The week passed with surprising quickness. I liked my job, always had, but working lower on the totem pole than I thought I was cut out for, doing work less fulfilling than I wanted, had me tired and bored most days. I understood that I had to pay my dues, but god, it was frustrating.

But this week hadn’t been half as slow as usual.

It was a stroke of luck that Andy from marketing came down with the stomach flu and I ended up with the Heysman account. I normally did more fact-checking: mind-numbing, not-worth-100k-tuition kind of work. But working in marketing, with the designers and the actual creative teams, was almost as invigorating as I remembered it sounding in college.

For once, I showed up to work before eight a.m. and didn’t leave until well past six in the evening. My head hurt half the day from squinting at the computer screen, and my apartment definitely looked like someone who didn’t give a fuck about laundry lived there, but at least I was finally doing work that didn’t make me feel brain dead. That had to count for something.

Despite that, by Friday I was one more note from design away from pulling my teeth out, bare hands and all. There was probably more coffee in my stomach than guts and, thank god, I was about ready to shoot the account to the higher ups.

I leaned away from my desk, rolling my neck as I stretched in my chair. A low groan fell from my throat, the kinks in neck loosening only slightly.

Sharon laughed, breaking into my self-pitying stretching. I cracked an eye open and glanced at her. “Something to say?”

She lifted her hands immediately. “Hey, I didn’t say anything.”

I popped my back. “Fuck off, Sharon.”

With the open-concept office, everyone in our department heard me.

There were twelve of us out here; the cubicles were shaped like a small square. Six of the desks were on the outside, six on the inside. There was a small walkway for those of us in the middle, or as I had dubbed it a few months back, the Quad.

Most of us loved the nickname. I'd give out one guess who hated it the most vocally.

I thanked the god of office planners every day that Luke was on the outside of The Quad. At least now his annoyed remarks were somewhat muffled, and my laughter was softened by the cubicle walls.

A few chuckles filled the space, Sharon rolling her eyes at me even as she laughed. A couple of the guys, Josh and Kenny, glanced up with bored expressions. I heard Luke’s scoff even through the divide of the cubicles separating us.

“Hey, kid.” Kenny was only three years older than me. My teeth gnashed, even as I forced a smile onto my face. "You enjoying that new account?"

My smile widened. "Yeah, hundo-p."

Luke groaned. I heard the soft sound of his head hitting his keyboard. A familiar sound, for sure, followed by an even more familiar, “You’re the worst."

Kenny and I exchanged a look, punctuated by rolling my eyes and his wide grin. I considered the pros and cons of pulling Luke's leg some more, but I knew he was also asking for the Heymans account, and despite how little he thought of me, I didn't want to be a complete dick to the guy.

The rest of the day passed quickly. I barely noticed the way my hands were cramping and my spine was curling until I looked up and it was past seven o’clock. I cursed, quickly saving all the files I was working on, and waved a quick goodbye to the few people left. Even Luke was already gone, though I had heard him grumbling while trying to find something else to do to stick around until I left. I knew it grated on him that I’d gotten the account rather than him.

I had a few text messages from Brent, a buddy I tried to see once a month, but I could feel my heavy eyes and exhaustion clawing at me already. I sent off a quick-fire apology and promised to buy rounds next time.

He sent me back a string of annoyed emojis, but followed it with a “NP, I get it” message that eased, at the very least, the tension of feeling like a bad friend.

I stopped at a burger joint on my walk to the apartment, picking up an admittedly too-greasy meal, and managed to make it into my bed, sans clothes and with a huge pile of french fries, by eight o’clock. With a sigh, I happily started to munch on the food when my phone buzzed.

A jolt of fear that it was work went through me. I was tired, dammit.

It was Stella’s name on the screen, though. I grinned, shoving a fistful of fries into my mouth and answered it with a garbled, “Hello?”

I heard her groan as clearly as if she was sitting across from me. I could practically see her scrunched-up nose. “Maxwell, you are disgusting.”

“You know that’s not my name,” I reminded her.

She made a sound that was the verbal equivalent of waving her hand in the air. “As if that matters.”

