“Now, what is it that you wanted to show me?” Olivia raises her eyebrows and places one hand on her hip, obviously not impressed.

Wide shelves line all four walls. They’re numbered with the corresponding floors of the building and hold various envelopes and packages. It’s not a high-tech operation, but it gets the job done.

“Not what, but who.” I tip my chin toward the Latina cheerfully humming a tune to herself. Rosita’s back is to us as she sorts mail at the far end of the room.

“Rosita,” I call out.

She swivels around, clearly not expecting anyone, and her shoulder-length hair swings. A look of surprise is painted across her pleasant features, especially her large dark brown eyes, and a hint of pink comes to her round cheeks.

Rosita immigrated here from Mexico when she was just eighteen, taught herself English, and worked hard to support her growing family. Now, she’s a force to be reckoned with.

A company of this size usually employs a mail-room staff of three to four people. But Rosita said they’d just get in her way, so she runs the whole operation herself. She took ownership of both the position and the space, and made it hers—even hung cheery posters on the wall. One of a monkey dancing. Another of bright orange poppies.

“Mi amor!” she cries, already heading toward us. “Abrazo.” She opens her arms to me, expecting our customary hug.

“Gracias, Mamacita,” I reply, giving her a light squeeze.

It’s the same way she’s been greeting me for the past six years. I know about a whopping four words of Spanish, but I always use them with her. I want her to feel at home, I guess.

Coincidentally, Rosita and I started work here on the same day. We even attended orientation together. I was a fresh college grad, still wet behind the ears, and Rosita, fifteen years my elder, was skeptical about the owner’s son. Unlike Olivia, I haven’t worked here since I could walk. I had other jobs during college and made a point of interning at another firm so I could see how the competition worked.

When I met her, I thought Rosita might assume I was some rich, privileged punk who didn’t have to earn his paycheck. It made me all the more determined to prove her wrong. And Dad always was big on learning the ropes from the ground up, anyway. So for my first two weeks at Tate & Cane, I began working right alongside Rosita in the mail room.

It was during that time we cemented our relationship. We delivered packages and memos side by side, and shared jokes and stories. But when I really fell in love was when she shared her empanadas with me at lunch.

Rosita’s eyes widen slightly as they swing from mine to Olivia’s. “Miss Cane,” she says, her voice soft and quizzical. It’s not every day the CEO’s daughter wanders down to the mail room.

“Please, call me Olivia,” she says, correcting Rosita with a smile meant to ease. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Everyone at the company knows Olivia, even if they haven’t met.

“Did you . . . need something?” Rosita looks between me and Olivia again.

I shake my head. “Nope. Just came to say hello.”

Rosita’s posture relaxes and she smiles. “Did you get my invite for Maria’s birthday party?”

“Of course. Two weeks from Saturday, right? It’s already on my calendar.”

“Have you had lunch yet?” She smiles and reaches out to smooth one hand over my silk tie. “I worry, you know.”

I smile. “I’ve eaten. Thank you.”

Sometimes when I’m busy, I’ve been known to skip lunch—that is, until Rosita forces herself into my office with a sandwich from the deli down the street. It’s like she can sense when I’ve missed a meal. She often blurs the line between coworker, friend, and mother.

I’ve brought Olivia down here today because I want her to see there’s more to this company than what the numbers say. Some things can’t be learned from a spreadsheet. The perspective Olivia has perched in her corner office chair all day is quite different from the perspective one gets on the ground floor of this operation.

Standing here, looking into Rosita’s rich mahogany eyes and feeling the warmth and care that pours from her very soul, it’s impossible for us not to be aware of the importance of our responsibility. We can’t fail at this. If we fail, we take all these people down with us.

And I, for one, won’t let that happen.

After pleasantries are exchanged, Olivia and I head back toward the elevator.

“She’s important to you, isn’t she?” Olivia asks.

“Very.”

She nods, looking contemplative.

I check my watch as we step inside the elevator and let out a sigh. Olivia looks as overwhelmed as I feel. We’ve been under a mountain of stress lately, and I have a feeling it’s only going to get more intense.

“Today was unexpected,” I say. “Just like that, after weeks of negotiation, you’re actually going to consider this, huh?”

“I will do this on my terms, if and when I’m ready, Noah. Consider the next few weeks a trial period.”

“That will be easy, sweetheart.”

“Oh, it won’t be easy,” she says, correcting me. “And don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Are you sure about that, Mrs. Tate?”

“I told you not to call me that, either.”

“I know. You told me to take you out for a drink before you’ll consider taking my name.” I smirk at her. “Which I think is an excellent fucking idea. Brilliant, in fact.”