A rich heiress pointed a forklift operator to the kitchen in front of a whole steakhouse, and the stranger at the corner table stood up and called her his date. Jo thinks he’s Ben, her accountant blind date. She doesn’t know he’s the CEO who votes Friday on closing her warehouse, or that her binder is about to take down the woman who mocked her.
“Sweetheart, the staff entrance is around back.”
Celeste Vance said it loud enough for half of Carver’s Steakhouse to turn around. She was staring at Jo Pruitt’s work boots.
Jo had come straight off a double at the Hale Freight warehouse in Dayton. There was still grease under her nails. Somewhere in this room was a blind date named Ben.
“I’m meeting someone,” Jo said.
“Not here, you’re not.” Celeste snapped her fingers at the host. “Can someone walk her to the kitchen?”
A man at the corner table stood up. He wore a dark suit and had tired gray eyes.
“She’s with me,” he said. “Sorry, Jo. I got here early.”
He knew her name. Then Jo remembered the patch on her jacket, JO, stitched above the company logo.
Celeste leaned close to him on her way out. “Does she even know who you are?”
“Good night, Celeste.”
Jo sat down. “Ex-girlfriend?”
“My mother’s idea.” He poured her water. “So. Ben.”
“So, Ben. You’re the accountant?”
He paused for half a second. “Ben’s what my grandmother called me.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Tell me why you look like you haven’t slept.”
So she told him. Two hundred twelve jobs, and the site closes Friday unless the board votes otherwise.
“Corporate says we lose money. We don’t.” She pulled a fat binder out of her bag. “Our manager, Rick Dunphy, pays eleven night-shift workers through Crestline Staffing. I’ve worked nights six years. I’ve never met one of them.”
He turned the pages slowly. Timecards. Badge logs that never swiped. An invoice address: 400 Market Street, Suite 9.
His jaw went tight. “I’ve seen this address.”
“Where?”
“Bring this Friday,” he said. “I promise someone will read it.”
When Jo went to the restroom, her phone lit up on the table.
*Ben (blind date): So sorry, car died on I-75. Rain check?*
Then his own phone buzzed.
*Mom: Celeste says you walked out on her for a WAREHOUSE GIRL. Vance Land’s offer for the Dayton site is on Friday’s agenda. Don’t embarrass me, Graham.*
Graham Hale, CEO of Hale Freight, turned both phones face-down.
At 2 a.m., “Ben” showed up at Dock 9 in a borrowed safety vest.
“Temp agency,” he told the crew. Jo nearly dropped her clipboard.
“You’re a terrible accountant,” she whispered.
“The worst there is.”
Rick Dunphy came stomping down the aisle. “Pruitt. You took company records off site. That’s theft. Hand it over or you’re fired tonight.”
“Shift leads are allowed access to those logs,” Graham said. “Call HR. I’ll wait.”
Rick squinted at him. “Who the hell are you?”
“Night shift.” Graham smiled. “The real kind.”
Rick left. Behind them a pallet of boxes tipped. Graham yanked Jo against his chest, and the boxes hit the floor where she had been standing.
His hand stayed on her waist.
“Ben,” she breathed.
He looked at her mouth. Then he stepped back. “Friday,” he said, like it hurt.
Friday, at headquarters in Columbus, Jo walked into the boardroom holding the binder.
The nameplate at the head of the table said GRAHAM HALE, CEO.
Celeste sat beside his mother and laughed. “Oh, honey. You thought he was an accountant?”
Jo set the binder in front of him. Her hands were steady. Her voice wasn’t.
“I told you everything. You let me think you were one of us.”
She walked out before he could stand up.
Graham opened the binder.
“Eleven ghost workers,” he told the board. “One point four million dollars in two years, paid to Crestline Staffing. Suite 9, 400 Market Street.” He slid Vance Land’s offer across the table. “Same suite.”
Celeste went white.
“Graham,” his mother said. “The Vances are friends.”
“Then they can explain it to the police.” He pressed the intercom. “Security. And get Rick Dunphy on the phone. He’s fired.”
The vote was 7–0. Dayton stayed open.
At the 6 p.m. shift change, two hundred workers watched the CEO walk onto Dock 9 in the same borrowed vest. Rick’s badge photo had already been pulled off the wall.
Jo crossed her arms. “Come to lie to me in person?”
“I lied about my job,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Not my name. Graham Benjamin Hale. My grandmother called me Ben.”
The crew went quiet.
“The board named you Dayton site manager this afternoon,” he said. “That wasn’t me. That was your binder. You earned it.”
Her eyes burned. “And you?”
“Let me take you to dinner as myself. Every Friday, for as long as you’ll have me.”
“Carver’s,” Jo said. “Front door.”
“Front door. Your name at the host stand.”
She grabbed his vest and kissed him while two hundred people cheered.
Six years of nights, and for the first time somebody had seen her in the daylight.
