My gaze drops to the screen to find a text message from the man himself.
Mr. Locke: I’ll be out of the office for the remainder of the day. Reschedule my meetings.
My stomach growls a response before I do.
Trina: Very well, sir.
Not only will I be dining on a fourteen-dollar sandwich for lunch, but I’ll make it home before dinnertime tonight.
I don’t have plans. Well, unless you count organizing my utensil drawer as plans.
I take a seat behind my desk and grab a paper napkin from the stack I keep hidden in my bottom drawer.
That lands on my lap because I happen to like the skirt I’m wearing, and I don’t want a splotch of zesty sauce to send it to the dry cleaners prematurely.
I carefully unwrap the sandwich like the gift that it is.
Just as I pick it up, my phone chimes again.
I close my eyes and make a wish that it’s a text message from one of my twelve siblings because, on any given day, most of them reach out at least once.
My parents still insist on calling me from their landline.
Against my better judgment, I glance at my phone.
I read the text message on my screen. “What the fuck?”
That’s followed by uncontrollable laughter because this has to be a joke.
Graham Locke is pranking me.
He must be because there is no way in hell that the words on my screen are real.
I read his text message again.
Mr. Locke: Meet me at the City Clerk’s office at 3 PM today for my wedding.
“Who would marry you?” I blurt out.
My boss keeps his private life under wraps, but I can’t imagine any woman wanting to marry him unless hot grump with good hair is a type.
I need clarification more than I need a bite of the sandwich, so I pick up my phone.
Trina: You’re getting married today?
I fire that off without another thought.
Why do I care if he gets married today or any other day?
Feeling like I’ve suddenly lost my appetite, I wrap the sandwich back up and write my name across the bag in big, bold letters, so Cecil knows not to touch it.
I move to stand to head to the break room just as my phone chimes again.
I drop my gaze to the screen.
Mr. Locke: 3 PM at the City Clerk’s office, Miss Shaw. DON’T BE LATE.
Looking at the watch on my wrist, I fall back on my chair.
Two hours and twenty-one minutes from now, I’ll witness my boss marry a woman who has to be a saint.
Whoever the future Mrs. Locke is, I wish her luck. She may be marrying someone tagged one of “The Most Gorgeous Men in Manhattan” on an Instagram account I follow, but her soon-to-be husband is a jerk for the ages.
I hope she knows what she’s getting into.
“That’s out of your price league,” my brother says as he jerks his thumb to the left. “If you need bubbly, Trina, the discount bin is over there.”
“Thanks, George.” I flash him a grin. “This is a gift, so I’m going all out.”
I’ll say I am. This bottle of champagne I picked out as a wedding gift for my boss and his wife is just shy of two hundred dollars.
I don’t know the proper etiquette about showing up to a wedding without a gift in hand, but I think it’s just plain rude.
Besides, Mrs. Locke is probably going to need a drink within a few hours after the ceremony.
My brother rings the purchase up in the cash register. “I’ll toss in a gift bag at no charge.”
“Gee, thanks.” I smile.
George’s store is my go-to place for anything alcoholic.
He doesn’t give discounts to anyone, but he will toss in a free gift of some sort if he can.
I reach over to pluck a shiny silver bag from the bin next to the counter.
“Who is this for?” he asks warily. “Someone must be celebrating something important for you to invest this much in their gift.”
George is the most protective of my siblings.
If I tell him that I’m buying this for my boss, he’ll lecture me on how Graham’s not worth it.
George has heard me moan enough times about Mr. Locke to know that he’ll never win any Boss of the Year contests.
I hand him my credit card. “A wedding deserves a gift to remember.”
“Someone’s getting married?” He runs my card through the register. “Good for them. Marriage is the best decision I ever made.”
“You’re one of the lucky ones,” I say to steer him toward talking about his wife.
He takes the bait.
As I tuck my credit card back into my purse, I listen to the story about his wedding day and how it was everything he always wanted it to be.
I only hope that when I get married, it’s as perfect as his special day was.
Chapter Four
Trina
I race up the sidewalk toward the building that houses the City Clerk’s office. I slow my pace when I spot Mr. Locke standing on the sidewalk a few feet in front of me.
Wowza.
The suit he’s wearing is a three-piece dark blue number. He’s got a light blue tie on that is knotted to perfection.
The future Mrs. Locke did luck out when it comes to having a photogenic husband. He’ll look killer in every shot they take today, especially if he smiles.
I’ve witnessed that a few times.
It’s always when a new location of Abdons opens. On those days, money signs must be dancing behind his eyes because he’s borderline cheerful, or at the very least cordial.
Right now, he looks less than pleased.
Maybe I should have changed into something more suitable to witness his wedding. I have no clue what that would be.
I think the red blouse and black pencil skirt that I wore to work today will do the job just fine.
“Congratulations, sir!” I hold the gift bag in the air. My fingers are wrapped tightly around the twine handles because this is precious cargo.
“Right.”
Huh?
It’s his wedding day. The least he can do is crack open the smile vault and let one fly.
Someone needs to tell him that smiles don’t cost a penny.
I look around. “Where’s the bride? What’s her name?”
He drags a hand through his perfectly styled hair.
Uh oh.
That move only happens when the world, as he knows it, is about to collapse. It happened that time he tasted regular mustard and the day I spilled coffee in his lap.
The heel on my shoe broke. I lunged forward. Lukewarm coffee landed on his thousand dollar pants. It was a whole thing.
His gaze darts to the left and then the right, but it doesn’t seem as though he’s looking for someone.
If he got stood up, I’m taking this champagne back to my brother’s store for a refund.
Mr. Locke drops his hand and looks me in the eye. “You’re her.”
“Urher?” I repeat, not wanting to butcher his fiancée’s name. “Am I pronouncing that right? Or is it with an accented e, like Urhér?”
He looks at me like my head is about to fall off.