New Year's Steve

The biggest issue is waiting for those financial records to be reconciled. Good thing we have a whole team committed to getting it done today. I’m sure they’re all hard at work. I should check on that floor while I’m there. They could probably use a private, catered lunch next week.

I text out a quick note to the office manager so I don’t forget.

Me: Hey Beth, for next week — Let’s get lunch set up in the conference room for the accounting team. I want to thank them for their hard work this quarter.

Beth: Will do! Any special requests?

Me: Italian maybe?

Who doesn’t love that?

Me: Pasta, salad, garlic bread…? Pizza maybe?

Beth: That sounds great, Mr. McGinnis. But maybe a bit much for only five people?

Good point. I keep forgetting the accounting team is small.

Me: Hold on, give me a minute.

I put on a beat up pair of sneakers that are too worn to wear running, but just worn in and comfortable enough that I don’t have to bend down to tie them.

I push through the fire door on my floor and the stairs to the ground level to continue my workout, shooting Felicity a message as I go. She works in a small office. She probably has an opinion on this kind of thing.

Me: Quick question. If you were going to bonus a small group of people for going above and beyond, would you do a catered lunch, or… something else.

Felicity: That depends. Is this group women or men, or a mix of both?

Me: Women.

Felicity: Hmm. If it was men, I’d say lunch would be awesome. If it’s women and you’re trying to show them how much you appreciate them, what about gift cards to someplace nice. Like a spa or something? Who DOESN’T love a back rub?

Felicity: Don’t get me wrong, lunch is REALLY thoughtful and probably unnecessary.

Me: No, you’re right. It’s only five people and I was just about to order a shit ton of food and figured I’d check with you first.

I’m standing on the platform between floors ten and eleven, pausing my descent so I can text back and forth without sounding like an autocorrect inept idiot.

Felicity: Glad I could help!

I close out the LoveSwept app and shoot off another message to Beth.

Me: On second thought, what about a few gift cards? What’s that spa down on Kilbourn???

Beth: Water and Earth?

Me: That’s the one!

Beth: Great choice, boss! I’ll get on it.

Boss.

It’s still weird seeing that in writing, or hearing it for that matter. After my grandfather died and my dad retired, the only one left in the family who could run things was me.

Some things about taking over I will never get used to.

I’m at the office in short time — it’s not far from my place, but there’s no time to walk. And I’m not about to take a cab, so I jog, even though I’m in jeans; do I even care if I get sweaty, since I haven’t showered yet?

I’m panting when I make it to the front of McGinnis Headquarters, stopping to walk off the adrenaline coursing through my veins, pulling my thin winter jacket and tee shirt beneath it away from my body and from under my perspiring armpits.

It’s fucking cold out, too.

No doubt I’m going to be a freezing my balls off once my body temperature drops back to normal.

When I look up, Adam is waiting in the lobby, eyes glued to his phone, casually leaning against the desk by the turnstiles looking far more dapper than I am.

Dress pants. Wool pea coat. Red plaid scarf. Black leather gloves.

He puts his hand up when I approach, and we slap each other a high-five.

“Hey man, what took you so long?” He wants to know, stuffing his phone in his coat pocket. “I was texting you?”

“Jogged over.”

He looks me up and down. “You look like shit, man.”

“Thanks.”

We move to the revolving doors and are back in the street, flagging down a cab to head to our lunch reservation.

Well, reservation might be an exaggeration. Adam and I have a standing reservation at a sports bar slash restaurant in the shadier part of town. It’s an institution near the baseball stadium, having been around longer than the stadium itself has; dark and dingy, walls covered in memorabilia I’ve tried to buy off the owner at least a dozen times.

Spence and Boone’s.

Except only Boone remains.

Food is fucking fantastic, the locals love hearing the latest insider gossip (when it’s not confidential, of course) and Adam and I love hearing the fan’s point of view.

Our spot by the window is taken — the place is packed for a college Bowl game — but Boone is working and pulls a table over near one of the flat screen TV’s, rearranging chairs and squeezing us onto a table that hadn’t existed before our arrival.