Chapter 3
SAPPHIRE
“How was your day?” my mom asks me on the phone.
“Good.” I huff, collapsing onto the sofa.
“It doesn’t sound like it was good. I keep telling you to change your career, Sapphy. The corporate life isn’t for people like us.”
People like my mom and dad, she means.
My carefree mom would love for me to give up everything in the city, move to their homestead, and dance naked around a campfire on every new moon to prepare for new beginnings.
Once I realized that none of my friends’ parents did that, I stopped doing it myself. I still enjoy writing down my new moon wishes for the upcoming month, but the dancing part, nope, that’s not for me anymore.
“My day was great.” I sigh. That’s not the truth; it was great until I met Mr. Buzzkill: the stealer of joy. AKA… Elijah Hart. Sorry—Eli Hart, who wants me to plan one of the most boring events to reenergize his staff.
His surname couldn’t be more ill-fitting; he doesn’t have a heart.
Like a real-life Scrooge, I bet he hates Christmas too, even though that’s my favorite time of year.
Unless their HR manager, tells me otherwise—something I know she won’t—I’m refusing to scale back my plans for their event, and I’ll send her a message to inform her. I’m hoping she returns to work within a few days so that regular service can resume.
“I’m just tired, Mom.” I pet the head of my Ragdoll cat, Ghost. Rightly named because he’s as white as one, aside from the subtle gray flecks on the end of his tail and ears.
He butts his head against the palm of my hand before rolling onto his back for me to tickle his tummy, because that’s his favorite thing.
Digging my fingers into his thick fur, I ask my mom, “What have you and Dad been doing today?”
“We dug out the new vegetable patch to plant seed potatoes, beets, and broccoli for the cool season.” My mom laughs. “Your dad whacked himself in the head with the rake when he stood on it.”
I join in laughing. He’s the most accident-prone person I’ve ever known. “Is he okay?”
“Just a small bump. He’ll live.” She then slurps down the earpiece as if taking a sip of her drink. A peppermint tea, no doubt. “Tell me who you’re working with. Who is causing all these deep sighs?”
“Hart Law.”
“Never heard of them.” Of course she hasn’t.
Having lived off-grid in Slab City for years before moving into the city once I was old enough to start school—and before CPS chased my parents for my lack of attendance at a state school from fear of losing me—my parents now live self-sufficiently, one hundred miles east of San Francisco in the Sierra foothills.
The very thought of it makes me squeamish.
I’m more of a city girl, as my mom calls me.
I much prefer having running water from a faucet inside a bathroom or kitchen, so I don’t have to walk a mile to pump water from a well or take an outdoor shower.
I’m also a sucker for electricity and warmth that don’t need noisy generators to create.
My parents don’t mind any of that. They are total free spirits, at one with the earth and happily living a bohemian dream.
Dad has always been adamant about beating the rhythm of his own drum, and he’s never faltered.
He loves nothing more than telling me how much of a sellout I am, and has never approved of me becoming an event organizer for corporations.
However, he didn’t complain when I bought him one hundred chickens to start his egg business, which he maintains is a side-hustle, not a business, selling to other homesteads around him and supporting his and Mom’s unorthodox lifestyle. One he wishes I had too.
Was living off-grid fun? Yes, it was, and when I lived in Slab City as a little girl, it taught me a lot about resilience, community, and above all, art and culture.
Was that life for me? Absolutely not. While my parents kept me safe, quite often it wasn’t: meeting people who didn’t always have the best intentions, terrible weather conditions and zero healthcare.
I may have had a fair amount of freedom, but my desire for structure and running water ultimately prevailed, and I will never live anywhere else but San Francisco. I love the city.
I even remember my first day of school; it was the most exciting day of my life when I was just six.
From the books and the knowledge hidden between their pages to the activities, I was hooked from day one, absorbing everything eagerly.
In high school, I achieved the highest GPA in my class, which earned me a merit-based scholarship at San Francisco Bay University through the Startup Scholars program.
It was what helped me pursue my business degree with an entrepreneurial focus.
The moment I was safely inside my dormitory, my parents left in Queenie, the British bus they discovered in a junkyard, converted into a home, and moved to the Sierra foothills to a small homestead they say they will stay in until they retire.
