Falling for You

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Charlie

My laptop screen illuminates the growing darkness of my office as I stare at the email that just ruined any chance of me having a social life tonight.

Dear Ms. Whitaker, after our board meeting today, we've decided to pivot our campaign in a more youthful direction...

Translation: We're throwing out three months of your work because someone's nephew mentioned a TikTok trend at the family dinner.

I scroll through the rest of my client's email, each sentence making my blood pressure climb another notch. Their fourth pivot this month. Their third "exciting new direction." Their second "minor tweak" that requires rebuilding the entire content calendar.

"Fantastic," I mutter, checking the time in the corner of my screen. 6:48 PM. Everyone else is packing up to leave while I'm settling in for what promises to be another thrilling night of corporate indecision.

I click over to their folder on the shared Drive, rubbing my eyes as I scan through the dozens of files.

Each one represents hours of my life I'll never get back.

I exhale slowly, feeling a strand of my auburn hair slip from my messy bun and fall across my face.

I brush it behind my ear with practiced resignation.

My phone lights up with an incoming call and my little sisters face appears on the screen. I briefly consider ignoring it, but she would just keep calling until I answered.

"Hey," I say, sandwiching the phone between my ear and shoulder while I continue scrolling through documents.

"CHARLIE!" Her voice blares so loudly I have to pull the phone away. "It's Taco Thursday! Lily's already bought the ingredients and I picked up that fancy tequila you like!"

In the background, I hear Lily call out in her thick British accent, "The good stuff! Not the one that makes you want to text your secondary school boyfriend!"

"That was ONE time," I protest.

"So, when are you coming home?" Emily asks. "Lily's making her famous guacamole and we’re turning on Sing King karaoke."

I glance at the files on my screen and sigh. "I can't. The client from hell just completely changed directions. Again."

"Again?" Emily groans. "Charlie, you're such a workaholic! Live a little!"

"I live plenty," I mutter, opening another document and wincing at the revisions I'll need to make.

"When was the last time you went out? And don't say last Tuesday when you had lunch on a bench outside your building."

"That counts as going out though."

"It does not, and you know it," Lily says in the background. "Ever since Ethan—"

"Don't," I cut her off. "I'm not working late because of him. I'm working late because some corporate executive can't make up his mind about whether his logo should be 'ocean blue' or 'coastal cerulean.'"

"Fine," Emily sighs dramatically. "But next Thursday, you're not getting out of it. I don't care if Beyoncé herself becomes your client."

"Alright." I sigh into my phone, not having the energy to start an argument with her.

We chat for another minute before I hang up, immediately feeling the silence of the office press in around me.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and somewhere down the hall, the copy machine whirs to life, probably printing out TPS reports or whatever nonsense keeps the accounting department busy after hours.

I rub my temples, feeling a headache building behind my eyes. A soft knock on my door frame makes me look up.

Zoe stands there, purse over her shoulder and coat draped over her arm. My assistant looks fresh and ready for whatever exciting twenty-something adventures await her this evening, while I’m sure I look like I've been ran through a wind tunnel.

"I'm heading out," she says. "Was that Ethan on the phone?"

My stomach does a sickening flip at the mention of his name. I haven't told her that we are no longer together. I haven't told anyone at the office, but six months should be enough time to hear my ex-fiancé's name without feeling like I've been sucker punched.

Apparently, it's not.

"No," I say sharply, then soften my tone. "Just my sister and roommate trying to lure me home with tacos and karaoke."

Her expression shifts to something sympathetic, and I hate it. I don't need sympathy. I need clients who don't change their minds every fifteen minutes.

"You okay?" she asks, wrapping her scarf around her neck. December in Central Texas usually means mild weather with occasional days in the low forties and today Silverton, Texas has been a brisk forty-six degrees and dropping with the sun.

"Fine," I reply automatically. "Just another late night with this client."

Her face scrunches as she steps further into my office. "They changed direction again?" She moves closer to my desk, her purse strap sliding down her arm. "Want me to stay and help?” Her keys jingle as she drops them into her pocket. "I can order us takeout and help organize the drive files."