I laughed and took a long pull from the soda on my nightstand. “So,” I said, settling against the pillows. “How’s London?”

Stella started to prattle about her last few weeks—it had been almost three since she left, and already I was about to gnash out my teeth. Sure, I had other friends in Seattle, but none of them were Stella. And with me being so busy, even my non-Stella friends were awol from my life. Admittedly, that was my fault, but still.

“And, anyway,” Stella continued, undeterred by my melancholy hums, knowing full well they were only full of me missing her, “that was when I knew, without a single doubt, that I would never be a true British monarch.”

“You’d never be a fake one, either.”

“Never say never, Half-Pint.”

I laughed. “Okay, fair. Your birthday?”

“Or Halloween. Lots of ways to fake monarch here.”

I grinned, rolling my eyes at her. “When will you be back again?”

Stella sighed. “Not for weeks.”

“Oh, God. Weeks? It’s already been weeks!”

“I know!” she cried.

I shoved more fries in my mouth and chewed slowly. I didn’t want to be so obviously upset by this news. “So much could happen in a few weeks.”

Stella was rolling her eyes—I didn’t see it, but I didn’t have to. “Sure. You could get married, have kids, all before I get my return flight from Heathrow.”

“I’m just saying,” I grumbled.

“Listen, I promise not to get married until you come back to Seattle. Scout’s honor!” There was a loud shuffling noise from her side of the line and then a quick, “Oh, damn.”

“Something wrong?”

“Sorry, Half-Pint. I have to get going. I’ll see you soon.”

We hung up after a few more long, gushy goodbyes that both Stell and I were going to pretend didn’t happen. I shot Mom a quick text about our weekly dinner—Sunday night, seven o’clock, I bring the dessert—and tossed my trash into the can across from my bed. The burger wrapper missed and fell to the ground.

I ignored it, talking to Mom a bit before turning in for the night. I was exhausted, but still knew I was going to miss the assignment when it was over. I fell asleep dreaming about promotions.

I was halfway through reviewing the notes marketing had sent me, and three-fourths of the way through my Americano, when the phone rang. I reached for it blindly with one hand while the other lifted the coffee cup to my mouth.

“Stephens,” I said, eyes scanning over the email still pulled up on my computer screen.

My uncle’s voice cut me off short. “Max, my office.”

I sat the coffee cup down quickly, frowning. “Hey, I’ve been on time! Early, even.”

Harris sighed; it was that long, heavy one that curled around me for a week after. I was sure he'd learned it from my mother. “Just. Get up here. You’re giving me a migraine.”

I threw my hands up in defeat, even though he couldn’t see me. Cradling the phone against my shoulder, I typed out a quick email to the marketing department that I would get on the revisions soon, and then hung up on Harris.

When I made it up to his office, I froze.

The door slamming behind me had two heads whipping in my direction. My jaw clenched, and I glared at Luke’s smirking face. “What is he doing in here?”

Normally, Luke was the aggressor in this pissing match we had; but if he honestly thought I was going to roll over while he reported me again, he had another think coming.

Harris interrupted Luke when he opened his mouth, eyes shooting daggers at me. “Enough, both of you. Max, sit down.”

Begrudgingly, I sat in the chair next to Luke across from Harris’s desk. Luke squirmed in his seat, clearly wanting to snipe at me, but unwilling to be unprofessional in front of his boss.

Idiot.

I turned to my uncle and shot him my nicest grin. “I don’t know what Luke has been saying, Harris, but—”

He waved me off and rolled his eyes. Luke shot me a pinched look, and I fought the urge to say something else.

“I didn’t call you in here to yell at you,” Harris said slowly, eyebrows raising. I considered that, forcing myself to not turn or fidget. He smiled at us, looking at us both carefully and appraisingly. “I have a project for you.”

My spine stiffened; Luke sat straight up in his seat, his face immediately shifting to something hungry and eager.

“Um, sir?” Luke prompted.

Harris cracked a smile. “It could be a way for you to move up the ladder here—both of you. I know you’ve both been hoping to bring something more to the table, to advance in the company, and I want you to know that we notice that kind of thing here. Luke, you have a great track record; Max, your help with the Heysman account has been important.”

