She shuddered, which her bedazzled top turned into a mini stage performance.

I sighed. “Uhh… don’t ask me. I’m dreading working on that campaign again. It’s so… I don’t know.” I hadn’t yet figured out why that job bothered me so much. “Anyway, I thought Charlie was working on it.”

Teresa lowered her voice. “He is. But, apparently the focus group hated it. I’m putting together some new visuals for Charlie to play with.”

“Really?” I cocked my head, surprised. Charlie rarely missed the mark. “Why are they bringing in a focus group this late, anyway?”

“How the hell do I know? Mr. Broken Arrow probably did the first concepts drunk or something.” Teresa huffed. “Who has a crate of beers in the middle of a workday? Trevor came out of that meeting hugging the walls.”

Teresa felt left out every time there was a party in Charlie’s office and she wasn’t invited. She hated the boys’ club, yet tried so hard to break in. I admired her determination, even if I couldn’t understand the appeal.

I glanced at my hands, and Teresa’s sharp gaze landed on the envelope. “Oh, my God! Don’t tell me you got fired! Oh, my God!”

“Shh. No, it’s not that.” I showed her the invitation, fighting the instant bout of panic her first guess induced. “But there’s something weird going on. I don’t know what to think of this, to be honest.”

Teresa perused the itinerary, her eyebrows drawing together. “Wow. This is… wow.”

“It’s got to be a mistake, right? Charlie said everyone on the Biased beer team is getting rewarded, but?—”

“I was on the Biased team! I created that swirly pattern. Where’s my reward?”

I was too nervous to mention the bonus Charlie had alluded to. What if he was misinformed? Teresa would be crushed, and she’d hate him even more.

“I know! It must be a mistake. ”

Teresa took a moment, her gaze bouncing between me and the envelope, red lips pursed. “You should go. Even if it’s a mistake. Maybe a client or supplier sent it as a gift, and they drew your name out of a hat. Does it matter? Your name is printed on it and you should go. If you can arrange it, I mean. I know you have a kid.”

“Rhonda’s already cleared my work schedule and organized my mom to look after Celia. I don’t understand why they’d go behind my back.”

Teresa handed back the envelope, picked up her Wacom pen and mindlessly tapped on the tablet. “Don’t question it. Life is full of shit. If something good happens, grab it with both hands. You deserve a break.”

“So do you!”

“Yup.” She stared at her screen, mouth a straight line. “I’m actively manifesting a vacation in Bali. Any day now…”

I laughed a little, out of courtesy, but my insides wobbled. As I got back to my desk, my hands continued to work on autopilot as my mind wandered to the Rockies, recreating the picture Rhonda had painted. The idea of taking a break felt unreal, yet I felt a spark of excitement. What if the universe had decided to throw me a bone?

A while later, Rhonda’s chat message popped up on my screen, informing me that Celia was in the building. Photoshop took that opportunity to inform me that the scratch disk was full. Praying upon the spinning beach ball of death, I employed every trick in my book to free up enough memory to save my file. By the time I made it to her office, Mom had already left.

“Where’s Celia?” I asked, peering into Rhonda’s office, where she sat by herself behind the laptop screen, Bridgerton now blasting at full volume.

“Charlie’s office.” Rhonda waved her hand, eyes on the screen.

I headed down the corridor to find Charlie’s corner office. It was nearly as large as the entire production studio that accommodated seven people, including me. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a panorama of downtown Denver. It would have looked impressive if it weren’t for all the printouts, boxes and gadgets covering every available surface. Empty delivery boxes had begun piling up against the wall, partially reaching the high ceiling. Charlie was clearly on a mission to turn his executive office into an Amazon warehouse.

In the middle of the room, a shiny white robot the size of my 5-year-old daughter shook its hips, dancing to a Japanese pop song that blasted from the speakers in its chest. Like a Manga character come to life, wearing an apron over a conservative black dress, it blinked its giant, glowing eyes and tossed its luminous white hair. Celia danced with it, blond curls bouncing against her purple sweater, winter boots stomping against the polished floor.

I paused at the doorway, observing the strange scene. At least my daughter didn’t seem sick. Quite the opposite. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her this full of life.

Was her shirt backwards?

The song ended and the robot bowed, saying something in Japanese. Celia bowed back, clapping her hands. “Good job, Yuki!” She turned to Charlie, eyes sparkling. “She’s so smart. I love her!”

Charlie looked up from his phone, startled to find me watching them. “Oh, hi.” He covered his befuddlement with a smile. “I was just looking for a way to change the language.”

“Mom!” Celia ran to hug me. “I threw up at school, but the teacher said it’s okay.”

“It’s fine, CeCe.” I stroked her back, but she wriggled away from my arms, back to Charlie and his toy.

“What is that?” I circled the robot, keeping a wary distance. It seemed to detect my presence, turning to face me with those unsettling, bright eyes.

“A Japanese robot maid.”

“And you need it because… you have so much dusting to do, and our regular cleaners don’t know the right dance moves?”

Charlie’s smile took on a guilty edge. “Well, they just clean and leave the building. Where’s the fun in that? Besides, Yuki can entertain our child visitors. She knows a lot of games. Most of them are Japanese so I haven’t quite figured them out yet, but I’m working on it.”

“Sounds… great.” Celia was the only child visitor I’d ever seen in the building, but I had to admit she looked thoroughly entertained.

“She’s so cool!” My daughter turned to me with pleading eyes that rivaled the robot’s anime ones. “Can we get one, Mom? I want it more than I want a sister.”

“Oh, sweetie.” I sighed, searching for words to let her down easy.

Celia opened her arms at the robot. “Can I hug you, Yuki?”

The robot copied her moves, returning the awkward hug. Damn you, Charlie. My chest squeezed at the sheer adorableness of the scene.

Celia let go of the robot, turning her anime eyes to Charlie. “Is she expensive?”

“No—”

“Yes, very expensive,” I cut in, flashing Charlie an alarmed look.

What the hell was he doing, fueling the fire?

“Yeah, I suppose,” Charlie corrected, taken aback.

“It’s all relative,” I amended quickly, offering him a polite smile.

Do not offend the boss’s son, Bess. You can’t afford that sort of sass.

“Okay, CeCe. Time to go.” I took my mutinous child by the hand and dragged her out of the room, thanking Charlie for his childcare efforts.

Why was he babysitting my 5-year-old in the first place? At his astronomical hourly rate (according to Teresa), it made as much sense as a surgeon cleaning the bathrooms.

“But I want to play with Yuki!” my child wailed.

“You can watch My Little Pony on my phone,” I promised, coaxing her back to Rhonda’s couch. “Mommy will go finish one job and then I’ll take you home, okay?”

Rhonda lowered the volume on her laptop, reaching into her desk drawer. “Lollipop?”

“Yes, please,” Celia said, accepting the treat before she gave me a resigned look, plonking her tiny frame on the couch and sighing like she was a hundred years old.

They didn’t call me Buzzkill for nothing.