Penelope's POV
Thursday afternoon brought Felicity to my desk with that familiar spark of mischief in her eyes that usually meant trouble for someone.
"Lunch today?" she asked, leaning against my workspace with the kind of casual confidence that suggested this wasn't really a request. "I desperately need to decompress and discuss tomorrow's party before this office madness consumes what's left of my sanity."
"Absolutely," I replied, quickly saving the spreadsheet I'd been wrestling with all morning. "Where did you have in mind?"
"Small House Maison, that cozy French spot around the corner. Perfect ambiance for some serious girl talk."
I anticipated a peaceful break from the mounting hysteria surrounding the Sterling event. With my thoughts spinning between whatever complicated situation existed with Bernie and the lingering mystery of my anonymous correspondent, any reprieve sounded like heaven.
