But the idea of calling Lance…
Her stomach twisted. No, Lance was entirely out of the question.
What a miserable freaking day.
Heaving a sigh, she lifted herself off the sofa and peeked her head out of the door to her office. Everyone was just about packed up for the day, making their goodbyes before they headed out to their cars and made their way home. Well, at least there would be no witnesses for her parade of misery.
She turned on the little stereo that sat behind her desk and pumped the bubblegum eighties pop she listened to whenever she was depressed.
"It's a nice day for a white wedding, indeed," she mumbled to herself in time with Billy Idol's crooning. Reaching into the bottom drawer of her desk, she pulled out one of the little bottles of vodka she'd kept hidden away for a special occasion.
This might not qualify as special, but it was certainly an occasion.
She poured herself a glass and settled into some work. Tomorrow, the next day—those could be nice days for white weddings. Tonight, she would lose herself in her spreadsheets and sort the rest out later.
2
Quarter after six. The debriefing had gone well yesterday, but there were still some loose ends to be tied up. Matchware was playing hardball with them, and if Garret Adams didn’t have solid data for them by the end of the month, he could kiss the merger—and the move to a high rise in the city—goodbye.
The logistics he could deal with and his brother, Brooks, could certainly handle the schmoozing. But the innovative research…
He sighed. There wasn't much time for planning a full-scale roll out of the new system, but maybe if he talked to Natalie and Rachael he’d be able to get some ideas.
Garret rounded the block of cubicles, heading toward the largest door—his own. He read over the gold wording emblazoned on the frosted glass: “Co-owner and lead scientist: Garret Adams.” It felt like a pat on the back every time he caught sight of it.
With a contented grin, he opened the door and then sat his briefcase on his desk. The best part about showing up so early was that nobody was expected to be in the office for another three hours. Plenty of time to send e-mails, manage new expense reports, and start the day off with a jolt of productivity.
Maybe he could even solve the Matchware issue.
All he had to do was get his first cup of Joe and get moving.
He headed to the kitchen on the far left of the office, past the rows upon rows of cubicles that made up his own personal beehive. It was a perfect oasis, a ghost town, without all of his worker bees buzzing around him on their cell phones and laptops, trying to push their mission up to the next tier of production.
In his head, he was already planning out how strong he wanted to make his first pot of coffee for the day, but a blip in the periphery of his mind alerted him to an error in his morning ritual.
There was a sound, distant, but distinct, coming from behind him. A melody?
Turning, he spotted a door standing ajar in the far corner of the office. He sighed and headed for Rachael’s domain, already knowing what he'd lay witness to when he assessed the damage she'd wrought the night before. He had to admit music would be a first, but he didn’t doubt Rachael would still probably lay sleeping on her desk, as usual, papers stuck to her face, a stapler clenched in her grip.
Why she never slept on that couch of hers was beyond him, but at least she didn’t complain about the words that would almost certainly be printed across her cheek for the remainder of the day. Some of the secretaries started a bingo game guessing at what her skin would say from one day to the next.
It wasn't exactly a kind thing to do, but at least he'd made a tidy sum the last time he'd, um, encouraged their escapades. For morale purposes, of course.
By the time he leaned against her doorjamb, the Madonna tune on her radio was winding to an end. He prepared for his usual style of rousing her, clearing his throat before he said, "Good morning, Rachael."
As always, Rachael jerked back in her chair, forms still clinging to her face so that she looked like a mass of blond curls held together by printer paper.
Swatting the sheets away, she answered, "Oh, good morning Garret. Sorry about, um, all this. Won't happen again."
He raised his eyebrows in response. Even if she meant it, they both knew it was a lie.
"So, how late was it last night?" His gaze traveled over the dumping ground that was her office floor. He'd expected the usual debris—a smattering of paper clips, broken pencils, dried up markers, and wads upon wads of paper, balled up and cast aside for better ideas. What he found instead was a spray of magazines, all featuring women in large white cupcake dresses, and a veritable distillery of tiny vodka bottles, all completely empty.