Chapter 1 #2
“Hey. You feeling okay?” Rafael’s voice whips me back to the table.
The smirk I’ve come to associate with his usual smugness is gone, replaced by a different look.
A look I’ve seen on him lately and not yet deciphered.
Probably because he hasn’t pulled anything nefarious today.
No fake calendar invites. No last-minute deck edits. No classic Vela sabotage. Yet.
The silence—that look—makes me nervous.
Because he could be waiting for the perfect moment to wrangle this account—the promotion—from me, and tonight could be it.
“No need to stress, E. You can do this with your eyes closed,” he adds, voice low. Almost soft.
“I’m—I know,” I snap, surprised and confused. Did he just compliment me?
I search his unfairly handsome face. I know every Vela tactic in the book—and none work on me.
“You’re so tense, I figured you needed a reminder.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” I say too quickly.
“You’re going to snap the glass in two.” His gaze flicks to my hand.
I loosen my hold. “I’m. Fine.”
“You should be more than fine,” he says.
The suspicion sinks in as Rafael leans forward, features turning conspiratorial, and his scent—aftershave and sandalwood—envelops us. “All we have to do is show Cyril a good time, and it’s in the bag.”
“It’s in the bag? Who says that?” I ask, leaning away from him and his stupidly distracting scent with an annoyed groan. I need to stay on my A game and not let whatever he’s doing throw me off. “In fact, it would be really helpful if you didn’t talk. Not that you even needed to come tonight.”
“And let you have all the fun?”
“Fun?” I almost choke. “This isn’t one of your mom-and-pop accounts you can joke your way through. Everything is on the line.” Our boss’s approval. A sizable commission. A chance to slow down. “Do you even—”
“Bonsoir!” Cyril’s accented voice interrupts before I can ensure Rafael gets it.
We stand to greet Cyril—kisses on each cheek—before we settle into our seats. Rafael in front of me. Cyril to my left. The wineglass within sipping distance.
“You look lovely tonight, Evie,” Cyril says, undoing the buttons of his jacket.
“Thank you.” I offer him a strained smile. Rafael’s appears on demand.
“You too, Raf,” Cyril adds, slapping Rafael on the shoulder.
My gut cinches at their familiarity—their bromance, which budded on day one—but I keep my features smooth and friendly, focusing on Cyril, a picture of French elegance with styled blond hair and a neat beard.
His eyes, like the sky on a cloudless day, are always assessing and calculating and doing none of the things Rafael’s dark-brown eyes do.
Anxiety returning tenfold, I silently pray Cyril goes for the wine quickly so I can follow suit, calm my nerves, and get to Pitch-Perfect Checklist item #1 before #3 has a chance to compromise things.
The server arrives before any wine sipping happens.
I order on the table’s behalf as Cyril and Rafael ease into friendly conversation.
Rafael is Cyril’s favorite, even if I’m the one who scoured the internet and dabbled in some light social media stalking of the CEO, learning as much as I could about him, his business, France, and anything that could remotely impact the future of our working relationship.
But Rafael? Rafael bothered with none of this, save for the parts tied to OhLaLove and the online dating market.
Yet here they are—fast friends, chatting away about a soccer (football!) match, and I feel like I’m two steps behind.
I take a sip of my wine, then another, and breathe out—one Mamma Mia. It’s time to get control of things and cross the finish line. But I need Rafael to do that.
As if I’ve summoned him with my thoughts, Rafael looks at me. Cyril follows.
“Sorry—Raf and I could talk about football all night,” Cyril says with a chuckle.
I force a smile. “No need to apologize. Rafael is our in-house sports expert. He must have mentioned he played at Loyola,” I say, not missing the surprise in Rafael’s eyes. Keep your potential clients close and your enemies closer.
“I might have mentioned it once or twice,” Rafael says, his gaze lingering on me—knowing exactly how many times he’s talked about Loyola and what it’s meant to him, to his family. I look away.
Cyril twists the stem of his wineglass. “But knowing you, Evie, you’ve probably got a list of things to discuss so we can get to the numbers you mentioned in your email.”
I laugh, breezy and brittle, as his implication hits me in the solar plexus. But checklist item #1 is at the top of the menu, and I need to do what I came here to do: close the deal.
Shooting one last Behave or else look toward my nemesis, I set my palms on the table, take a deep breath, and start the last pitch.
As I run through it—between sips of wine and nibbles of appetizers—Rafael chimes in, without interrupting or attempting to steal the show.
In fact, each time he offers input, he looks to me to confirm it, and I have to mask my surprise the first time it happens.