I couldn’t help it; I stole a glance at Luke. His eyes were wide, expression nearly stunned in its surprise. I could feel nerves building in my chest.

I turned to Harris quickly. “Is this, like, a competition?”

“No,” Harris said firmly. He placed both hands on his desk. “We have a—sensitive package that needs to be delivered to a client in Los Angeles.”

“You want us to facilitate the delivery?” Luke frowned.

Harris shook his head. “It’s not suitable for air travel. It needs to be delivered in person. I need someone I trust on this.”

“So you want us to, what, drive to LA?”

“I think,” Luke said deliberately, shooting me an exasperated look, “what Max is trying to ask is: what, precisely, do you need from us?”

“I need you to drive to LA and hand-deliver a package to one of our most important clients. The contents of the package are non-replaceable.”

“That’s, like, forty hours of driving,” I pointed out.

Harris threw his hands up. “Well, if you’re not up to the task—”

“Hey, hey, no, I didn’t say that!”

“Sir, I would be happy to complete the task myself.”

I glared at him. Weasel. “I’m sure you would.”

Luke glared right back.

Harris muttered something under his breath that I couldn’t quite hear. It took all my energy to not glare at him, too.

I sighed. “Why not send a courier?”

“The package is, as I said, irreplaceable. I’d drive it myself, but I trust both of you. Of course, you’re both fully able to say no—”

Luke and I interrupted him with a loud litany of protests. He smiled. “Good.”

“When do we leave?” Luke, straight down to business.

At the same time, I asked, “What’s in the package?”

Harris pinched the bridge of his nose and then smoothed out his expression. “Confidential, for our client’s privacy. You’d need to leave immediately.”

“I have dinner with Mom,” I blurted out.

Luke shot me an incredulous look. “I, of course, will cancel any plans I have.”

Harris’s mouth pinched; I recognized it as him trying not to laugh. “Leave in the morning. Take a company car, if you want.”

“My car works fine,” I said.

Luke rolled his eyes. I quirked an eyebrow. There was a beat before we both looked away, conceding the fight before it began.

Harris didn’t notice the tip-toeing of our battle plans. He was shuffling through papers. “Here.” He shoved an envelope at Luke. I tried not to take it personally.

Luke flipped through the contents and then handed it to me. Inside were directions to the client’s drop-off location, contact information, and where to get the package before we left.

Harris dismissed us. I saluted; he rolled his eyes; Luke shook his hand firmly. Fuck, he was a suck-up.

We walked quietly to the elevator. Luke was practically bouncing where he stood. His enthusiasm was a little hard to be annoyed at, even if he was a dick half the time. I punched the down button. “So, I’ll pick you up at eight.”

His head whipped to me quickly. “Who said you’re driving?”

“Uh, I’ve seen the sack of shit car you drive. We’re taking mine.”

His eyes narrowed. “We could take a company car.”

“Then we’d have to wait until at least ten to rent it out, and get on the insurance, and it’d be a whole big thing. No, we’ll just take my car.”

Luke’s lips pursed together. His mind was whirling for an excuse so bad I could see the smoke coming out the top.

“Fine,” he said at last, a look of utter defeat crossing his expression. He pulled out his phone and tapped aggressively. “I just airdropped my address to you.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, nodding. “Okay. Eight?”

“Eight,” he agreed, sighing heavily. We stepped onto the elevator and he punched the button. “I can’t believe I have to drive all the way to LA with you.”

“Aw,” I said. I leaned against the corner of the elevator, crossing my ankles and grinning. “I’m a delight.”

“You’re a pariah to society.”

“Wilson, you are a treasure to society.”

“Shut up,” he grumbled, crossing his arms. I laughed.

He stormed out as soon as the elevator cracked open, shifting his hips so he could slide between the still-moving doors.

I cracked up, quickly texting Stella what had just happened as I made my way back to my desk.

Sure, a road trip with Luke Wilson wasn’t my favorite way to spend a weekend, but at least he’d be twice as miserable as I was. And Stella always did love a good Luke story.