Chapter Fourteen
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After three days in San Francisco pitching VC firms, I touch down in Austin on Thursday morning and drive straight to the warehouse to observe some new tech. By the time I get home that night, my flowers have dried up and my fridge smells like bad dairy. I pull an Indian meal out of the freezer and heat it up, tossing the last of Camila’s bachelorette props into a trash bag. After I eat, clean out the fridge, and take the trash to the curb, I finally collapse in front of my television. Farmer Wants a Wife is playing in the background while I scan emails on my phone.
I have a meeting with Will late tomorrow morning (I assigned his contact color Pantone Royal Blue). This meeting is just the two of us again. It’s a notification I’ve been checking day in and day out, imagining he cancels it, postpones, invites Camila or another executive to attend. But none of those scenarios have occurred.
There’s a familiar pull at my stomach, like the organ itself is rioting. It’s been rioting every time I think his name.
I have an impossible number of questions about his life over the past ten years, and that, I tell myself, is the root of my fascination. Not the swirl of ocean blue in his otherwise crystalline eyes. Not the soft patches of brown hair that disobey his comb in the morning. Not the smooth, low, calming tone of his voice, or the sculpt of his shoulders, and definitely, absolutely not the way he says the word good.
So what if Zoe has decided she doesn’t care anymore if I’m interested in Will? So what if that’s actually true (and for the record, I’m still not sure it is)? Will Grant is technically a contract hire. On top of that, he lives in New York City, and I live in Austin. I’m pretty sure the differences in the lives we lead would be stark if you lined them up for review. He probably spends his weekends at swanky, dimly lit speakeasies he got invited to by a “New York ten”—a term Camila taught me—and meanwhile, I’m mostly bumming around breweries no more than five road miles from my home, wiping away the sweat from my bike ride with a paper towel.
And even if we could ignore all that, push past it for the sake of a good fling whenever one of us found ourselves in the other’s city, and we could ignore the emotional turmoil from our past, and we could ignore the fact that we don’t now and never have belonged in each other’s circles—I have no time. None. Even when I’m traveling, I’m answering emails or taking CEO classes at night, or on the phone with someone in Asia at eight p.m.
And even if, by some miracle, we found ourselves in a situation where none of the aforementioned concerns mattered—
I haven’t been intimate with a man in years. They say you can’t unlearn how to ride a bike, but frankly, I think I might’ve forgotten how to fuck.
Will Grant is a no-fly zone.
Do not think of him.
Do not go near him.
Do not touch him.
Do not want him.
He is forbidden.
I nod to myself and pour some wine.
The next morning is productive. Our head of design hands me an ICOML when I walk into the office, and there are cupcakes to celebrate one of our designers’ birthday. It’s a Friday, and everyone is in a good mood. Camila smacks me on the butt and says, “Welcome home!” when she passes me in the hallway, not looking the least bit like someone who’s biding their time before they make a grand exit.
Part of me wonders if I dreamed what she said. If I fell asleep, then manifested a nightmare so convincing I’ve continued to believe it.
It’s seven minutes past the hour when I’m jogging back to my office. I swing around the corner and Will is waiting there, already seated across from my desk.
“Sorry!” I shout. He twists to look at me, eyes tired. I wonder how early his flight was this morning.
His hair is combed back from his face today, the curls from last weekend a bit straighter, his throat hidden behind a starched blue collar. Not Pantone Royal Blue, summer-sky blue. He stands up when he hears me (I will never be over it). There are maybe eight feet between us, but I can still see the expression in Will’s eyes. Curious, patient, cautious.
“No problem.” His voice is too warm.
I shut the door to my office to give us some privacy (that whole wall is glass, but anyway). I glance at his arms. Briefly think of the way they hugged my waist against his in that crowded bar less than a week ago.
No-fly zone.
“We should clear the air,” I blurt.
His dimple appears. It gives him away even when he’s trying not to smile or show his amusement. “Okay.”
“I mean, shouldn’t we?” I ask. Or have I invented the entire undertone to the way his hands lingered on my face and neck outside Andalo?
“You’re right,” he says, voice rough. “We should clear the air.”
I nod once. “I don’t want us to be a distraction for each other.”
Will slips his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He laughs briefly, bites his lip, and asks, “Do you plan to stop existing?”
I was wanting you.
My heart shouldn’t be singing. “If it makes you more comfortable, we could move most of our meetings to be virtual.”
He stares at me, his lips slightly parted. “Do I make you uncomfortable?” The question sounds genuine, like he really wants to know.
“No,” I jump to say. “It’s not—it’s not my problem. I just don’t want you to feel like you’ve gotten yourself into a situation you’d rather not—”
“Being around you doesn’t make me uncomfortable either,” he says, cutting me off. “You’re…” Will presses his lips together. “Warm. You’re a very warm, caring, hardworking person. Being around you makes me feel pretty good about myself, actually.”
