27. Adair
Adair
The mop bucket squeaks as I drag it across the front tile of Citrine. The hum of the refrigerator is the only sound left in the building.
I could’ve gone home hours ago. I should’ve. But scrubbing lemon-scented streaks into the floor feels oddly satisfying tonight. It's almost like maybe if I make everything spotless out here, I can clean up the mess in my head, too.
I prop the mop against the counter and wipe my hands on a towel, walking back behind the register where my laptop is still open.
Rose’s voice echoes from the speakers, sing-song and sparkly as ever.
" You guys. This is not a drill. This scrub is heaven in a jar.”
The screen shows her poolside, mimosa in one hand, my Sea Breeze Exfoliating Scrub in the other. Her skin is glowing, her teeth are perfect, and she says my name in the caption like I’m some luxury brand she discovered on a girls’ trip to Bali.
I click into her next reel. Holy shit, it's up to four million views and still counting. In awe, I watch as she spritzes my Lavender Bliss Face Mist on her marble vanity like it’s part of her birthright.
It’s polished. Strategic. Addicting.
And for a second, I forget I got humiliated in print this morning.
Okay, no. That’s a lie. I didn’t forget.
I shifted , like I always do.
Some people spiral. I schedule deliveries, build pitch decks, and deep-clean grout like my future depends on it. Because maybe it does.
And maybe I owe a twisted thank-you to Leeland Matthews. Not for the article, or for being the world's biggest jackass, but for the reminder. No matter how much I want to believe in the fantasy Parker is selling me, that’s all it ever was. A fantasy.
I believe he sincerely believes it, in this moment. But I see the writing on the wall. I know this will never survive this level of scrutiny right out of the gate.
Last night, I let myself forget. I let myself hope. But Parker’s world is never going to let someone like me stick.
He says he’ll handle it, that it’ll blow over. But damage like that doesn’t disappear, and I can’t be the one dragging him down every time his name is in the news.
So I do the only thing I know how. I work. I move forward. I keep building.
It’s me. And it has to be.
Even if my chest aches like I’ve ripped something vital out of it.
We told each other the truth this morning. He’s got his path. I’ve got mine. And they don’t have to run side by side because we happen to have great sex.
This is the part I know how to do. Survive.
I pull out my phone and click on her page.
I scroll through the order notifications. The screen is a blur of names and addresses from all over the country. A small smile tugs at my lips, then grows wider as the reality sinks in.
This is it.
The knot of anxiety that’s been sitting in my chest for weeks starts to loosen. I'm lighter and freer. And I owe it all to the man I can't have. No need to wallow in that, so I'm grateful instead.
I open my email to fire off a quick thank-you note to Rose, but she’s already beaten me to it.
Subject: YOU’RE A STAR!
Adair,
OMG, your products are a hit ! I ’ ve gotten so many DMs from people asking where they can buy them. You ’ re sitting on a goldmine, girl.
And just so you know—I don ’ t believe everything I read. Let ’ s keep this momentum going.
xo, Rose
I pause at the acknowledgment of the bullshit swirling around me while also letting me off the hook. So she saw the article. Of course she did. She used to date Parker. There’s no way she missed it.
Still, she doesn’t mention it outright. There's no judgment or drama. Just a wink and a nod and a green light to keep going.
I didn’t expect that. And I’m not sure what to do with the weird mix of relief and guilt it stirs up .
I type out a reply, thanking her for everything and assuring her that I’ll keep her stocked with products for as long as she wants to promote them.
After I hit send, I sit back and stare at the ceiling as my mind races.
I empty the bucket in the sink and prop the mop up to dry. There are more things to be done around here to make sure we’re ready to fulfill the sudden interest in Citrine.
For now, I’ll bask in this moment.
My phone buzzes on the counter. The special ringtone tells me exactly who it is before I even glance at the screen.
I answer Jenna’s call on the second ring.
“Jenna,” I answer with a laugh, holding the phone to my ear as I walk back to the kitchen for a refill of my green juice.
“Oh. My. God. Adair!” she squeals, her voice so high-pitched I almost drop the phone. “Do you know what’s happening right now? I’m at that coffee shop on Rodeo, and everyone is talking about your products!”
“You owe me an espresso martini,” she says breathlessly, “because I heard two girls in front of me at Alfred’s gushing over Citrine’s facial mist like it was sent from God.”
I blink. “Wait, what?”
“Dead serious. One of them bought it this morning after seeing Rose Henchey’s post and was raving about the lavender scent. The other said she’s obsessed with your branding. I almost interrupted her to say, ‘Yup, I know the genius behind it.’”
Laughter bubbles out of me, shocked and delighted. “You’re kidding.”
“I swear on my overpriced latte. Adair, it’s happening. You’re blowing up. ”
I sink into the nearest chair, heart pounding. “The orders have been insane. I placed a reorder with my distributor this morning, but—God, I might already be behind.”
“You need reps,” she says. “And capital. And someone to deep-breathe with you through this. I can be that person.”
“I’m going to take you up on that.”
“I hope you do. And when you need a hot Valley Girl for your first commercial?”
“You get the first audition,” I say, grinning.
We both laugh, and something in my chest finally eases.
“Seriously,” Jenna says, voice softening. “You’ve built something incredible. I’m so proud of you.”
I glance at my laptop, then the growing pile of order forms. “Thanks. Really.”
“Go. Call your people. Line it all up. This is your moment.”
After we hang up, I sit still for a beat, letting it settle.
It’s not just a good day. It’s the beginning of something bigger. And for once, I believe I deserve it.
The sun filters through the tall windows, casting a warm glow over the front desk and waiting area. Word has hit Palm Beach, and we have a steady stream of foot traffic pretty much all day. Even in light of the article that came out the other day.
