13. Adair
Adair
I pull into the parking lot of Andimo’s Italian Restaurant and cut the engine. I stare at the building like it’s a portal to another world—a very staid, traditional world.
The brick exterior is pristine, with ivy curling up one side like it was placed there by a designer, not by nature. The awning over the entrance is a deep, forest green, embroidered with the restaurant’s name in elegant gold script.
Even the asphalt feels expensive, lined with sleek black sedans and cars I can’t afford to breathe near, let alone own.
I smooth the front of my blazer, trying to fake the confidence of someone whose earrings didn’t come in a bubble mailer.
This place screams “old money,” the kind that’s never checked a bank balance or used a coupon.
Meanwhile, I look like one of those influencers who show you how to fake luxury on a Target budget. Great on camera. Not so convincing in real life.
My heels click against the cement as I make my way to the entrance. The clickety-clack is too loud in the otherwise uncharacteristically quiet evening. Like my shoes didn’t get the memo that I’m trying to blend in.
Inside, the air is cool and smells like freshly baked bread. The decor is understated but immaculate—dark wood paneling, crisp white tablecloths, and the faintest hint of jazz playing in the background.
The hostess, a woman who looks like she moonlights as a Chanel model, gives me a once-over before plastering on a professional smile. “Ms. Carpenter?”
“That’s me,” I say, standing a little straighter and pretending I'm not the kid who wandered into the grown-ups’ table by mistake.
“This way, please.”
She leads me through the dining room, and I catch snippets of quiet conversations in low, cultured tones. Even the clinking of silverware feels subdued, as though no one here dares to make too much noise.
My mouth is dry, but I swallow hard and remind myself why I’m here. This isn’t a business meeting. It’s a lifeline. If I can convince Evelyn Thatcher to invest in my product line, it could save everything I’ve worked so hard to build.
At a corner table by the window sits Evelyn herself.
She’s wearing a crisp white blouse and a beige cardigan that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Her hair is silver, styled in a chic bob, and her expression is unreadable as she looks up from her phone.
Beside her sits the woman I’ve been in touch with. Laura, her assistant, is prim and quiet. Her hands are folded neatly on the table. Laura looks exactly like someone who would thrive in a place like this—polished, efficient, and utterly unimpressed by anything or anyone .
“Ms. Thatcher,” I say, extending a hand as I approach. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Evelyn stands, offering a firm handshake. “Adair Carpenter. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I blink, unsure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing, but before I can respond, she gestures to the chair across from her. “Please, have a seat.”
I sit, setting my leather tote on the floor beside me, and resist the urge to fidget. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
“Of course,” Evelyn says, her tone warm but measured. “I’m always interested in hearing from women with big ideas. Laura here speaks highly of your energy and ambition.”
Laura nods slightly, her gaze sharp and assessing. I offer her a small smile before turning my attention back to Evelyn.
“That means a lot. I’ve worked hard to build my concept and develop a product line that I truly believe in. I think it has the potential to fill a gap in the market. I need more capital to package and market it properly.”
Evelyn leans back in her chair, every inch the businesswoman. “Well, let’s hear it. Tell me about these products of yours.”
This is my moment. I reach into my tote and pull out a sleek, black pouch, unzipping it to reveal the neatly arranged jars and bottles of my product line. As I set them on the table, one by one, I launch into my pitch.
“This is our Radiance Renewal Face Cream,” I say, holding up a small jar with a matte finish and gold lettering. “It’s designed to hydrate and rejuvenate the skin, using all-natural ingredients sourced from sustainable suppliers.”
I hand the jar to Evelyn, who studies it for a moment before passing it to Laura. Laura inspects the packaging with a critical eye, nodding slightly but saying nothing.
“This one is our Blissful Body Balm,” I continue, holding up a larger jar. “It’s perfect for dry or sensitive skin and has a subtle lavender scent that’s both calming and luxurious.”
I go through each product in turn, describing its benefits and the care that went into its development.