The second time, I’m prepared, and it’s like passing a baton in a relay, one he made no time to rehearse for despite my repeated attempts to role-play the dinner.
Even so, the conversation runs smoothly.
We navigate through some of Cyril’s tougher questions, steer around budget-focused topics, and race through to the end of our pitch.
While I don’t trust a moment of Rafael’s performance, I nearly squeal in relief. A grin slips out instead—and Rafael sees it. Winks at me. Makes my pulse spike.
I immediately sober, take another sip of wine, and turn to Cyril, eager for his response.
“Nothing less than I expected,” Cyril says, his features inscrutable as he leans back, relaxing.
I realize I’m barely breathing as I wait for him to say more, to tell us if Media Lab won his business, if I’m one step closer to getting the promotion.
Brow furrowing, Cyril turns his attention to Rafael, like he’s about to fire off a volley of questions.
Am I bothered he trusts Rafael to have the answers? A little bit. Am I fine with Rafael answering if it means getting the business? Yes, I have to be.
Cyril’s frown deepens. “You know, it’s been months of hearing about that tequila, Raf, and I’ve never had it. I think it’s about time.”
I blink, unsure if I’ve heard him correctly. Tequila? Now I’m the one frowning as I drag my shocked gaze from Cyril to Rafael, who shrugs nonchalantly.
“I doubt they have it here, but they have good options,” Rafael says, summoning the server with a wave and ignoring me completely.
“Rafael.” I almost grind my teeth into a powder saying his name.
“Evie.” There’s a dare in his tone, and it makes me resent Cyril’s presence, because it’s the only thing keeping my mouth shut.
I watch in disbelief as Rafael orders tequila shots as if the last hour and a half never happened. As if he’s not about to shatter the last thread holding my nerves together—and our boss’s very explicit two-drink rule.
By the time tequila arrives and Cyril slides a glass in front of me, I’m doing breathing acrobatics to “Mamma Mia” as I stare down at the golden liquid, feeling uneasy, nauseous, and on the verge of a first-degree felony.
Of course this was his plan all along. Wait for me to let my guard down, then take one reckless, salt-rimmed swing at the entire evening.
Because he knows this about me. He knows exactly what tequila does to my system, my pulse, my control.
Knows it short-circuits my focus—and that I’ll spiral before I ever take a sip.
“Evie doesn’t drink tequila,” Rafael says, and my head snaps toward him. I don’t know if it’s another trick or his version of Keep your enemies close—and memorize their weaknesses.
“It’s not my favorite,” I say tightly, glaring at my nemesis.
Cyril chuckles. “Oh, non, Evie. Life is simply too short for you not to enjoy it a little.” Winning his business is what’s going to help me enjoy life a little.
Rafael holds my gaze, the dare ever present. His plan clear as day.
I bet he thinks I’ll bail, so he can be the “fun” one who charms the client, wins the account, and takes the victory to Media Lab.
Beside him, Cyril watches me with curious amusement. Their energy presses an internal button I can’t deactivate. I wrap my hand around the shot glass and down it in one gulp.
The liquor burns a path down my throat, and I fight a coughing fit as it settles low in my belly.
Cyril chuckles, but Rafael doesn’t join. I flash Rafael a tight smile—the kind that says Nice try.
And it unravels from there.
Two shots in and a third on the table, I’m feeling warm, watery, and struggling to remember my checklist. There’s something on it about keeping Rafael in check, but I’m barely keeping myself in check.
My fury spikes, even through the tequila haze. He’s throwing me off my game, ignoring the plan, and I need to take control before Rafael sabotages the account and my promotion.
I clear my throat, squaring my shoulders.
Rafael catches my gaze and shakes his head. Not yet.
My returning glare tells him to shove it.
“Cyril—” I start.
“Maybe we get some dessert?” Rafael cuts in.
“Or maybe we—”
“Get another bottle?”
Cyril looks between the two of us, his lips parted. But then his phone buzzes.
“I have to get this,” he says, his accent more pronounced. “Désolé.”
“Go ahead,” I say, biding my time as he stands and moves out of earshot. Then I pounce. “Are you insane?” I hiss, leaning across the table.
Rafael leans in too. “Insanity is relative, E.”
I swallow a low growl, hating his light tone and the casual nickname.
“You’re going to screw this up.” Anger clips my words. I can’t even fathom the idea of Rafael ruining our chances now. All those months. All that work. All the plans I’ve put on hold.
Anxiety sweeps through me like a wave, and I check it immediately. “I get that rules have never been your thing, but we can’t lose the account,” I say—to him, to myself.