The financial reports start to blur together as I blink wearily at my computer screen. I lean back in my ergonomic office chair, rubbing at the bridge of my nose. Christ, it's already 5pm. Where did the day go?
A soft knock at my door makes me glance up. "Come in!"
Sheila peeked in, her expression half-amused. "Still burning the midnight oil, boss? You know it's past time to clock out, right?"
"Yeah, well, some of us don't have that luxury," I replied with a tired smirk. "No rest for the wicked and all that."
"Mmhmm," she hums, clearly unimpressed with my workaholic philosophy. "Well, before you chain yourself to that desk for the night, you've got a call. It's your wife."
The mention of Emma sparked a jolt of energy in me. I perked up immediately.
"She's on line one," she smirked.
As she closed the door, I scramble for the phone, my fatigue momentarily forgotten.
"Hey babe," I greeted. "How was the first day with the kids?"
"Hey baby," I greet warmly, kicking my feet up on the desk. "How was the first day wrangling kids?"
"It was awesome!" Emma's voice was full of excitement and I can picture her beaming smile. "The kids are so sweet, Mike. A little rowdy, but that's to be expected. I think it's going to be a great place to work."
"That's great to hear," I responded, genuinely happy for her. "Those kids don't know how lucky they are."
"You're too sweet," she said, chuckling but I can hear the pleasure in her voice. "So, when are you coming home? No late nights, I hope?"
I glanced at the daunting pile of work still on my desk, "Uh, well, you know how it is..."
Emma sighs, a trace of disappointment leaking through. "I know, I know. But I was hoping... I thought we could have a little celebration tonight. You know, pop some champagne, have a nice dinner, toast to new beginnings?"
Fuck. How can I say no to that?
"You know what? You're absolutely right," I decide abruptly. "The deals will still be there in the morning. I'll be home by seven, okay? We can celebrate properly."
"Yay!" Emma cheers.
I could hear the relief and joy in her voice. I'm making the right call.
"Oh, I can't wait! I'll pick up something special on my way home. Maybe that ravioli you like from Mangia's..."
As she chatters happily about our impromptu date night, a thought occurs to me. "Hey Em? Did you ever get a call back from the moving company? About your missing dresser?"
"No, and it's the weirdest thing," she replies, annoyance seeping into her tone. "I called them twice today and kept getting the run around. They insisted it was out for delivery, but wouldn't give me an ETA or anything."
I frown, a spark of irritation flaring. I paid those meatheads good money, the least they could do is return a damn phone call.
"Don't stress over it," I assure her. "I'll get Sheila to chase them down tomorrow. We'll sort it out."
"My hero," Emma teased. "My big, bad, furniture wrangling man."
"Damn straight," I laughed, playing along. "I'll lasso that runaway dresser for you if I have to, little lady."
Emma dissolves into giggles and warmth.
We banter for a few minutes more before saying our goodbyes. I started packing up, energized by the prospect of the evening ahead. Just the promise of an evening with my girl puts an extra spring in my step.
Of course, that spring turns into a slog as I hit the inevitable evening traffic. I drum my fingers against the wheel impatiently as my Beamer inches forward, suppressing the urge to lean on the horn.
Goddamn NYC gridlock.
Finally, blessedly, I pull into our building's garage. I barely have my seatbelt off before my phone is ringing again. A glance at the display shows it's Sheila.
"Mike, I've got an update on Emma's dresser," she said by way of greeting.
"Oh yeah? What's the word?" I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder as I grab my briefcase and head for the elevator.
"Well, I reamed Carl at the moving company a new one and it seems there was a 'miscommunication'," she delivered flatly, and I can practically hear the air quotes. "Apparently they did have the dresser out for delivery today, but the guy got lazy and just dumped it off in the service entrance before taking off. No signature or anything. Real professional."
"What the fuck?" I snarl, stabbing at the elevator call button. "Are you kidding me? They just left it downstairs with no notice? What if someone takes it?"
"Oh don't worry, I already put the fear of God and a lawsuit into Carl," Sheila assures me grimly. "He'll be groveling with a personal apology and a hefty discount by morning. But in the meantime..."
I sigh, running an agitated hand through my hair. "In the meantime, I've got to go fetch it myself. Perfect. Some celebration this is shaping up to be."
"Go get 'em, tiger," Sheila encourages before clicking off.
I make my way down to the service entrance, muttering curses under my breath. This damn well better be the dresser and not some wild goose chase, or I'm going full Karen on these fuckwits.
But lo and behold, there it is. Emma's antique cherry wood dresser, sitting forlornly next to the service elevator like an abandoned child.
I squat next to it with a groan, assessing the situation. It's not huge, thank God, but not exactly a one-man job either. If I huff and puff and put my back into it, I could probably wrangle it into the elevator. But getting it down the hall and into the apartment? Not happening.
"Need a hand?"
The sudden voice made me jump, and I turned to see a towering figure behind me.
He's easily 6'5, maybe 6'6, with shoulders that wouldn't look out of place on an NFL linebacker. And stacked to match - his biceps strain against the thin cotton of his T-shirt, the material practically crying.
I gape up at him - and I do mean up, Jesus, he's huge - trying to kickstart my brain into forming words. "Uh..."
