“Thanks for the warning.” Straightening my skirt, I cross the final three steps to his door and knock.

Wait. Ack, I forgot something to write with. I lunge toward Barbara’s desk.

“Pen?” I ask, scrunching my eyes.

Her hair bounces as she fishes one out of a coffee mug and hands it to me. “Here. Oh, you have a little…” She motions at her chest. Crap, the tea. I flick my hair over my shoulders, light brown over white silk, and rearrange it to cover the worst of the spill.

Barbara gives me the thumbs-up, turquoise nails flashing.

“Come in,” James barks.

“You’re the best,” I mouth over my shoulder as I push open the heavy wood door and breach the threshold into his corner office.

“You’re late,” he says without preamble, nodding at the door. I close it softly behind me, stomach knotting. The pervasive smell of tuna, presumably leftovers from James’s lunch, does nothing to quell my nerves.

Infusing my spine with steel, I cross the room to sink into one of the square orange chairs facing his monolithic desk. “Sorry about that.” My heart thumps against my ribs as James dips his chin to peer at me over his wire-rimmed glasses.

James Wilcox, chief marketing officer, has buzzed, thinning gray-brown hair, the crinkled, papery skin of a pastry bag even though he’s only in his late fifties, and enough self-importance to fill a football stadium.

“Thanks for making time in your schedule to meet with—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“I have some interesting news for you, Henley.” He folds his hands over the stack of papers on his desk, mouth twisting into a frown. I sit there, my own hands clasped in my lap, legs crossed at the ankle, looking what I hope is pleasantly surprised and not dog-panting excited.

“Marlen and I had a meeting this morning, and we both agree it’s time to pull the trigger on hiring a director of digital marketing. We’re eyeing you for the job.”

I smile broadly as every cell of my body exhales at the confirmation. “Oh my goodness, James, that’s wonderful news. Thank you, I—”

“Don’t thank me yet, sweetheart. You’re not the only one up for the promotion.” He leans back in his chair with a thud. “We’re considering Graeme for the position too.”

The world slows. A fly hopscotches across the window behind James, and I imagine I can see every beat of its tiny, transparent wings.

“Graeme…” I repeat. My own voice sounds far away. “Graham Cracker—Crawford—Crawlin,” I stutter. Oh God, I’m losing my mind. I swallow. Get a hold of yourself, Henley. I give myself a mental slap and the world rights itself. “Graeme Crawford-Collins?” I finally manage to get out.