The sharp click of the door as Nancy shut me out of the house.
The cool fluorescent light of the Meridian break room hummed above the microwave. I held the blue folder containing the autumn retreat schedules, tapping my gold pen against my thumb as Jake Wilson poured himself water from the cooler. He adjusted his collar, his wrist watch catching the light as he turned toward me.
“We need the signed emergency contact forms by noon, Jake,” I said, sliding the blue paper across the laminate table. “HR wants to finalize the off-site binders before the weekend.”
He took the sheet, his eyes scanning the lines before he pulled a black pen from his pocket. “I thought HR already had my updated address from the move last spring.”
“They need the hard copies for the off-site folders,” I said. “Standard protocol in case we lose cellular service in the hills.”
Jake nodded and quickly filled in the blank fields. The bright blue ink on the Meridian emergency contact form stood out against the harsh overhead lights. He paused for a fraction of a second at the emergency contact line, his hand hovering over the page, then wrote a name with a fluid stroke of his pen. He pressed the paper flat with his palm, sliding it back toward me before his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled the device out, his brow furrowing as he read the message. “I have to jump on the conference call with the design team. They are having trouble with the color proofs for the Stratton campaign.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “I will collect the rest from the team. Don’t worry about the print queue.”
“Thanks, Olivia,” he said, already stepping toward the door. “I’ll have those edits to you by three.”
