Chapter 1 #3
“It’s all going to work out,” he says with so much Vela-brand certainty, it makes my fingers curl into the tablecloth. Of course he thinks it’ll work out. For him.
I swallow past the burn in my throat. “Try taking this seriously for once,” I hiss. “Because we can’t lose this one. I worked too hard.”
I aim for stern, but the tequila ruins it. Too many of my emotions bleed through those few words, and it takes too long to mask them.
Rafael’s gaze softens—another one of his tactics—and when his fingers twitch, they brush mine, heat singing through me. “I wasn’t going to—”
I jerk my hand away.
“I don’t need excuses, Rafael. I need you to do what we came here to do,” I say hotly.
Before he can attempt to Vela his way through this, Cyril appears in my periphery. I push away from the table, breathing through my nose, ignoring Rafael’s phantom touch on my skin.
I rub my hand against my leg, keeping my focus on Cyril, who doesn’t take his seat.
“I apologize, but I have a family emergency. My car is already waiting,” he says.
As one, Rafael and I stand.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, my stomach knotting.
“Merci, Evie,” Cyril says, buttoning his suit jacket.
“Before I go, I want to share that you are very good as a team. I know it took many months of work to get to know OhLaLove and what we’re aiming to do, and your preparation and pitch were very compelling.
” The dip in his voice hints at an incoming but, the kind that sidetracks careers, and I have the insane urge to slap my hand over his mouth and keep him from speaking it into existence.
Instead, I curl my hand into a fist and do not look at Rafael. If I do, I will break.
“Which is why I look forward to seeing what’s next, working with Media Lab,” Cyril adds. I blink in shock. Cyril smiles. “I’ll have my team coordinate next steps in the morning, and we’ll see where this goes. Who doesn’t want to help people fall in love?”
Rafael chuckles. I suck in a surprised breath.
OhLaLove is mine. Ours.
Relief should crash over me, but all I feel is not that. Because Rafael did this his way. Not mine. Not the way we planned it from start to finish. And of course—of course—it worked.
Goodbyes are a blur.
By the time Cyril is gone and the bill is settled, my blood is boiling, my ire no longer containable.
Steps outside the restaurant, I spin on Rafael, finger wagging in his direction. “You couldn’t turn it off for one single night, could you? Couldn’t follow a plan?”
He flinches in surprise. “Evie, we won.” He says it like that’s supposed to fix everything—him bromancing it with Cyril and completely ignoring the carefully laid out plan I emailed him no less than ten times. Well, not completely. He followed it long enough to trick me.
“Oh, we won?” I repeat, voice pitching with barely restrained anger.
“Why are you upset?” He tilts his head, eyebrows pulling together.
Ohmygod—why am I upset?
I bark out a harsh laugh and look up at the sky, needing somewhere to direct my fury other than at his stupidly symmetrical face. The tequila makes me dizzy. “You think this was only about winning?”
“I mean … yeah?” His confusion deepens. “That’s our job.”
“To be Rafael Vela!” I throw my hands in the air. “Do you ever think about anyone but yourself? Do you ever follow through on plans—ones that are agreed upon? Or even attempt to keep your word?”
Rafael brows furrow. “Help me out here, E. We won. That was the goal. Sometimes plans are shit and you have to pivot.” He shakes his head. “Cyril didn’t want to discuss the account tonight. Didn’t you see that?”
“Oh, did you find that out on some secret golf outing? Or was it a weekend tennis match?” My chest heaves with the effort of keeping it together. “Typical Rafael.”
He rolls his shoulders, digging his hands into his pockets, and shakes his head. “No—there wasn’t some special outing. I was simply listening to him.”
“Like you listened to Art Betton?” I snap, hating the mere mention of the last account we collaborated on, nearly three years into my time at Media Lab.
We’d planned then too. For almost a year, working side by side, until his knife slid gently into my back and he took the account from me.
“God,” I breathe. “I don’t know why I even expected something different this time around. ”
The truth slips out, unchecked, because I drank one too many drinks.
“This is nothing like—”
“It’s exactly like before. The same old Raffy Taffy, coming in with his sweet words and stupid smiles, expecting people to simply fall head over heels for you …
because you’re you,” I say, gesturing at all of him.
I sound unhinged, but I don’t care. “You hijacked the meeting—tequila and all. Winged it like you always do, and it worked because it always works out for you.” Like it will with the promotion.
I don’t say this, but I know it in my core.
Cyril will sing his praises to Media Lab.
Rafael will get the promotion. And Evie? I’ll get to try harder next time.
“I—that’s not what I was doing.”
I huff out an angry laugh. “Nice try, bucko.” I close the distance between us, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You can’t fool me. I see right through you.” Jab. “And I know every. Single. One. Of. Your. Weaknesses.” A poke for each word.
Rafael has the nerve to lift a brow. “Is that right, E?”
“Every single one.” I drop my finger. “And I’m going to make sure Dana and the other vice presidents know them too before they make a decision for their new director.”
His expression shifts. “You’re assuming they haven’t?”
My heart lurches. “They haven’t,” I say with feigned confidence, swallowing past the lump in my throat. His eyes tell me something that makes my knees weak. That maybe—somehow—they made an early decision and the promotion is his.
I can’t catch my breath.
I retreat a step and then another. I can’t be around him a second longer.
“Actually, they—”
“Don’t.” I shake my head. One more step.
“But you don’t even know what I have to say.”
I make a strangled noise that’s part growl, part primal scream. “Have you thought that maybe I don’t give a damn about what you have to say?”
A look some would call hurt flashes in his eyes. Another ridiculous trick.
I can’t look at him another second.
I turn sharply and walk away.
It’s late and humid. My hair’s sticking to the back of my neck, and my heart’s pummeling my rib cage. I dig my phone out from my purse to call an Uber because I want to be far from Rafael.
“Evie!” Rafael calls, his voice following me when he should be going to his apartment—the one in the other direction.
“Leave me alone!” I increase my pace, balancing on Jimmy Choo heels.
“Can you stop for a second? I need to tell you something!” As if I’d give him the pleasure of telling me he’s won.
I flip him off, something I’ve never done before. It’s oh-so-liberating it makes me smile.
Whatever else he’s saying is swept up in the cacophony of cars and the city—and doesn’t matter. Because I’m going to make Cyril my new BFF and get that promotion, even if it means learning French and watching every soccer game in the history of soccer (football).
Rafael shouts my name, but I only increase my pace to get away from him. He doesn’t get a chance to fool me again. Never again.
A car horn blares. Someone shouts a warning.
I look up. A bright light blinds me … and it goes dark.