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“You called?”

“Shit!” I said, startled. I shoved my phone in my desk drawer and looked up to see Sheila standing in the doorway with her coat on.

“Yes,” I said.

Thank god she’d come in when she did.

“You should get out of here.”

“You sure?”

“Definitely. Enjoy your weekend.”

“Okay…” she said, but she didn’t move. She was stalling for some reason.

“Don’t forget to sign those,” she said, pointing to a stack of files she’d brought in this afternoon. “All the signature lines are marked.”

The names on the files looked familiar, and I had a strong suspicion Sheila had pulled the same stack off my desk earlier and brought them back in for dramatic effect. Or to get it through my thick skull that I needed to actually pay attention to work.

“Sorry, Sheila,” I said. “I know I’ve been a bit distracted lately.”

“You okay, Will?”

“Of course.” I didn’t look up, just pulled the files toward me. Luckily, Sheila was used to me not always plastering a smile on my face. “I’ve got a lot going on right now.”

“If you ever want to talk about it—”

“I don’t,” I said, harder than I should have.

There was a pause where she hovered a moment longer. I looked up, extremely close to telling her she needed to go, when she said, “By the way, Louis will not stop pestering me about you booking a stay at that resort in Vermont.”

Louis was the Mayor’s assistant.

“Still?” I asked. Fred had been doing the same thing to me.

I’d pretty much decided I shouldn’t go—Fred’s insistence made me positive there was something else going on, but so far, he’d staunchly denied it was anything except taking notes to expand tourism in Jewel Lakes.

“Why the hell is he so adamant I go?”

The question was rhetorical, but Sheila answered anyway. “I don’t know,” she said. “But the funny thing is, one of those files is a request for you to give pre-Council approval to a project here under the same development company doing the renovations on the Rolling Hills Resort in Vermont.”

I opened the file, suspicious. What the hell wasn’t Fred telling me?

“Anyhow, on paper, it doesn’t look like a conflict of interest,” she said. “So you know, if you’re not with the girls this year,” —she knew I wasn’t, and wasn’t happy about it— “Maybe you should think about taking him up on his offer? The place looks wonderful.”

She pulled a brochure out from where it was sticking out of the stack. It did look stunning.

“If you went,” she continued, “it would get his assistant off my back. He’s driving me nuts—I swear, I’m about ready to bone him.”

I dropped the brochure. “You want to what?”

“Bone him! You know, over the head.”

I placed my hand over my mouth, making like I was rubbing my chin considering this, but really trying not to laugh out loud. A few weeks ago, I would have texted this to Michelle. Immediately.

The laughter died in my throat. Not anymore. Whatever friendship we’d struck up over the past few weeks had petered out recently. She’d only answered my texts sporadically, and I’d kind of given up trying.

I missed it.