Chapter 16
THE brEW BEFORE THE STORM
RORIE
I bring news from the edge of civilization. I have survived. Barely.
JEREMY. WHAT. We’ve been trying to reach you all weekend. Maya was two hours from hiring a psychic and a sniffer dog.
I apologize for my silence. I’ve been detained by the Canadian government. Dr. Fiddlestorm III may or may not be listed as a public threat in Ontario.
WHAT DID YOU DO?
Technically? Nothing illegal. Emotionally? Several things I’m not proud of. One involved a karaoke machine, a goose, and a maple syrup martini. Don’t ask.
You promised no more international discord.
You promised to stop judging my self-expression. Here we are. Tell Maya I love her and that customs confiscated my dignity.
You’re buying lattes and explaining everything. Also, she’s still mad.
Fair. I’ll bring emotional support pastries.
The espresso machine shrieks like it’s dying a violent, overly dramatic death.
I scowl down at it. “If you keep this up, I swear to God, I will replace you with a French press and some emotional resilience.”
Maya leans against the counter, arms folded, sipping her latte with the grace of someone who has never known struggle. “You realize if that thing had feelings, it would have already filed a hostile work complaint against you, right?”
I jab the reset button, punishing it. The shrieking stops, replaced by a mocking silence that’s somehow worse. “It deserves it. It’s sabotaging my entire existence.”
She quirks a brow. “You mean your under-caffeinated meltdown, or the one where your bun is auditioning to be a sad houseplant?”
My fingers fiddle with said bun, which is barely clinging to life. “Stop judging me.”
Maya gives me a once-over, lips twitching. She’s trying not to laugh. Good for her in her effortlessly casual outfit of jeans, super cute fitted blazer, and tousled blonde waves that all belong in a lifestyle blog.
Meanwhile, I’m giving off “unhinged barista” vibes.
She sets her drink down. “Alright. Spill. You’re losing it and trying to pass it off as espresso rage. What’s really going on?”
I sigh and take a too-long sip of coffee that is both scalding and underwhelming. “Bone Dust is threatening to pull out of the campaign. Apparently, it ‘lacks emotional resonance.’ Which, as you know, is corporate for ‘we have no idea what we want, but we’d like to blame someone.’”
“Oof.” She winces. “Want me to draft an email that politely tells them to shove it?”
“As satisfying as that would be, I don’t think Laurel would appreciate a lawsuit before lunch.”
“Okay, but just say the word. My middle name is Petty. With a capital P,” she says, popping the “P.”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. Laurel.
Meeting. My office.
I pale.
Maya leans in. “Oh no. Is it...?”
I hold up the screen. “It’s about the Asher Cross thing. She’s going to skin me alive.”
“She’ll get over it,” Maya says quickly. “You landed the hottest man on earth’s attention and impressed half the industry. You should be getting a bonus.”
“Yeah? Well, I got a flaming-hot email thread that included the phrases ‘reckless,’ ‘not a PR stunt,’ and my personal favorite—‘laughing stock.’”
Maya smirks. “At least you got a reaction. That’s better than half the firm.”
I force a laugh, the nerves still rattling like dice in my chest.
“Hey.” Her voice softens. “You’ve got this. You were a badass. Asher was into it. Laurel will calm down. Just… own it.”
Nodding, I slowly exhale. “Yeah. Okay. Enough about my potential public execution. Let’s talk about you and your stalker.”
Her brows knit. “Stalker?”
“Asher Cross,” I say, sing-song sweet. “Six-foot-plus, devastating jawline, and currently asking me more questions about you than TMZ.”
Maya groans. “There is no me and Asher Cross.”
“Yet.”
She looks around to make sure we’re alone and replies in a low tone. “I’m serious, Rorie. I don’t know if I could handle someone like that. The scrutiny. The flashing cameras. I’d end up hiding in a supply closet for the rest of my life.”
“Babe,” I say, softening, “you do not belong in a supply closet. You belong at the center of the room. The center of someone’s world.”
She scoffs.
“I’m serious.” I lean forward. “When was the last time you let something happen? No five-year plan. No exit strategy. Just... mess and magic.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just sips her coffee and looks out the window like the answer’s buried somewhere in the skyline.
