just ignore the situation until it's too late? He's leaving in less than a week, it's probably already far too late to book an extra airline ticket. In December for heaven’s sake. I exhale and relax into the conference room chair.
Nick's eyes flicker in my direction while the warehouse manager explains the costs of the holiday boxes. I sit up a little straighter and wonder how loud I sighed.
A moment later a new email pings into my inbox.
The subject line reads Travel Itinerary.
Chapter 3
"I can't go to Germany next week."
I announce this with confidence and a steady voice. I spent all evening practicing my get-out-of-traveling-with-Nick speech in front of my bathroom mirror and I think it's solid. I think I've predicted any arguments and prepared an appropriate rebuttal for each.
"I'll coordinate with my contact at Bavarian Bear on the takeout business via email," I add without waiting for a response. Nick was frowning at something on his monitor when I finally summoned the courage to enter his office to speak with him and I purposely didn't wait until I had his attention before I launched into my speech. Side note: I'm surprised his pretty face hasn't already frozen into a permanent scowl. I bet he'll have scowl lines before he's forty. "It'll be tantamount to me being there, but easier for everyone."
"Tantamount?" He leans back in his chair, turning his attention fully on me. The scowl is replaced with a look I'd call curiously skeptical. He rests one hand on the armrest of his chair, his other hand moving to straighten his tie. His uncle wore Christmas ties the entire month of December. A different one each day, he had so many.
Nick's tie is the color of coal.
"Virtually the same," I say with a little wave of my hand.
"Tell me, Miss Winter, what part of my direction that you'd travel to Germany sounded like it was optional? It wasn't."
I hate speaking to him in his uncle's office. Nick's office now, I know that. I'm not in denial. His aunt and uncle have already relocated to Key West and gotten themselves half a dozen chickens. Pet chickens. They wander around the yard and dodge in and out of a custom-made chicken coop. I don't really understand it either, but Mr and Mrs Saint-Croix seem thrilled with retirement and I'm well aware they're not returning.
But speaking to Nick in this office is disorienting because he didn't redecorate. I expected him to replace the framed posters of toys with cheesy motivational posters or the skyline of a big city or his diploma from Dartmouth. I expected him to replace the old wood desk his uncle sat behind for nearly forty years with something sleek and modern and new.
But he didn't. He did nothing but replace the chair and the computer. And one other thing.
He added a bulletin board. A giant oversized thing framed with a wide expanse of oak and attached to the wall next to the door, in direct view of Nick's desk. It appeared as if by magic over a weekend a month or so ago, and it has remained empty ever since. It drives me nuts, being empty. What’s the point of hanging a bulletin board if you’re not going to attach anything to it? It’s weird.
He’s weird.
"I'll never be able to complete the changes to the Teddy Bear Café by the end of the month if I miss a week to travel to Germany."
"Who said the changes were due at the end of the month?" He drops the tie and taps his fingers on the desktop.
"I assumed you'd want—"
"I wish you'd stop assuming," he interrupts, his words sharp but his voice unexpectedly soft. It throws me off. And there's something in his expression, something I can't quite pinpoint. A rankled irritation which is so unfair. He's constantly got me on my toes, demanding reports, challenging me in meetings, sneaking up on me at my desk to ask me questions I've already answered via email.
I'm the one who should be annoyed, I think with an indignant burst. Not him.
"Nick, it's Christmas," I say, and I know my voice sounds a bit like I'm begging, but I can't help myself. December in Reindeer Falls is my favorite time of year. Everyone knows this.
"It's December third," he replies drily, clearly unimpressed with my plea.
"You know what I mean. It's the holiday season," I retort, spreading my arms as if to indicate the entire month is a holiday. It is. This shouldn't require