Chapter 13
SAPPHIRE
“Have Hart Law confirmed the suitability for the venue yet?” Mistee, my best friend I couldn’t run my business without, asks, inspecting our slammed schedule projected onto the conference room wall.
“Nope.” I take a long sip of my crisp wine, then swirl the straw-colored liquid around the red Solo cup I’m drinking it out of.
The pair of us decided to work late tonight to do our monthly catch-up with the condition that there would be alcohol, and pizza.
So far, I’m on my third cup of wine. After the venue walk through with Eli yesterday and hours of work preparing opening speeches for upcoming events, it’s felt like a long week, and it’s only Tuesday.
“Is he stalling again?” She twirls one of her unruly corkscrew curls around her finger.
“Big time.” I emailed him this afternoon to ask for feedback, but I haven’t heard back. “I’m hoping to hear from him by tomorrow.” That’s pretty unlikely, but a girl can wish.
“What’s the issue?”
“Him. He’s the issue.” I down the rest of my drink, then set my cup on the table and lift my hands in the air to give my back a good stretch, lengthening my spine to release some of the tension. Luckily, I have a yoga class booked tomorrow. Thank the gods.
Mistee taps her pen against the tabletop before lifting it to her mouth and biting the end of it.
“You’re thinking,” I say, knowing my friend. I can almost hear the wheels turning in her busy brain, which is always full of creativity.
“You should build your own venue.” She comes straight out with it.
She knocks me sideways, but in all the best ways. Hell, why didn’t I think of that? “That’s a great idea.”
Mistee sits back in her chair and rubs her hands together like a conspirator. “Then delegates would come to us. It would save us so much time. Securing venues and conference facilities has become a full-time job. It’s not sustainable.”
It’s a pain in the ass and takes me away from the office.
I’m glad I only do this when I am managing the bigger events like the one Hart Law is having.
However, those are becoming more common, leaving me with little to no time to plan keynote speeches, catch up with marketing, create presentations, and do what I should be doing instead: delivering awesomeness.
At this rate, there might not even be a conference for Hart Law. However, if we had our own venue, the battle would already be halfway won, because there would be no options. It would be a one-and-done solution.
“Tell me more, Mistee.” I run my fingers through my hair, gathering it together and tying it in a messy top knot with one of the many stretchy crystal bracelets from around my wrist.
My biggest cheerleader then shares her ideas of what our conference facility could look like.
It’s not only a brilliant proposal but also a way to generate income on days with no bookings by renting it out for events we don’t organize ourselves, like weddings on weekends, sweet sixteens, quinceaneras, parties, and even proms.
“We would need to hire more staff,” I say enthusiastically, as warmth rushes through my sacral chakra—the one in my lower abdomen—tingling as it opens and pulsing with a heightened sense of creativity. It feels right. Aligned.
Mistee adds, jumping on the fun bus with me, “We’d hire a team dedicated just to the venue to oversee bookings, insurance, logistics, catering…”
I interject, already making up my mind. “Let’s do it.
” I have money. Lots of it to invest in the business.
Since I started my little business fresh out of college thirteen years ago, it’s grown exponentially.
While I might have told Eli my recommended vacation dose is three times a year, I’ve been so busy I haven’t taken one myself in two years.
I bought a super-fancy house in Pacific Heights after reaching a big income goal. That’s about it.
“It’s time to level up.” I feel giddy about this; it feels right.
“Are your chakras aligning on this one?”
“You betcha.” My skin is practically humming with glee like a happy hummingbird. “I need an assistant.”
“Yes. It’s about time.” She claps her hands together in applause.
I sit forward and smile in wonder at the full calendar we have for the rest of the year, feeling grateful for our success. “Where the hell am I slotting in the construction?”
“That’s what your assistant is for. Have them handle the time-consuming tasks so you can concentrate on customer relations and hosting events, and I recommend you hire a project manager for the build, too.”
I already feel lighter. “I agree.” It’s time to delegate, and I’ve been contemplating another idea for a while, so I ask, “How would you feel about becoming a business partner, Mistee?” I’m already confident I know what her response will be.
I’ve wanted to ask her for some time, but I waited until her divorce was finalized.
She wasn’t ready then, but she is now; I can tell.
The timing is perfect for both of us, and the business has grown too large for me to manage alone. Together, we could be unstoppable.
