“At least maybe I’ll have a place to work down there that won’t get me high from sniffing chemicals all day.”

“I was just screwing with you. Your real office is being set up for you as we speak.”

“Oh. Wow. Thanks.”

“No problem. I’m sure the cake in the urinals makes the new office smell a lot better.”

“I’m not—”

I raised a hand and cut her off. “Joking. The office is the same layout as mine, two doors over. I know you’d like to be closer to me, but that’s the best I could drum up.”

“Are you always this obnoxious so early in the morning?” She held up a tall coffee mug with a pink sparkly A on it. “Because I’m just starting my second cup, and if that’s the case, I’m going to need to caffeinate more before I get here.”

I chuckled. “Yep, get used to it. I’ve been told mornings are my least obnoxious time, so you might want to fill that big mug with something stronger after lunch.”

She rolled her eyes.

Marina, my assistant—our assistant—walked in and dropped an envelope on my desk. She offered Annalise a smile and said good morning, while pretending I wasn’t in the room.

I shook my head when she walked out. “By the way, I feel compelled to warn you: don’t accidentally eat your new assistant’s lunch.”

Annalise seemed to think I was kidding. “Okay.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I walked over to the round table in the corner where I normally held small meetings and set her box down. Noticing the label, I said, “Bianchi Winery? I thought we were going over all of our accounts to even out the workload and reassign clients between our teams?”

“We are. But I figured it couldn’t hurt to show each other our presentations for tomorrow. Maybe we can agree on which is the best one, and we won’t have to go up against each other?”

I smirked. “Afraid you’re gonna lose, huh?”

She sighed. “Forget it. Let’s just go over the accounts like Jonas asked.”

God, she’s touchy. “Alright. Why don’t we work here? There’s more room to spread out.”

She nodded and pulled out an accordion file folder from her box. As she unfastened the elastic band that kept it neatly compressed, the file expanded, displaying a few dozen compartmentalized, individual slots. Each slot had a color-coded label with something typed on it.

“What’s that?”

“It’s my Quick Kit.”

“Your what?”

“Quick Kit.” She pulled out a bunch of papers from one of the slots and fanned them across the table. “There’s a client contact sheet with the name and numbers of all the key players, a fact sheet that gives a summary of the product lines we market, a list of my team members who work on the account, some summary budget information, graphics of the client’s logos, a listing of preferred fonts and PMS color codes, and a summary of the current project.”

I stared at her.

“What?”

“What’s all that for?”

“Well, I keep the Quick Kit in the file cabinet in the marketing bullpen area so that whenever a client calls, anyone can grab the information and be able to discuss the account after just a few minutes of looking over these documents. I also use it when I’m called to meetings to give account updates to the executive team. But I figured we could use it today when we talk about each account.”

Shit. She’s one of those—all super organized and neurotic.

I pointed my eyes to her folder. “And what’s with all the different colors?”

“Each account has its own color, and all of the collateral and files are color coded so it’s easy to file and pull together information.”

I scratched my chin. “You know, I have a theory about people who use color-coding systems.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“They die early from stress.”

She laughed, but then saw my face.

“Oh, you’re not kidding, are you?”

I shook my head slowly.

She straightened her folder in front of her. “Alright. I’ll bite. Tell me, why is it that people who prefer color coding die earlier?”

“I told you. Stress.”

“That’s ridiculous. If anything, my stress level is reduced because of my color-coding system. I’m able to find things more easily and don’t have to waste time opening every drawer and going through piles of old collateral laying around. I can just scan for a color.”

“That may be true. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’ll hear me yelling fuck a few times a week when I can’t find something I’m looking for.”

“See?”

I held up a finger. “But it’s not the color coding in itself that causes stress; it’s the incessant need for organization that leads to stress. Someone who color codes thinks everything has its place, and the world doesn’t work that way. Not everyone wants to be that organized, and when they don’t follow your systems, it inherently makes you stressed.”

“I think you’re exaggerating. Just because I like color coding doesn’t mean I’m a neurotic organization freak and get upset when things are out of place.”

“Oh yeah? Give me your phone.”

“What?”

“Give me your phone. Don’t worry. I won’t go through and check out all the duck-lip selfies you have stored in there. I just want to check something out.”

Reluctantly, Annalise held out her phone to me. Things were just as I suspected. Every app was filed and organized. There were six different folders, and those were labeled: Social Media, Entertainment, Shopping, Travel, Work Apps, and Utilities. Not one single app was outside of the little organized bubbles. I clicked into social media bubble, dragged the Facebook app out, and let it loose. Then I went into the Shopping folder, took the Amazon icon, and dragged it into the social media bubble. I pulled the e-Art app from the Work bubble and let it dangle loose on her background.

Once I handed it back to her, she scrunched up her face. “What is that supposed to prove?”

“Your apps are messy now. It’s gonna start to drive you nuts. Each time you open up your phone to do something, you’ll have a strong urge to file the icons back where they belong. By the end of the week, it will cause you so much stress, you’ll give in and fix it all to keep your blood pressure down.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

I shrugged. “Okay. We’ll see.”

Annalise straightened in her seat. “And what exactly is your system for managing accounts? What are you going to use to review the accounts together today? A list written on the back of an envelope in crayon?”

“Nope. Don’t need a list.” I sat back in my chair and tapped my finger to my temple. “Photographic memory. It’s all up here.”

“God help us if that’s where all the information is,” she mumbled.

Annalise spent the next two hours going over all of her accounts. I’d never admit it out loud, but her hyper-organized file gave her access to a hell of a lot of data right at her fingertips. She was clearly on top of her game.

We set aside a few of her summary sheets to note which accounts she thought she could reassign.

When it came time to talk about my accounts, not surprisingly, Annalise planned to take notes instead of just listening like I did.

“I forgot to bring a notepad,” she said. “Can I borrow one?”

“Sure.” For the sake of teamwork, I grabbed two pads and a pen from my desk drawer. Not thinking anything of it, I tossed one on the table in front of her and the other in front of where I’d been sitting. Annalise noticed the ink on the front before I did. She turned the pad to face her.

Shit.

I attempted to grab it from her hand, but she pulled it back and out of my reach. “What do we have here? Did you draw all of this?”

I held out my hand. “Give me that.”

She ignored me in favor of studying my doodles some more. “No.”

I arched a brow. “No? You’re not going to give me my notepad back? How old are you?”

“Umm…apparently…” She waved the notebook in the air, displaying my art. “…the same age as the twelve-year-old boy who drew these things. If this is what you do all day at work, I’m not sure what I was worried about. I was thinking I had to compete for the job against a seasoned professional.”

I had a bad habit of doodling while I listened to music. I did it whenever I was stuck creatively or needed a palate cleanser in between projects. I had no fucking idea why, but the mindless sketching helped clear my busy head, which in turn allowed the creativity to get its turn inside. The habit wouldn’t be so bad—maybe a little embarrassing that a thirty-one-year-old man still draws cartoon superheroes at his desk—but nothing to get me in trouble…that is, if the superheroes I doodled daily were male. But they weren’t. My superheroes were all women…with pronounced body parts, sort of like the caricatures you can get done by a street artist where your head is five times the size of your body and you’re roller-skating or surfing. You know the ones, right?