I shake my head. "No, it’s okay.” I wave her off. “But at this point, I’m convinced they’re my villain origin story.”

She hesitates, then nods. "Well, don't stay too late. And don't forget you have that meeting with Archer Media first thing tomorrow morning."

Great. Another reminder that I'll be running on fumes and caffeine for an eight AM meeting.

"Got it. Have a good night, Zoe."

After she leaves, I lean back in my chair and close my eyes for just a moment. The quiet hum of the office settles around me. The soft whir of the air conditioning, keyboards clacking as the few remaining dedicated souls finish their work.

I open my eyes and pull up more of their files. Their logo stares back at me, taunting me with its impending transformation from "sophisticated and timeless" to whatever buzzword they've latched onto this week.

My phone chirps with a text. Emily again.

We're saving you some tacos. Don't work past 9 or I'm calling in a wellness check.

Em

I smile.

Threats will get you nowhere

Her response is immediate.

They'll get me a sister who isn't married to her laptop!

Em

I ignore that and set my phone down on the edge of my desk. Time to focus. The sooner I figure out how to satisfy my client's ever-changing vision, the sooner I can go home.

I pull up their competitor analysis and start making notes. What exactly does "youthful direction" mean to a company that sells enterprise software? Are they expecting TikTok dances about data integration? Maybe a rap about their API capabilities?

My stomach growls, reminding me that lunch was a sad desk salad around noon. I reach into my drawer and pull out an emergency granola bar, the last survivor of a box I bought weeks ago. It's slightly stale, but beggars can't be choosers.

As I chew, I stare at the mood board I created for their original concept.

Clean lines. Professional blue tones. Aspirational imagery of diverse professionals looking productive and fulfilled.

All of it is carefully crafted to position them as the solution to every middle manager's workflow problems.

Now they want "youthful." Whatever that means.

I close the mood board and open a new document. Maybe if I start fresh instead of trying to retrofit their old concept...

My phone lights up again. This time it's a notification from Instagram. Probably Emily posting their tacos with some passive-aggressive caption about missing team members.

Against my better judgment, I click into it.

It's not Emily.

It's Ethan.

My heart does that stupid thing where it skips a beat before plummeting into my ass. His name on my screen shouldn't affect me like this anymore; since he decided he "wasn't ready for commitment."

The notification shows he's tagged me in a photo. Which is weird, because we haven't spoken since I threw his collector edition Star Wars posters out the window.

Not my finest moment, but surprisingly cathartic.

I hesitate, my finger hovering over the notification. Nothing good can come from opening this.

Nothing.

I tap it anyway.

And that's the moment my world shatters.

It's a photo of Ethan on one knee in front of the Eiffel Tower at sunset. His arm is extended, a ring box open in his hand. Across from him stands a woman with sleek blonde hair and a perfectly curated winter outfit, hands covering her mouth in "surprise."

The caption reads: @HustleHardHarper She said YES! Can't wait to spend forever with my soulmate @TheOliviaSutton

My vision blurs as I read the comments—a parade of congratulations and emojis. And there, directly beneath the photo, a comment from Olivia herself. @TheOliviaSutton From the moment we met, I knew you were the one. Finally found my forever!

The timestamp on the photo says it was posted three hours ago. The one on Olivia's comment also says three hours ago. Almost like she was waiting, phone in hand, for the exact moment he posted it.

Zooming into the picture, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, I recognize her.

Olivia Sutton. The marketing coordinator who kept trying to talk to Ethan at his corporate Christmas party last year.

The one who laughed too hard at his jokes and "accidentally" kept touching his arm or his shoulder while I was standing right there.

The woman that he said I was "being paranoid" about.

I slam my laptop shut and grab my bag. This isn't happening. Not here, not with the janitor whistling down the hall. Whatever emotional breakdown is coming, it's not happening at my desk.

The client can wait.

I take the elevator down to the parking garage, my heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to escape. The photo keeps flashing in my mind—her perfect, surprised face. His perfectly timed kneel. The perfect Parisian backdrop.

It's so staged I can practically see the director's notes.

I stab at my car's ignition button three times before remembering I need to step on the brake pedal. My hands are shaking. When did that start?