Retirement from what I will never know because neither of them has ever had a steady job, moving from one to the other.
“Would the pressure of having to deliver yet another mundane conference help to change your mind about moving closer to us?” Mom asks, sounding hopeful as Ghost’s loud purr fills the room, making his body vibrate, his chest trilling and rumbling.
“Nope.” Never. If I had a dollar every time Mom asked me that, I could buy a chicken farm for my dad. However, that would mean it would come with a house that has regular amenities, and that would never do.
I smile to myself. I love my parents, but man, they are set in their ways and have a fixed mindset when it comes to modern living.
I divulge a little more information. “It’s just that this new client is difficult.
” Impossible to read. Closed off and has a fortress built around him, made of five-foot-thick stone and an impenetrable portcullis.
“And he hates all of my ideas.” It’s just as well I didn’t mention storytelling through movement, because I think that would have triggered a seizure.
He was already on the verge of a meltdown because of the brightly painted restaurant I booked. The fast-paced music was a step too far for the man whose whole personality is irritable and intense.
He’s handsome, though. There’s no escaping those blue eyes of his that almost hypnotized me over dinner. Or the broad muscles he hides beneath his gray suit. Tall, dark, mysterious, commanding, he’s the opposite of my type, but I have to admit the grumpy bastard part of him intrigues me.
“Describe him to me,” she presses me for information. Mom might say she hates what I do, but deep down, she secretly loves it and finds it fascinating.
“He owns a law firm with his three brothers. The family firm was started years ago by their father. He specializes in corporate law, doing mergers and acquisitions.”
“Pft,” she scoffs, making me chuckle as Mom hates anything to do with law and order.
I add more details, painting a picture of him to her.
“His name is Elijah, and he prefers to be called Eli. Plays chess, has a thing for bonsai, quiet, mysterious, guarded.” A clear image of him forms in my mind, and I sigh again, only this time it’s blissful.
“Chiseled jaw you could cut glass on, piercing eyes like the blue of glacial water, mesmerizing,” I say dreamily.
“Dark hair, short beard, confident, handsome, and so tall. About six-four, maybe taller. He’s gorgeous.
” I fall silent, unaware I had stopped rubbing Ghost’s stomach until he taps his fluffy paw against my hand, requesting me to continue.
“You like him.” It’s not a question.
“I do not,” I snap a little too harshly, giving myself away and causing Ghost to lift his head and look at me suspiciously, as if sensing my lie. I stick my tongue out at him, and if I didn’t know any better, I swear he rolls his eyes at me before dropping his head back against the sofa.
“Keep telling yourself that and you might sound convincing,” Mom drawls.
“Oh, God,” I grumble. “This is bad.”
“So, you like a client. Big deal. Has that never happened before?”
Has a guy ever made butterflies dance in my belly and raise my temperature by what felt like ten degrees when he rubbed his enormous, veined hands over his scruff in deep thought?
Is that what she means? Because if so, then…
“Nope.” I pause. Those hands were masterpieces.
I never thought I’d be into hand porn, but here we are.
I add, “It’s okay, though, he was just standing in for someone else tonight. It’s only temporary, and I won’t have to deal with him directly when she returns to work.” Thankfully.
“And when is their event?” she asks.
“After his eldest brother’s wedding.” It’s a few months away. Plenty of time to organize the event, but much too long to spend with a man who is far too good-looking for his own good.
“That will go by in a flash.”
I agree. “Yeah, it’ll be fine,” I say, knowing it will be anything but fine if I have to put up with his insufferable ass.
“Even if I do have to deal with him, he wants to be contacted by email only anyway. It’ll be fine,” I repeat like a mantra.
Although that is a real shame because it means I won’t get to see those blazing blue eyes of his again anytime soon; on the bright side, it means I am far enough away from him to keep my distance.
“He hates me,” I state matter-of-factly.
It was so obvious. His polite smiles felt tight rather than genuine.
The way he looked at me with bewilderment, as if wondering how I could get so many words out in one breath, compared to his one-word answers, seemed to frazzle his brain.
I know I can be a lot, but I am who I am, and I won’t change for anyone.