I close the box and Emanuel flicks one of the bells on my reindeer antler headband before he falls into his chair and pops the tab on his energy drink. He’s wearing actual pajamas and not gym clothes like everyone else in the office. I’m glad I’m not the only one who got into the spirit, but had I known Ana would be going through a pregnancy-induced hot flash and insisting we keep the air-conditioner on, I would have worn something warmer than a pair of candy cane striped shorts and a gray henley. My saving grace is my padded bra. And the cable knit socks that go over my knees. I’m practically wearing pants.

“Bree called out,” he tells me.

“I know. She said she caught the flu.”

“Yeah, the vodka flu.”

“I’m still gonna send her over some soup for lunch.”

“Remember what I said about being too nice?” He looks at me over his computer monitor.

I shrug. “I have to order lunch for a meeting. What’s an extra sandwich and a bowl of soup?”

“What’s two extra sandwiches and a bag of salt and vinegar chips?”

“That depends on how you feel about making twelve copies of this contract for me.”

His eyes narrow. Mine narrow back. We sit like that for a few moments before he lets out an exasperated sigh and stands up, taking the papers I’m holding out to him.

“There better be a pickle involved.”

When I boot up my laptop, I have over one hundred emails, half of which were forwarded from Asher, and the other half being flash sales from all my favorite stores. I order him a new silverware set and three English Pear and Freesia candles that cost forty dollars each. Specific and expensive taste. I’m not at all surprised.

I pick at another caramel and write a non-apology statement for an actress who was criticized for posting a picture on Instagram of her breastfeeding. It ends up being much more eloquent than I planned because I’m sure Asher would have had an issue with me writing #fuckyou and #mindyabusiness.

He’s not in until this afternoon, or else I would have already marched into his office and thanked him for the caramels. Luckily for him, this just means my long list of questions is only going to get longer. Why did you send them? What does it mean? Am I no longer a giant inconvenience? Have I graduated to just a small inconvenience? Am I melting your iceberg of a heart? Does this chocolatier also make coconut patties? What about white chocolate truffles?

I eat another caramel.

“Oh my God, Ollie, you’re driving me crazy.”