One More Chance

The White Lie

Bryce

Golf, booze, home.

This time I don't even bother bringing a girl home with me. With a presentation at noon tomorrow, even I'm responsible enough to make sure I'm there before then.

It's half past eleven when I finally get to the office. Riding in the elevator, I'm surprised I haven't heard from Giana at all since I left the office yesterday. Guess she didn't need any help at all to complete the proposal which is totally fine with me. Dad definitely picked the right architect for the job.

My section of the floor is empty when I arrive. There's no one on the drafting tables and there are no blueprints laid out like there always is either. Maybe she's in her cubicle? But her cubicle is empty, a thick report sitting on her desk underneath a roll of blueprints.

I poke my head inside the cubicle of the architect with the weird two-letter name. "Miss Patterson, do you know where Miss Avila is?"

She frowns. "She had to cut out early yesterday and called in sick today but she told me she left you a message. Didn't you get it?"

"Nope."

I gather the blueprints and the report and step inside my office. Annoyance flares through me as I unroll the blueprints. Another emotion hits me hard. Panic. What the hell... the report isn't done at all.

I pick up the phone and dial her number. A tired voice thick with sleep answers. "Hello?"

"Giana, where are you?" I glance at my watch. "The presentation is in fifteen minutes and the project doesn't look anywhere near presentable."

"I called you yesterday. Don't you check your voicemails?"

"I didn't get any voicemail from you."

"Well, I left you one. I called the number on the card you gave me. Hang on, let me get the card." I hear her rummaging through something before she blurts out a phone number that has all the numbers of my cell phone correct... except for one number.

"Can you say that again?"

"You mistook the one for a seven."

"It looks like a seven," she says. "I can send you a picture of it."

Then it hits me. I write my ones with the serif at the top that sometimes does look like a 7, especially when I'm in a hurry.

And I was in a hurry yesterday to meet Parker at the country club.

Shit.

I rake my fingers through my hair, knowing it's useless to argue.

"You don't have to," I say. "Look, I clearly made a mistake. That last number should have been a one instead of a seven."

"But do you believe me about calling you and leaving you a message?"

I take a deep breath. "Look, I don't care about what's on the card or the voicemail you left yesterday. What's important is the presentation. I need you here to help me present it."

"No."

The word is said so firmly it takes me by surprise. "No?"

"My grandmother had an accident and I'm staying with her for the next two days," she continues. "That's what I told you yesterday in my voicemail message."

Great. Just great. I glance at my watch. Five minutes. "What should I do?"

"I don't know," she replies, her tone almost incredulous. "You can fire me if you want but my grandmother takes priority over your presentation."