His words inflate me until I’m lightheaded. Nobody has ever phrased something that way about me before. The idea that being in my presence could make another person feel better about themselves. That my presence has that kind of positive impact.
“I don’t want to go virtual,” he says, taking a measured step toward me. “Frankly, that would look bad to my boss, and I just don’t think it’s necessary. I’m a professional, and I’ll act like one. No distractions, business only.”
He watches me, waiting for my input.
“What about standing when I enter or exit a room? Can you stop doing that?”
His head cocks. “Why, specifically?”
I panic and change my mind. “No reason.”
“Then no,” he says, biting on a smirk. “That I can’t stop, or my mother might kill me.”
“So, we’re negotiating,” I say.
“Mm.” The dimple again.
“No more personal favors.”
He nods. “Agreed.”
“We should avoid talking about our personal lives.”
“Okay. What else?”
I consider. “I think that covers it.”
Will’s eyes cut from mine, and he twists back. “In that case.” He reseats himself in one of the chairs, and I walk around to my side of the desk, taking a seat. There’s an entire panel of wood between us, but somehow, it still doesn’t feel like enough distance.
“I have two things for you.” Will leans forward and slides two folders across the desk. “The first is an action plan for B Corp Certification. The second is research on how to open your physical stores in alignment with your B Corp strategy.”
I whip open the first folder and parse Will’s research. It’s meticulously organized, typed, graphed, printed.
“How long will it take?” I ask.
“Typically six to eight months. But I swore I’d work harder for you than I’ve ever worked on anything, and I think we could get the assessment filed in three months. After that, B Lab will review your information, and you’d need a score of eighty or higher to pass.”
“Eighty or higher,” I repeat, my eyes tracking across the paperwork.
After the pop-up fiasco, Revenant really needs some good press. This could be the ticket. I don’t want to wait any longer than I absolutely must to try for certification.
“So, where are our problem areas?” I ask.
“Suppliers,” he says. “Some of them are okay, others you’re going to need to replace. The suggestions are all there.”
I glance up at Will. His ankle is propped on one knee, and his hands are linked together in his lap. His eyes catch and hold mine.
“This is great, Will. Thank you.”
He nods. “I’m happy you’re happy.”
I push aside the first folder and grab the second one. “And this?”
“Market research on other brands who went from online to omnichannel.”
I roll out my neck, eyes trained on the packet, while I try to convince myself that competency shouldn’t be this much of a turn-on.
“Thank you,” I say, forcing a levelness into my tone. “I’ll have a look at all this and follow up with you tomorrow if I have any questions.”
Will nods and stands up. He’s still got one more folder in his hands. He checks his watch. “I’ve got a meeting now with Camila. She asked for some research, too.”
“She did?” It comes out eager, and Will notices. “I mean, um. That’s…” I trace my index finger along the edge of a folder. Dusk blue, not Pantone Royal Blue. “Productive,” I finish lamely.
Will studies me like he’s strategizing the best way to break into a fortress. “Is that… okay with you?”
“Of course!” He continues staring, and I finally crack. “I have a favor to ask.”
He slants me a look. “You quite literally just told me no favors.”
“This is a work favor,” I clarify.
“In that case, it’s an assignment.”
I grab a pen and fiddle with it, then look back up at him. From this angle, the underside of Will’s jawline is as defined as a cliff face. “The first night of Camila’s bachelorette? She drunkenly told me she’s leaving Revenant. But I don’t think she remembers saying it.”
After a moment, he deduces: “This upsets you.”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to hold her back. But I just…”
“Just…” He waits.
“I just want to make sure she’s not unhappy. Or that something within my power to change isn’t making her unhappy.”
Will nods. “I can ask if she’s happy.”
“No! Ugh, boys,” I groan softly, dropping the pen to fiddle with the ends of my hair. I curled it today, even added some hair perfume. “Just let me know if she seems… disengaged?”
He frowns. “Okay. So, I’m just supposed to take her temperature?”
“Basically.”
“I’m not known for my stealth,” he says.
“What are you known for?”
“I’d tell you if it wouldn’t be breaking one of your rules,” he reminds me.
“Right. You can text me,” I say. “About Camila. Don’t put it in an email.”
He nods and heads for the door. I watch him walk away, trying very hard not to stare at the shape of his legs straining against the fabric of his pants.
He pauses. “Even if she leaves, Josie, it doesn’t mean she’ll stop being your best friend.”
“I want to believe that,” I respond, my voice full of a vulnerability I wish was better disguised. “But given my shoddy history with friendships, it’s hard not to worry.”
Will gives me one last thoughtful look before he disappears, closing the door behind him.