Page 43 of Mr. Big Shot

Slightly less worrying than my developing feelings for very-young, very-off-limits Scarlett but still annoying is the fact that winter has descended on us. It snowed over the weekend. The city is currently blanketed with white fluff. So far, ten people have said the words “I just love the first snow of the season,” so now I’m playing a game with myself: if I hear it fifteen times before lunch, I’m allowed to take a shot from the For Emergencies Only tequila bottle I keep in a side cupboard in my office.

The last emergency was Lucy’s birthday. She got me so drunk I slept on the floor under my desk, but it’s been months since then, and I’ve mostly forgiven her.

I’ll have to relegate it to a single shot today though. I’m supposed to meet Scarlett in the gym later this afternoon.

At least I think that’s the plan. We’re not in fucking elementary school comparing our Lisa Frank planners in art class. Just…we met last week on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, so I figure we’ll do the same this week. I mean, it would be convenient if we had a time set so I didn’t have to pace around that boxing ring for an hour waiting on her, but I refuse to look like a simpering fool. If I have to wait for her, I’ll just work later to make up for the wasted time. It’s fine.

During last week’s sessions, Scarlett tried to take me on in the ring, and I tried to mostly keep my gaze above her collarbone while dodging her surprisingly well-timed blows. For someone so small, she’s feisty. She landed a solid punch to my stomach on Friday. I had to double over and breathe deep. She immediately gasped with horror and ran over to check on me, her hand rubbing soothing circles on my back (inappropriate), her face down near mine (tempting).

“Did I really hurt you?” she asked, sounding concerned.

“Yeah.”

“Are you crying?”

“A little.”

She laughed and pushed me away playfully. God, I love making her laugh.

Fortunately for me, I have a big closing in two days for the Zion Oil and SolarCo merger. It’s scheduled for the day before Thanksgiving, and it’s given me a lot to focus on outside of Scarlett. I work straight through lunch with my team, but by 2:00 p.m., everyone’s cranky and we’re starting to make stupid mistakes. I dismiss them down to the food court, and I’m about to figure out food for myself when Lucy’s phone rings. A few minutes later, she shouts out.

“It’s your mom! Line two.”

“Why does she call you first? She has my direct line.”

“She likes me!”

I pick up the phone. “Why do you call Lucy first?”

“I like her!” my mom says as if they corroborated their story beforehand.

Of course.

I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder and keep working. “What’s up?”

“I’m calling to see if you’re joining us for Thanksgiving dinner.”

I wouldn’t miss it, but still, I string her along. It’s the Rhodes way.

“What’s on the menu?”

“Turkey. Now are you comin’ or what?”

“What kind of sides are we working with? I noticed last year you tried to experiment with a new sweet potato dish, and I didn’t care for it.”

“You know what? You can get your butt in the kitchen and help make any side dish you want. How about that?”

I think if people at work were to meet my mom (something I’ve avoided at all costs because I do not like to integrate my separate worlds), they’d understand my personality a little better. She’s a single mom who raised my sister and me while working full-time. She also put herself through night school to get her social work degree after my dad left us. For the last twenty years, she’s worked in the foster care system, but don’t let that fool you. She’s not soft. She’s like an old southern grandma fused with a calloused New Yorker, from Chicago, a combo that should make you shiver and avert your eyes. She will say everything that’s wrong with you straight to your face, and she has done so to me plenty of times.

“I’ll be there and I’ll bring pie,” I tell her.

“Chocolate mousse or pumpkin. Don’t get cutesy and bring cherry.”

“I like cherry.”

“Eat it on your own time. You’ll be in my house and I want chocolate mousse or pumpkin.”

I laugh. “Understood.”

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