My passion is evident in my voice as I speak, the way it always comes out when I talk about my work. These products are more than items on a shelf. They’re a piece of me, a reflection of everything I’ve poured into this business.
When I finish, Evelyn sets down the final jar and folds her hands on the table. “You’re certainly enthusiastic,” she says, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Reminds me of myself when I was your age.”
“Thank you,” I say, sitting a little straighter.
“But,” she continues, and my heart sinks at the word.
The fucking “but.”
“The packaging comes across very youthful."
Her finger taps the bottle. "It's, and don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s almost like a knock off of true luxury. The colors are a bit dated. And I don’t think matte black is the best choice for the base color.”
I flush slightly. In this environment, for the first time, I can see what she means. I never thought about my packaging as looking anything but luxury at an affordable price. But now, I get it.
And like that, I’m back in seventh grade, realizing I wore the wrong shoes to the cool table. Only now, the shoes cost way more, and the rejection’s wrapped in a cashmere smile.
She smiles kindly. “It’s not a problem for your target audience.
I dare say none of them will even notice.
It’s clear you’re targeting a younger demographic with this design choice on the packaging, which is fine, but I hope you can understand when I say that it doesn’t resonate with someone like me. ”
I nod, trying not to let the comments sting. “I understand. I wanted the design to be fresh and modern, and luxurious, yes. But I’m open to feedback. If you think there’s a way to make it more appealing to a broader audience, I’d love to hear your thoughts.”
Evelyn exchanges a glance with Laura, who finally speaks up. “The products themselves seem promising,” Laura says.
“Thank you,” I say, for the first time directing my attention toward her.
“The branding needs a bit of refinement if you’re looking to attract a wider market beyond Gen Z and some Millennials.”
Evelyn nods in agreement. “I don’t know much about product lines, but I do know people who can assess this for me. I’ll have my financial advisor take a look at your pitch deck and run the numbers. It’s not a no, but I need more information before I can make a decision.”
It’s not the answer I was hoping for, but it’s not a flat-out rejection either.
I force a smile, trying to focus on the fact that the door isn’t entirely closed. “I appreciate that. Thank you for considering it.”
Evelyn leans forward, her expression softening slightly. “Don’t lose that fire, Adair. It’s what sets you apart. But remember, passion alone isn’t enough. You need a solid plan, the right connections, and a little luck. Keep that in mind.”
“I will,” I say, my voice steady despite the lump forming in my throat .
As the meeting wraps up, I gather my products and place them back into the pouch, careful not to let my disappointment show. Evelyn Thatcher might not be the savior I was hoping for, but I’m not giving up.
If I’ve learned anything from running a business, it’s that setbacks are part of the process.
As I step outside into the cool evening air, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expecting maybe Parker or a message from Citrine, but instead, Jenna’s name flashes across the screen.
A small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. Leave it to Jenna to call at the exact moment I need her most.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’s tapped into my emotional GPS. Just when the voice in my head is saying Recalculating , Jenna always shows up to steer me back on course, usually with a smartass comment and unsolicited dating advice.
I swipe to answer and bring the phone to my ear. “Hey, Jenna.”
“Addy! How’s my favorite entrepreneur-slash-workaholic-slash-miracle worker doing today?”
Her voice is a burst of energy, light, and teasing, and I can almost picture her lounging on her patio in LA, probably sipping on one of those green juices she’s always trying to make me drink.
“Oh, you know. Just another casual rejection from a billionaire fashion icon who could crush me with a glance and still look good doing it. Regular Saturday.”
“That spectacular?”
“It’s fine. I love humiliation. It builds character.”
“Fuck her, then,” Jenna’s voice sharpens.
“It’s not official yet, so don’t pull out the voodoo doll yet.” I drive my car out of the parking lot, keeping my voice steady even though my chest still feels tight .
"Okay, then I’ll have her on standby. You give me the word. Who were you meeting with, anyway? Do I know the name?"
