New Year's Steve

“Hey. Yeah, I wanted to pop in today one last time before the weekend.”

“And you decided to wear that?”

My brow goes up. “Don’t hold back, Sheila — tell me how you really feel.”

“Aren’t you still single?” she wants to know, powering ahead as if she hadn’t just insulted my wardrobe. “You’ll never find a classy woman dressed like the chimney sweep.”

Jesus. “First of all, you know damn well I don’t wear this shit every day. And secondly, barely anyone is here anymore.”

Everyone has flown the coup. I probably need to check our company handbook because I could have sworn today was an official workday. Now I’m not so sure.

Her lips purse. “Nope, they’re not. You kids and your work ethic these days ain’t what it used to be. In my day, we’d never get away with half days and walking around eating bagels from a napkin.”

Her loud voice and hawk-like pointed gaze trail Darren Powell as he scuttles by, terrified, bagel in one hand and a coffee in the other.

I roll my eyes. “Would you please stop scaring people?”

“That’s no fun.” She doesn’t come in to take a seat, but she doesn’t walk off, either. “There’s not much else for me to do around here today, and if I head home, I’ll be twiddling my thumbs until it’s time to get ready for my date.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Dwight’s taking me to Sky Bar.”

Sky Bar? What the hell, even I can’t get into that place! I let out a low whistle, impressed. “Dang, Sheila — it’s impossible to get a table there.” I wonder if she’d be willing to sell me her reservation, and how much it would take to buy Dwight off.

“Dwight’s nephew Kevin is the sous chef.”

My brows lift again. Seriously, what the fuck?

“What about you?” She wants to know, always sticking her nose in my business. “What new ridiculously frou-frou place are you showing off tonight?”

Normally, I wouldn’t tell her because the last thing I need are rumors swirling, started by the elderly receptionist, but in this case — what’s the harm? Besides, I could use some advice considering I’m in a bind.

No reservations means no date.

Let’s throw in the fact that I’m now living a lie, having to break the news to my date, who is going to react one of two ways:

Feel betrayed

Laugh it off and have fun the rest of the night.I’ll put money on the fact that Felicity will be light-hearted about it; from what I’ve seen so far, that woman is an upbeat, bundle of sexy cheerfulness.

Holiday cheer, most likely.

“Where you going tonight with your lady love?” Sheila wants to know, settling in at the door, waiting.

“Well see, that’s the problem…” I begin. “I was so busy with getting through the holidays and making sure the reports were done around here, and athletes are getting hurt and agents are scrambling that I…”

I let my voice trail off and hope she can connect the dots on her own; fill in the blank, swoop in and fix my dilemma, because if Sheila is one thing — it’s a fixer.

I wait.

Except, she doesn’t speak.

“Hello?”

“This is a you problem,” she huffs. “I’m tired of you men waiting until the last minute to plan shit because you haven’t made your lady a priority.”

“That’s not what I was doing!” Okay, that’s probably what I was doing — but it’s not like I’d met Felicity before. How the hell was I supposed to know she was going to be this freaking amazing and gorgeous and perfect?

She’s like the Christmas gift that keeps on giving.

“Sheila, please help me.”

Sheila, the old bag, shakes her head no.

“I’m begging.”

Her nose goes up. “That’s not begging, that’s telling me you’re begging.”

Good point. “What if I give you and Dwight tickets to every baseball game next season. Does he like baseball?”

She sniffs. “Eh.”

“What does he even do?” I find myself asking.

“He owns a dry cleaner business, I’ll have you know, and when people don’t pick things up, he said he’d let me pick through the neglected items.” The chin tilts higher. “We’re talking designer.” She emphasizes that last word haughtily.

“So does that mean he doesn’t like baseball, or noo…”

“It means he can afford his own tickets.” The receptionist pauses. “Unless it’s a box suite.”

Oh my god, this is extortion! “What about a week’s paid vacation?”

Then again, I am attempting to bribe her.

“I take vacation whenever I want.”

Accurate — she comes and goes as she pleases, knowing she isn’t going to get fired, and I have a feeling money isn’t a problem. There had to have been some kind of pension worked out with my grandfather before he passed. This woman could give two shits about the measly salary I pay her.

I inhale a deep breath. “Sheila, you’ve been with this company for over thirty years and you’ve seen me grow up here, and now you can see that my love life is a mess.”