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“Yeah, just bring them in when they get here. I’ll be ready.”
Monique leaves the room, closing the door behind her. I swivel in my chair to take in the view of the city, one of the best perks of my job.
My corner office has floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides. From the window facing east, I can see everything from the hot dog vendor on the sidewalk below me to the top of the Empire State Building above. From the window facing uptown, I can see all the way to Central Park, i.e. the scene of the crime.
I immediately turn my back to that window. “Stop looking at me, you little minx.”
A steady thumping noise snaps me out of my reverie. It sounds like drums. Is Monique making the models do a full runway show into my office or something? I’m not really in the mood for this.
“We don’t need music, Monique,” I shout as I approach the door. “Just send them in one at a time with their portfolios, and then we can have them try on some clothes.”
I’m not prepared for what’s on the other side of the door. The models are dressed in matching sequin dresses. Their hair is slicked back into very tight buns. They’re wearing pantyhose—the heavy-duty kind—and high-heeled dance shoes. I can’t tell one from the other. How is that a good strategy for a modeling audition?
“What the…?”
I peer behind them and see that the thumping noise I’ve been hearing isn’t coming from speakers but from an actual marching band. When the drum major sees me, he signals to the brass section to start wailing on their horns.
“Who are you?” I yell into the cacophony. “What are you doing here?”
The drum major lowers his baton, picks up the whistle around his neck, and blows. The music has stopped, but my ears are still ringing.
“Presenting…the Radio City Rockettes, accompanied by a new marching band, the Radio City Rackets!”
Monique looks like she’s about to have a heart attack. “I am so sorry, Elsa; I couldn’t stop them.”
My other employees, the t
raitors, burst into applause.
The drum major blows his whistle again, and the drummers begin a low and steady drumroll. The Rockettes march in time, lifting their knees high. Our office isn’t quite big enough for a kick line, I guess.
A moment later, the group of Rockettes splits in two, forming a new line on each wall between my office and the lobby. In one synchronized motion, they gracefully extend their arms to the front door.
“If you could all wait outside for a moment…” Monique says as she opens the door to show them out, but it’s too late.
In walks a stout young woman in a polo shirt and a seriously ugly pair of khaki pants with pleats on the front. Not a model, I’m guessing. She’s holding a basket, though, and when she sets it down, the entire office melts into sighs.
Puppies. An entire litter of beagle pups with floppy ears wiggle their way out of the basket and head toward me, their noses pressed to the carpet. The puppies are wearing blue ribbons around their necks, and when I grab the first little guy to make it to my side of the office, I can see that there’s a note attached.
The note reads: “Take me home.” It’s signed with Tanner’s name.
Of all the emotionally manipulative…
“Elsa.”
I look up from the big brown eyes of the puppy I’m cradling and see Tanner standing in the doorway. He’s holding a big bouquet of balloons and has an even bigger smile on his face. He releases the balloons, letting them fly freely to the top of the vaulted ceiling.
It’s going to be a pain to get those down later.
“What are you doing here, Tanner?”
He waits a beat, his smile plastered to his face. I’m about ready to turn and walk away from him when I see what he’s been waiting for. The paparazzi arrive with their cameras in hand and start snapping pictures of the Rockettes, the band, the dogs, and Tanner and me.
Tanner signals for the band to stop, and they do so on his command.
I raise an eyebrow at him in defiance. “What, no pizza? No chocolate?”
Tanner snaps his fingers, and a man in a chef’s hat appears in the doorway with a pizza box. He ceremoniously lifts the lid. Inside is what appears to be a Max Brenner chocolate creation—a pizza crust topped with ganache, marshmallow brûlée, and ribbons of fudge.