Finally, she says, “It’s not that easy.”
“Nothing worth doing ever is.”
Her eyes cut to mine, unsure.
So I reach into my back pocket and pull out the sleek black metal card. It catches the overhead light as I slide it across the counter, face-down.
Maya blinks at it. “What’s that?”
“Asher’s personal number. Direct. No handlers. No assistants. No publicists. Just him.”
She stares at it as though it might detonate.
“Maya,” I say gently. “No pressure. No games. Just... see what happens.”
Her hand hovers over the card like it’s burning. Her lips part, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, she sighs, running a hand through her hair. “You’re really pushing this, aren’t you?”
“Only because you deserve someone who looks at you like you’re the best damn thing in the room.”
She huffs out a laugh. “And what about you? When are you going to take your own advice?”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
She rolls her eyes. “Rorie, a guy has never looked at a girl the way Nolan Rhodes has looked at you literally every night we’ve run into him.”
I laugh, but there’s a tightness in my chest at the mention of Nolan. “Yes they have.”
Maya lifts a brow.
I hold her gaze. “Asher Cross looks at you like that.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. “That’s—”
“Unexpected? Yeah, well, you should let yourself be surprised for once.”
Maya slides the card off the counter and her lips twitch.
“Good girl.”
My grip tightens around the lukewarm coffee as I turn for the door. I’ve got a meeting to survive.
Laurel doesn’t bother with pleasantries.
The moment I step into her office, she gestures to the chair across from her with the kind of pointed efficiency that makes me brace for a verbal beating. I’ve already prepared three different apology speeches and mentally drafted my resignation—just in case.
But instead of the tight-lipped scowl I expected, she’s smiling.
No—beaming.
“Well, if it isn’t the woman of the hour,” she says, folding her hands over her crossed knee. “Tell me, Rorie… do you always make a habit of rewriting the rules mid-game?”
I blink, caught completely off guard. “Uh… depends. How mad are we talking?”
She lets out a genuine laugh—an actual, from-the-gut laugh—and leans back in her chair like we’re not boss and almost-fired strategist, but two old friends catching up over brunch.
Which, technically, we sort of are, if you count that she used to steal my mom’s hairbrush in college and once taught me how to use a tampon in the back of a Chili’s.
“Mad?” she repeats. “Try impressed. Shelby Davidson called me this morning. Personally.”
“She called you?” I ask, pulse accelerating.
“Oh, she did,” Laurel says, her smile only growing. “And she wasn’t just impressed—she was ecstatic. Wants you front and center at their Pitchpocalypse for Asher’s upcoming brand expansion. We leave in a month.”
The words hit me like a freight train.
“A what?” I choke out. “Wait—Pitchpocalypse? A month?”
“Yes!” Laurel’s hands clap together, her rings flashing. “Asher’s hosting an exclusive, invite-only pitch event at his private island. The White Thorn. Five firms will compete for his brand. One will win it. And thanks to your little cocktail performance, we’re officially invited.”
I stare at her, barely processing.
This is big. Like, career-defining big. A once-in-a-lifetime, holy-fucking-shit-who-even-gets-these-opportunities kind of big.
And all I can think is:
Nolan. Rhodes.
“Do we know who else was invited?”
“So far?” Laurel shrugs. “Just us. But I’d bet my Bentley Big Stream’s on the list.”
Of course they are.
“I’ll be ready,” I say, channeling a confidence I’m not quite sure I possess yet.
Laurel beams again. But this time it’s not the polished smile she wears in boardrooms, and meetings like this. It’s gentler. Warmer. The one that slips past her armor and actually means something.
“I know you will be,” she says. “Now, go do that brainstorming thing you do so well.”
I start to turn, but she stops me with a quieter voice.
“And Rorie?”
I pause in the doorway, glancing back.
“Don’t make me regret betting on you.” She keeps it light, but her eyes settle on me with quiet conviction. Pride, pressure, and something almost protective swims inside them.
I offer a grin, just shy of cocky. “No pressure.”
Laurel exhales a short laugh, then adds, almost as an afterthought, but not really, “Your parents would be proud, you know.”
She winks and my throat tightens. I don’t say anything—just nod once before stepping out, my heartbeat suddenly louder than it was a minute ago.