She raises her eyebrows high in a mix of shock and surprise. “You’re kidding?”
I don’t make jokes in high-stakes business decisions. “Nope.”
Mistee doesn’t answer right away; instead, she fills my Solo cup to the brim with wine, then her own, finishing the bottle we shared. “Count me in.” She lifts her cup in the air. “Here’s to something new.”
“You’re in?” I ask with a smile.
Beaming with excitement, she nods eagerly.
“To something new.” I lift my plastic cup and tap hers with mine, and together we smile against the lip of our cups as we take a swig, then we’re hugging each other, squeezing and holding on to one another, knowing this is the best decision we’ve ever made.
“Thank you, Sapphire,” Mistee says, her voice thick with emotion as we back out of our embrace and we take another drink of our much-deserved wine.
I welcome the gentle buzz from the alcohol as it fully hits my bloodstream, relaxing the muscles in my neck that could use a massage.
“We need to hire a lawyer to assist us bringing you in as a partner. For contracts, financials, get the legal stuff sorted,” I explain.
“You could ask Eli Hart,” Mistee suggests, turning in her seat then resting her feet on the chair next to her.
“Pft,” I scoff dismissively, remembering the way I told him to shove his staff conference up his ass yesterday. How unprofessional of me. “He brings out the worst in me.”
“He makes you blush.”
“He does not,” I admonish a little too harshly.
“You’re blushing.”
I place the palm of my hand against my face and then my neck. “It’s the alcohol.”
“You’re lying.” Her voice sounds like she’s singing with glee, enjoying every minute of making me squirm.
I slap my palm against my forehead. “I dreamed about him the other night.” I’ve had several but I don’t tell her that revealing piece of information.
“Oh.” Her mouth forms an O, her eyes wide and full of mischief.
I lift the clear bottle of wine off the table and start peeling the label, tearing a small piece from the corner, then another, and keep shredding pieces off bit by bit, making it look like a mini snowstorm has taken place on my lap.
“Did you know that peeling labels off bottles is a sign of sexual frustration?” Mistee points her finger at the label I’ve made completely unreadable.
“Shut up.” I place the bottle back on the table with an eye roll, then gather the pieces of white label and scrunch them into a ball. “I hate it when you’re right,” I whisper.
Mistee laughs deviously, taking another taste of wine from her cup.
“So you dreamed about Eli Hart?” she asks, her words carrying a playful edge.
My eyes drift to the ceiling. “He was yelling at me.” That’s only partly true. “Wearing nothing but a pair of suit trousers.”
“And that amazing six-pack you got a glimpse of, too, I’m sure.” I wish I hadn’t told her about the donut-coffee incident, but I did, and I can’t take it back.
The dream I had flashes into my mind in vivid detail, and I slowly describe it.
“We were in his office, and I was sitting on his desk.” I should stop talking; otherwise, Mistee’s going to bring this up for years, but to hell with it.
Maybe Mistee can help me interpret my dream.
“Every time he asked a question, he’d move closer to me.
He was relentless, firing them at me repeatedly.
Then suddenly, he was right in my face, lecturing me about his father’s legacy and how he needed the conference to be perfect, and I couldn’t let him down, plus how his staff would hate the donuts and matcha lattes I suggested for first break.
” I would never suggest those two things for break times, but in my dream, it made sense, sort of.
“Then his lips were so close.” I run my fingertip over my bottom lip as heat creeps up my neck.
The dream felt so real, like he was in the room with me, sleeping next to me.
“And all I could think about was how much I wanted him to kiss me.” I pause, remembering the raspiness of his breath and how good he smelled.
Like he always does. “Then he did.” I clear my throat.
“And it was nice. It felt good. Then he put his hand up my skirt, and that’s all I remember.
” I abruptly finish, shuffling in my seat, feeling uncomfortable that I’m sharing such personal details.
Details of things I would happily give my consent to and let him do whatever the hell he wants to me.
When I woke up, I had my hand down my pajama shorts, my fingers rubbing my clit, on the cusp of an epic orgasm. Now, that was most unexpected. Terrible, really. But hell, it felt good.
“You had a sex dream about a client.” Mistee breaks me from my dreamlike state.
“He’s infuriating.” I release the words from between my clenched teeth.
“You like him.”