The Truth

“Okay. Goodnight, then,” Mac says, turning around and walking back toward the building.

I look at Tiffany, who’s got her lips pinched together hard and trying not to giggle. Me, on the other hand? I feel like a teenager who just got caught by my parents. “Busted.”

Tiffany laughs, nodding. “Yup. Totally.”

“So . . . okay, admission time, but getting busted’s kind of a boner killer for me,” I tell her. “Think we can go inside, let me wrap up my work, and then . . . see what happens?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “But I’m telling you now, if Mac’s totally cock blocked you for more than a few hours, I’m going to be highly upset with him.”

Chapter 24

Tiffany

This week is going to be the death of me. I mean, I’m busy almost all the time, but this week? It’s a super-sized serving of tasks, and not all the good stuff, either.

Luckily, I traded in my ‘plate’ for a turkey dinner-sized platter so that I can keep everything balanced. But it’s still overfull and stacked tall with to-do list items. I wonder if instead of a platter, I’m better off with a tower of spinning plates like one of those circus performers. Maybe I’d get more done that way?

I’m down for whatever it takes because none of the things I’m responsible for can fail.

First, the wedding. I feel like there’s more and more every day that needs to be done. Meanwhile, Harper is remarkably calm, saying that everything will get done. If I didn’t know her better, I’d give her a piss test for weed. She’s that chill.

But every time I bring something up, she says, “All that matters is that Ace and I are at the altar to get married. And we already booked the church.”

Yeah, she says that now, but I’ve seen her planner and her Pinterest boards. She has several—a ceremony one, another for the reception, and then individual ones for dresses, floral bouquets, and something called ‘unique memories’.

She’s going to regret it if things aren’t perfect. And I won’t let that happen, to Harper or to Ace.

But at this rate, the reception guests are going to be served Burger King and wine coolers and dancing to music played on a Bluetooth speaker.

So, I’m picking up the slack here, there, and everywhere I can to save her the hassle. I’ve booked a caterer, I’ve booked the band, the videographer . . . about the only thing I haven’t done is cut checks to these people yet. Harper is going to have to handle that herself.

Second, the fill-in FedEx guy is worse than Arnold, which I would’ve never thought possible. I don’t even know his name because he didn’t introduce himself. He just came in with a glower on his face and a monotone demand to know where the packages are.

Megan and Stephanie have taken to calling him Arnold 2.0, not because he’s like Arnold the usual FedEx guy but rather because he’s like Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator. Seriously, if he ever tells me he’ll be back, I’m running up the stairs to avoid the inevitable truck through the front window of the building.

I can’t believe I’m thinking this, but I miss our original Arnold and the swish-swish chorus of his polyester-clad thighs as he power walks.

And last, but certainly not least, the gossip grapevine around the office has grown roots and shoots and taken off faster than bamboo.

Thirty-six inches an hour?

Hell, we had that beat before the first cup of coffee with everyone talking about Mark and Brandon’s fight. Stuff like that just doesn’t happen at Fox.

And while Mac hasn’t said anything that I know of, people are putting two and two together about Daniel and me. They see the way Daniel looks at me and the way I look at him. They’re noticing that he’s stopping by the front desk now, whereas before we weren’t even a speed bump on his path to the office. So far, no one has said anything to me, but I’ve definitely felt their curious eyes and have walked into some cube farms that go silent the instant they see me.

So with my overflowing platter of to-do items, my stress eating has reduced my food intake to just my favorite peanut butter crackers for the last few days. I’m going through six packages a day and could still eat more of their perfect mix of salty-sweet goodness.

Right now, in fact, I’m in full-blown squirrel mode when Ricky and Billy come into my office and plop down, Billy in my one guest chair and Ricky on my desk. “Is that your lunch?” Ricky asks, his nose crinkled in distaste.

I don’t stop munching as I answer, “Don’t talk smack about my goodies. It’s too bad for you that you can’t respect their deliciousness.”

I swallow my mouthful and lick the salt off the top of the next one in the package salaciously, giving Ricky an uncomfortable amount of eye contact, knowing it’ll annoy him.