“Fraternizing?” My brows go up at the strange, heavy word. “Is this like the military or something? And what happened?”
Hugo shakes his head. “I can’t talk about it. I’ve already said more than I should. No one around here talks about it for a reason.”
I look up at the old-school clock overhead, what looks like an antique from an old fire station or something. It hasn’t moved for the last five minutes. Oh, God.
“Your clock’s broken.”
“Huh?” Hugo turns and glances over his shoulder, then looks back at his phone. “Dang. Looks like you’re right. We’ll have to swap out the batteries.”
As if I needed a sign from the universe that’s as subtle as a falling piano to the head. My 'silly superstitions,' as Paige would say, exist for a reason.
This conversation is a warning. A bad omen. The broken clock proves it.
Trouble is, I’m not sure what exactly I’m being warned about.
What dark secret has them walking on eggshells?
“Can you at least tell me why he’s so up in arms over women’s clothing?” I blurt it out before I can stop myself. I have to know.
Is he just a pig on top of being an arrogant asshole? Bizarrely, he doesn’t really strike me as the type—not like that Chester Stedfaust guy who couldn’t rip his greasy eyes off me.
I take a deep breath. “You’re saying he doesn’t like women wearing sexy clothes, or what, Hugo?”
“Basically, yeah. It’s not because he’s psycho or a gross old fogey. It’s just...he has his reasons, and everybody who’s been here long enough respects the rules.” Hugo nods, sweat beading on his brow. “He hates flirting or anything that’d encourage it in this office. He’s axed people over it. A lot of people.”
For a second, we share a gaze, Hugo’s bulging eyes pleading to move on to something else.
Fine.
Time to end this awkward conversation and my own boiling confusion.
“Well, thanks for the heads up.” I point at the lightboard. “Let’s get started on the concepts. I have a lot to do once we’re finished here.”
“I bet. He’s hard as hell on EAs.” Hugo gives me a dry, sympathetic smile.
Don’t I know it?
I follow Hugo back to Angie’s office, where she sets aside her video edits for the fast-food chain. We take the dreaming pet concept and run with it.
We call the campaign Doggy Dreams and alter the original idea so the dogs eat Woof Meow Chow up in the clouds while they’re still asleep. The cats climbing in the treetops are on a hunt for their Meow Chow fix. With the concept nailed down, it’s a matter of choosing fonts, images, and colors, then smoothing them to perfection.
“What about a gradient blue?” I point to the sky. “It’ll be darker on this side and start to fade across the screen with multiple hues. It should make the image more colorful and the words will pop.”
Angie makes the changes on her laptop. The color contrast is brilliant, but it’s the time stamp at the bottom of her screen that catches my attention.
“Shit. It’s past five. I have to get back to my desk, or I’ll never get through everything by midnight,” I say, rocketing out of my seat.
“You’re an awesome thinker. Pop in anytime you want,” Hugo says, earning a grin from me. It’s nice to hear sincere praise for my skills after the way I was discharged from my last job.
And if I ever get a break in the future, I might just join them again.
I love graphic design. Spending an afternoon in this room makes the minutia I have to slog through the rest of the evening almost bearable.
It also leaves me wondering what the hell Magnus Heron is hiding.
Since the Woof Meow Chow meeting, I only see Heron in passing the rest of the week.
Even though he’s effing horrible, I kinda miss sparring with him.
Shocker.
Still, it’s six o’clock on Friday morning, and I’ve worked over sixty hours this week. I’m not complaining about force-of-nature job demands. I’m already numb to it the way anybody living in tornado alley expects to lose a roof every so often.
I’m just hoping I can wrap up everything and be home in time for dinner tonight with Paige.
I might pass out if I work past midnight one more day.
Thank God for the weekend.
After the debacle with the ’bad art project,’ Heron wanted the proofs sent directly to his email, and I’d send them on to the client.
When Hugo sends them over, I open up the slides and go through them one more time, holding my breath. Some of the changes I advised weren’t implemented, and a few slides seem glitchy.
Damn.
We can’t afford to upset this client a second time. That isn’t going to go over well. But the ruthless bossman made it clear, I’m not part of the design team, so what can I do?
My gut twists.
I don’t want to send subpar work for the deadline and risk anyone’s job, but I also don’t want to tattle and make Heron rip poor Hugo or Angie’s heads off.
I settle on a half measure.
Opening the slides, I mark up the changes I’d make. Then I send the originals and my markup to Magnus with “Final Draft” in the subject line.
He wanted the proofs sent to him for a reason. Let him make a decision.
That’s above my pay grade. I almost expect to be growled at for doing the extra work of making corrections. But with the email sent, I get back to my other work, trying not to dread the response.
Less than an hour later, my messenger pings.
Magnus: Accept all changes you’ve suggested except for slide 18. You’ll get an email with the verbiage for that one. Good catch.
Holy...
Did he just give me a compliment?
Whatever.
I shouldn’t feel like a happy puppy. The fact that he’s satisfied gets this off my plate and I’m free to move on to the next item on my endless to-do list.
Amazingly, I get home just in time for dinner, around ten-ish when Paige likes to eat.
When I open the door, I’m blown away by the savory scent of fresh tomatoes, basil, oregano, garlic, and warm baked bread.
“O-M-G! Something smells like heaven,” I sing, stepping inside home sweet home.
My stomach tries to eat itself, and I realize the heavy cream and sugar with my coffee this morning are the only calories I’ve had all day.
“Who are you? Home before midnight?” Paige bounces up from the couch with a smile. “I made dinner. I thought we could eat together since I haven’t seen you in a week, but by eight o’clock I was starving. Sorry!”
“No problem.” My job shouldn’t starve my roommate too. “Thanks for making food.”
She stands. “Are you just getting off work?”
I nod.
“Yes, and my feet are killing me.” I pick up my foot, unstrap her heel, let it fall to the floor, and then take off the other shoe. “Tell me I’ll get used to these things?”
She gives me a pained smile, and I wonder if generously loaning them wasn’t her only reason for letting them go.
“So, have you really been at work all those times I texted at night?” she asks. “I was about to file a missing person’s report!”