I watch as one of my estheticians, April, glides across the lobby with a clipboard, her confidence in handling clients evident. I was so glad when she was ready and available to come back full-time when I called .
As I look around at Citrine, bustling with activity, I know I need more help if I want this place to thrive.
Two ladies from my spin class are in the lobby, chatting to each other while waiting for their services. Thank goodness two of my masseuses were looking for more work, and I was able to get them on the schedule, too.
It’s time to think about hiring a manager again.
The thought gives me pause. I haven’t had a manager since Caitlyn. Just the name makes my stomach twist.
She’d been efficient at first, with her bright smile and seemingly endless enthusiasm. But when my cashflow got tight and I had to let her go, she’d turned bitter, spreading false rumors that Citrine was on the verge of bankruptcy.
But now that Citrine is doing well, and my product line is finally gaining traction thanks to Rose, I will need help. I can’t run this place single-handedly while also growing my brand.
I lean against the counter and pull up a note on my phone to jot down potential ideas for the position.
Someone organized, with experience managing people.
Someone who genuinely loves this industry and won’t see Citrine as a stepping stone to something else.
Trustworthy. That word lingers in my mind as I type.
“Adair?” April’s voice breaks through my thoughts, and I look up to see her standing near the desk. “There’s someone here to see you.”
“Do they have an appointment?” I ask, glancing at the schedule on the computer.
“She doesn’t have one,” April says, her tone hesitant. “But you might want to come out here. She didn't say her name, but something tells me she's important.”
Curious and slightly wary, I follow her into the waiting area. Standing near the front door, impeccably dressed in a tailored cream pantsuit, is Evelyn Thatcher .
“Adair,” she says with a warm smile, holding out her hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
I shake her hand, still trying to process what’s happening. “I wasn’t expecting?—”
“I imagine not,” she interrupts smoothly. “I was in the area for a meeting and thought I’d stop by. I could use a little pampering after a long day.”
“Of course,” I say quickly, regaining my composure. “We’d be honored to have you here. Let me arrange something for you.”
Thatcher waves a hand, her jewelry catching the light. “No need to fuss. I trust your staff will take care of me.”
I nod to April, who springs into action, getting Evelyn signed in.
I pull up the scheduling to see if we have an opening.
Before I can confirm it, April leads her back to one of our treatment rooms. For a moment, I stand there, trying to wrap my head around the fact that Evelyn Thatcher is in Citrine.
It looks like April's 3 pm canceled, so the timing couldn't have worked out better. It means the room is ready and we have someone on hand to take care of her. That's what I call good service.
When she emerges an hour later, her usually sharp features are softened and her expression is relaxed. She walks over to me at the front desk with a drunken smile on her face.
“That was lovely,” she says, her voice calm but still commanding. “Your team is exceptional.”
“Yes, they are. I'm so glad you enjoyed it.”
“I underestimated you,” Thatcher says, not quite smiling. “That doesn’t happen often.”
My eyebrows lift. High praise, considering she walked in here looking like she was ready to audit my soul.
“You’ve built something nice here. ”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound cool, like my stomach didn’t do a full cartwheel. “I’m glad you made a stop to see us. Come anytime, and we will take care of you.”
She surveys Citrine like a luxury appraiser, taking in the lighting, the product displays, and the calm. I brace myself for whatever truth bomb is coming next.
“I’m not here to invest,” she says. Just like that. Her voice is flat, and there's no sugarcoating it.
“Got it,” I say quickly, even though there's a tiny flicker of disappointment in my chest. It’s fine. She already told me that, I’m not sure why she had to make a trip here to tell me again. I didn’t expect her to say it like she was reading my last rites.
“That’s a compliment, in case you missed it,” she adds, and my ears perk. “You don’t need my investment. You’ve already made it. And I’ve got a lead for you that will put you in the next stratosphere.”
I blink. “Oh, okay. Thank you.”
“I support women-founded brands. And while your products didn’t exactly resonate with me ?—”
Again, you've made your point...
“—I think they’ll resonate with a hell of a lot of other people. I’d like to introduce you to a distributor. She specializes in getting brands like yours into big-box retailers.”
I stare at her. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
No flourish or build-up. Just a bomb of potential dropped casually into my lap.
She continues, “You’ve got drive and vision. Your branding’s still a little rough around the edges, but your formulas are good. Better than good. Whatever lemongrass oil your massage therapist used back there is so pungent and wonderful, I almost didn't need the massage. Bravo. ”
For a second, I forget how to talk.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I finally manage.
“Say yes. Then get ready to work. Because if you think this was hard, the next part’s going to knock you off your feet. In the best way, I mean.”
A laugh escapes me, and I sound a little unhinged to myself. “I’m game. I judge my success by how tired I am.”
She studies me for a long moment, then extends her hand. “Well, we are set. Laura, my assistant, will be in touch.”
I shake it, firm and steady. “I’ll be sure to overperform again. I like to be underestimated.”
She almost smiles. “Then you'll do fine.”
When the door shuts behind her, I don’t move right away.
Last week, I was seriously considering scraping Citrine off my resume and pretending this was a quarter-life fever dream, and packing up and moving back to LA.
Now, I have a shot.
I look around Citrine, my weird little oasis of chaos and citrus and organically produced moisturizer, and let myself bask in it, in my accomplishment.
I walk back to my office while April and Cassie clean up the rooms. I'm going to be here a while, making sure we are on top of this.
I stare down at my planner, pages crammed with deadlines, meetings, shipments, and a to-do list that never seems to shrink.
This is what I wanted, what I've been working for.
And still, there’s this quiet, creeping fear I can’t shake that maybe I’ve built something too big, too fast.
And, in proving I didn’t need Parker to save me, I’ve made it impossible to keep him.