"Evelyn Thatcher. Ex-Florida governor turned female-owned-business queenmaker. She said she’ll have her financial advisor look over my pitch deck and numbers, but it wasn’t exactly a glowing endorsement. Let’s say she’s not rushing to invest."
“Okay, but did she say the products were bad?” Jenna presses.
“No,” I admit, reluctantly. “She said she’d have her people assess them. Which is rich, considering she looks like she drinks the blood of twenty-year-olds for breakfast.”
She laughs, then her voice softens. “She'll come around. Hey, not to change the subject, but you left me hanging about that ER doctor. I need the deets.”
I blink. “What about him?”
“Well, you were super vague about seeing him after our afternoon in the ER. Why are you holding out on me?”
I pause, letting out a breath. “I like him. You were right, there's some chemistry there. He's nice, but we are still getting to know each other.”
“Nice? That man looked at you like you were dessert. Don’t ‘nice’ me.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “Fine. He’s been off-the-charts hot. Better?"
"Don't sass me."
"I don't know what to say. He's supportive and hot in that ‘shouldn’t-touch-the-stove’ kind of way.”
God, she's not going to let this go.
“And?”
Think of something to give her enough to satisfy her, but still doesn't give away the whole sorted details.
“And I kind of ghosted him today. ”
“What?”
“I didn’t mean to. He called and texted multiple times. I ignored them. I don’t even know why—well, I do. I just... couldn’t deal. I don't want to admit to anyone about Citrine, but I didn't want to lie, either.”
Jenna’s quiet for a second before asking, “You okay?”
Bingo. That did it.
“It’s not like he did anything wrong. He’s been great. That’s the problem. I’m trying to stay focused and keep my head straight.”
“Okay, but Adair, do you want to see where it goes? Or are you already shutting it down because it’s easier to pretend you don’t care?”
If only she knew all of the pretending going on here.
I glance out the windshield. “I don’t know. I like him. I can’t afford to like him right now.”
That's all true. I'm leaving out all of the middle part as to why, exactly, I can't afford to like him.
“Ah. The old ‘love is inconvenient’ defense.”
“I didn’t say love. But something along those lines. Without the love.”
"I'm going to have to come to Florida again sooner than I thought. I need to assess this in person.
I laugh guiltily. “It’s nothing. It’s probably nothing.”
“Then why do you sound like it’s already something?”
I don’t answer. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t quite untangle it myself.
There’s a beat of silence, then her voice shifts. It’s lighter now, while at the same time, more businesslike. “Okay, emotional avoidance aside, send me some samples, will you? There are a ton of salons out here in LA that might love your products. I can ask around, see if anyone’s interested. ”
“Really?” I ask. My cautious optimism is suddenly on the rise.
“Stop it, you know I would do anything to help you. I have a friend who owns a boutique wellness café in Silver Lake, and she’s always looking for new, unique lines to feature. Plus, if the big names in LA start using your stuff, it’s only a matter of time before the rest of the world catches on.”
I smile, the weight on my chest easing slightly. “I’ll send you a package this week. Thanks, friend. If you get me in there, there’s an undereye serum with your name on it.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she teases. “Thank me when your name is on the cover of Forbes. ”
“Deal,” I say, laughing.
We say our goodbyes, and I tuck my phone back into my bag as I cross the bridge onto Palm Beach Island. The water sparkles in the afternoon sun, mocking the way my brain is still stuck in survival mode.
The meeting with Thatcher wasn’t the big break I needed, but maybe it was a nudge. And thanks to Jenna, I’ve got another door cracked open.
One way or another, I’ll figure this out, just like always. Because I don’t have the luxury of falling apart.
This arrangement with Parker buys me time with the monthly payments, just enough to keep the lights on while I search for something real. Something that lasts.
But if nothing else comes through before the six months are up and the estate settles, I’ll have to decide what I’m willing to risk to keep any of it from slipping through my fingers.