Me: Happy Friday! Yeah, I’m ready. Going to send around the waiver to everyone in a few minutes. May as well fill it out before we get there. Don’t forget closed-toe shoes.

Me: Still there?

Solange: sorry! i fell asleep while you were capitalizing and adding periods

Me: Cute. Later, “babe.”

Solange: ugh, watch it. tchau.

I’m grinning like a fool when Henderson appears at my office door. Danger, danger. Happiness isn’t allowed here. I straighten in my seat and throw on my poker face.

“Chapman,” he says. “Just checking in on your campaign to recruit Kimberly Bailey. How’s it going?”

“So far, so good, sir. They seem to already know a lot about the firm, and they’ve been asking lots of questions.”

“That’s great to hear,” he forces out.

Anything pleasant takes considerable effort for Henderson.

“What else do you have lined up?” he asks.

“We’re stepping outside of the box and taking them axe throwing tonight. They loved the idea.”

His brows snap together. “I think it’s safe to say your generation is headed in a different direction than mine. Maybe that isn’t such a bad thing after all.” As though he’s unsure how to use his long-dormant face muscles, he slowly curves his lips into his best approximation of a smile. “You certainly seem to be doing okay.”

It’s the closest Henderson has ever come to paying me a compliment, and rather than lap it up the way I thought I would, I’m reminded of Solange’s point the day I asked her to be my pretend girlfriend: Shouldn’t working your ass off for eight years suffice? It should. But it doesn’t. And the moment I’m no longer useful to him, Henderson will revert to his old self again.

“Was there anything else, sir?”

Henderson’s uncharacteristically jovial expression slips. “Nothing else, Chapman. Keep me updated on any developments.”

“Will do.”

A few minutes later, Peter Barnum darkens my door. Apparently, I’m meeting with all the assholes today.

“Hey, got a minute?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, minimizing the tabs on my computer because Peter’s a crafty gunner who’s always trying to advance his own interest and an open tab is potential ammo.

He flops onto a guest chair and leans forward, his grin too wide for my comfort. “I’ve been thinking: We need to elevate our efforts with Kimberly Bailey. Axe throwing isn’t going to cut it. Ba-dum-bump.”

I stare at him. “Is there more?”

“Well, with that in mind, I snagged us an invitation to an exclusive party in Adams Morgan on Saturday night.”

“Who’s throwing it?”

“A law school buddy of mine.”