“Um . . . is everything okay?”

“You have a meeting with human resources.”

Panic unfurls inside my chest like a writhing ball of snakes. “I do? Since when?”

“Since now,” she replies through gritted teeth. She spins on her heel and strides away before I can ask any more questions, like Does my severance package include ongoing health insurance? and How did you get that stick stuck so far up your ass?

Being the steadfast friend she is, Shasta focuses on the important stuff. “If you’re getting fired, I call dibs on your new chair.”

I frantically search my memory for any incriminating past behavior that might lead to my termination but come up with zilch. I’m always on time, I never miss a day or a deadline, and if I’m not exactly beloved by my coworkers, at least I’m generally tolerated.

Except by Portia, who would obviously like to suspend me by my ankles over a bed of burning hot coals until I’m dead.

“You better hurry up, Joellen. Portia looked like she was about to bust a nut.”

Ignoring Shasta’s odd male orgasm reference, I rise from my chair, grimacing as my thigh muscles howl in protest. I hobble through the cubicle maze toward the human resources department, which is on the other side of the floor, past the executive offices. I notice Michael isn’t in his office, which is lucky because I’d probably throw myself at his feet and beg for mercy.

I don’t have much in the way of savings. If I get fired and can’t find a job right away, I’ll be sleeping on my parents’ sofa by Valentine’s Day, contemplating which suicide method would leave the least amount of mess for the coroner to clean up.

“Come in,” says Ruth, the HR manager, when I arrive at her open door.

A woman the word zaftig was invented for, Ruth is voluminous. Next to her, I look slim. But she dresses in lovely feminine outfits and always has her nails and hair perfectly done, and pulls off the whole Rubenesque look with grand style. If she has any qualms about sitting four feet away from glossy, greyhound-skinny Portia, she doesn’t show it.

Skinny body, skinny heart, skinny love.

Cam’s words echo inside my head as I take a seat opposite Ruth’s desk. I smile at her because if Cam is right, Ruth has enough love inside her heart to heal the world, but Portia’s love is as thin and dry as a stale cracker, crumbling to dust when you put it between your hungry teeth.

“Are you all right?” Ruth’s brow creases with a frown as she watches me wince when I cross my legs.

“Yes, sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I just started working out, and I’m a little sore.”

Ruth beams at me. “Good for you! Regular exercise is the best way to maintain your health!”

Portia, sitting across from us in the small office, makes a small noise in the back of her throat. It’s a muted laugh, dripping with disdain. When Ruth glances at her sharply, I know I’m not the only one who isn’t a Portia fan.

Opening a manila file on her desk, Ruth thumbs through a stack of papers. “I understand you’ve just passed your ten-year anniversary with the firm, Joellen.” She looks up at me for confirmation. When I nervously nod, she goes back to perusing the file. “And in that time you’ve missed . . .”

Her index finger skims the length of one page, stopping at a figure at the bottom. She glances up at me again. “One day.”

“I had uterine fibroid surgery!” I blurt, freshly panicking that I’m being accused of doing something wrong. “I scheduled it for first thing in the morning because I wanted to come in in the afternoon, but my surgeon wouldn’t allow it, so I had . . . to . . .” I look back and forth between Ruth, who has her hand to her throat, and Portia, who has recoiled in disgust. “Um . . . take the rest of the day off.”

Behind her glasses, Ruth’s brown eyes are owl round. “Of course you had to take the day off,” she says, horrified. “Joellen, that’s major surgery! I had fibroids removed in my thirties—you should’ve taken a week off!”

I’m relieved I’m not in trouble, but also confused. Do I have too much accrued sick leave?

Portia interrupts, her voice as dry as bone. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

When Ruth turns her incredulous gaze to Portia, it’s met with an indifferent stare. “I don’t have all day.”

Ruth takes a little too long to carefully straighten all the papers in my employee file. I imagine she’s biting her tongue so hard she tastes blood. She’s a woman known for her kindness and tact—excellent traits for her position—but Portia can strain even the most saintly nerves.

“The raise you requested last month has been approved,” says Ruth, which is the only thing she manages to get out before I leap from my chair with a whoop of joy.

“Really? That’s fantastic! I can’t believe it!”

Portia covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a monster yawn, but I’m too ecstatic to care. I try to do a little happy dance, but instead of cooperating, my crippled legs collapse beneath me. I land in Ruth’s poor guest chair like a bomb dropped from the sky, horrified to hear a loud crack as the wood frame splits underneath the ugly maroon fabric.

I leap up again and stare at the chair, willing it not to explode into a million pieces, silently begging the universe for a break.

“I think you killed it,” observes Portia, just as the damn thing does a slow-motion sideways death dive to the floor.

The three of us are looking at it lying there flat as roadkill, when Michael pokes his head in the door, smiling brightly. “Sorry to barge in. Did we give her the good news?”

Judging by Ruth’s expression, it’s a breach of protocol for the CEO to show up during an HR meeting with an employee. Either that or she really liked the dead chair.

“We were just getting started with our meeting,” says Ruth primly, to which Michael replies, “So you haven’t told her about the open position yet?”

Portia makes a retching noise, and everyone looks at her in alarm. Her face is turning an interesting shade of purple, and her eyes are rolling around in her head. She’s obviously having a stroke.

“We haven’t even p-posted it yet!” sputters Portia, clawing at her skirt like a madwoman. “Bill can take over the extra work for the time being, or Konrad—”

“Nonsense.” Michael leans against the doorframe and smiles at me. “Joellen, unfortunately Maria won’t be returning to work because—”

Ruth loudly clears her throat. Michael looks at her, startled.

“Oh. Er . . . right.” He begins again, more carefully this time. “Maria is no longer an employee of Maddox Publishing.”

“Um. Okay?” I’m confused why he’d be telling me this, why Portia is having a meltdown, and what Maria has to do with me. We’re both copyeditors. If she’s left the company, a copyeditor position will be open. So what?

“Maria had just been promoted to associate editor. We were going to make the announcement this week.”

My heart stutters. I look at Ruth, who’s smiling gently at me. I look at Portia, who’s wishing murder were legal. I look back at Michael, who’s waiting patiently for me to respond to what is the most fantastic news I’ve received in a decade.

“There’s an associate editor position open?” I peep, wide eyed.