Page 131 of Go Back to December

As the eight o’clock hour comes and goes, I finally admit to myself that he won’t.

The twenty-first-floor reception area is virtually vacant. It’s a set piece from a dystopian film. A back alley in some predictably grisly horror movie. Fitting, since I’m expecting nothing short of carnage at the emergency Finance Committee meeting.

Lacy sent nineteen texts in the last hour with reports on infighting between the partners over the real estate deal. More merger casualties are sure to come.

I wait an interminably long time for the receptionist to return from some far-off destination inside this house of horrors, flash her my name badge, and ask where the meeting is taking place.

“Melody Johnson. You’ve got an appointment with Ambassador Leary.” She glances at the clock. “Now.”

“There must be a mistake. I don’t have an invite.”

“No mistake.” She clicks her mouse as if it’s a pair of castanets, and pecks at her keyboard. “I have three emails about it.”

After the disastrous conversation with Alicia, and that gossip piece with the footage from the train station, he must be summoning me to rescind his offer. Right before he hands me over to HR for my dismissal for noncompliance with the relationship disclosure policy.

On shaking legs, I walk down the LED-lit hall and pause at a half-walled cubicle, where a woman who must be his assistant is loudly shouting in Cantonese.

She holds her hand over the microphone of her headset. “Are you Melody?”

“I apologize for being late.”

“He re-arranged the schedule this morning.” She sniffs. “Said to grab you as soon as you walked in.”

So I wouldn’t have time to orchestrate a revolt. I am definitely getting sacked.

When I step through the door, Badger rests back in a leather chair at his enormous desk, an old-school phone handset cradled on his shoulder. He mouths, Teleconference, with a punctuating eye roll, and gestures to the upholstered seating area at the center of a space so large it would swallow Manny’s apartment.

No one else is waiting, no representative from HR or security, so perhaps this will be more civilized than I’m panicking over. I sink down onto the stiff chair and inventory the standard vanity display bearing photos with Badger and other dignitaries. A super-sized print of Spiderman looms over the wall opposite Badger’s desk.

“That’s where most people want to kick off the conversation,” Badger says as he ambles to the couch.

It’s a safe zone. Much safer than agreements disclosing personal relationships and potential sexual harassment.

I clear my throat. “Spidey’s your favorite?”

“Peter Parker. Only hero I identified with. He didn’t inherit a manor and a cave full of toys. He’s got hustle. Grit.” He leans back in his seat. “Whenever people ask me to pick winners and losers, that’s what I tell them. The differentiator is grit.”

“Ambassador Leary—”

“Badger.”

I force a smile. “I’d like to clear up any misunderstanding about what happened. At the lake.”

He holds up a hand. “Stop there. Alicia told me about your conversation.”

My face heats.

“She didn’t accurately relay ours,” he adds.

Not surprising. And irritatingly consistent with Money Honey rules of engagement.

“Alicia asked me if Baz wanted to discuss anything in particular,” Badger continues. “I simply said no. Because I wasn’t able to tell her what we discussed.”

And we all know why. “NDA.”

“Mostly. Baz and I did talk about you. Well, the two of you.”

I cringe. “This is embarrassing.”