Besides, if the blind date ends badly, that’s a mark on my friendship with Aurora and Eldon that I don’t want.
“Thanks, but I’m taking a break from dating.”
The mug in her hand stops mid-air. “Because?”
“No reason in particular.” I grin. “More me time, less he time.”
“By ‘he’ you mean every available man in Manhattan?”
“Exactly.” I punctuate the word with a nod.
“I said that the day before I met Eldon.” She takes a sip from her mug. “Look how that turned out for me.”
“What do you think, Trina?”
I look up from my desk to see Kay, one of our designers, with a massive man’s silver watch on her wrist.
She’s clinging to the band tightly while she admires her workmanship.
“I think Abdons has a new bestseller on their hands.” I pause for effect. “Or should I say their wrists?”
She laughs the same way she always does when I crack that joke.
Kay has been working at Abdons for decades. She was one of the first employees when Lloyd Abdon launched his designer watch brand in a small shop on the Lower East Side.
The company has grown into a multi-million-dollar business since that day. Mr. Abdon still pops into the office whenever the urge strikes, but he handed over the day-to-day reins to Mr. Locke last year.
“Is he around?” Kay’s gaze darts to Mr. Locke’s closed office door.
He is, but he’s in a grumpy mood.
I found that out when I chirped “good morning” to my boss, and his response was a shoot of death rays from his eyes in my direction.
That’s a slight exaggeration, but it was apparent something or someone turned what could have been a good morning for him into an angry a.m., as I call it. That’s not to be confused with the pissy p.m. he has at least a few times a week.
“Mr. Locke is busy,” I lie to save Kay from his wrath. “Why don’t I check with him later to see when he’s available?”
That’s my polite way of saying that I’ll wait until that ten-minute window each day when he’s not about to cut someone’s head off with his words.
“Works for me,” she says in a tone edged with glee. “I think he’s going to love my new design.”
I think he’ll say it’s “fine” before instructing one of the new designers he hired to come up with something cutting edge with a host of bells and whistles.
Kay is still designing watches for people who only use their timepiece to well…tell time. Mr. Locke is trying to corner the market for those who want to call their business partners, book a lunch reservation, and plan their Aruba vacation from the comfort of their wrists.
“Back to the design lab for me.” She turns abruptly and stomps off.
I watch her leave, wishing I could go with her because I know my boss, and twenty-five minutes from now, he’ll swing open his office door and order me to get him a sandwich that will in no way satisfy him.
I glance at the vintage silver Abdons watch on my wrist.
Twenty-four minutes and fifty-seven seconds from now, the mid-day fun begins.
Chapter Three
Trina
I stepped out to get Mr. Locke his lunch, and he split.
He took off like a bat under the cover of darkness.
No one noticed him leave, not even Cecil at the reception desk, and he spots everything.
I look at the white paper bag in my hand.
Today’s lunch order consisted of turkey, avocado, and arugula on whole grain bread with a zesty sauce and a sprinkle of pepper.
It smells delicious, and although I was tempted to order myself one, I pushed that notion aside because there’s a bowl of macaroni salad in the fridge in the break room with my name on it.
Literally.
I wrote my name on the lid because Cecil is under the impression that the fridge is a buffet just for him. He picks and chooses his appetizer, entrée, and dessert from there almost every day.
I drop the bag on my desk and turn in a circle, looking for some inspiration.
Do I eat the sandwich or wait to hear from Locke?
The hunger gods must hear me because my phone chimes in my purse.
I dig it out.
My gaze drops to the screen to find a text message from the man himself.
Mr. Locke: I’ll be out of the office for the remainder of the day. Reschedule my meetings.
My stomach growls a response before I do.
Trina: Very well, sir.
Not only will I be dining on a fourteen-dollar sandwich for lunch, but I’ll make it home before dinnertime tonight.
I don’t have plans. Well, unless you count organizing my utensil drawer as plans.
I take a seat behind my desk and grab a paper napkin from the stack I keep hidden in my bottom drawer.
That lands on my lap because I happen to like the skirt I’m wearing, and I don’t want a splotch of zesty sauce to send it to the dry cleaners prematurely.