Chapter Five
“Here you go, Annie,” Marni, the owner of the coffee shop on the corner by my apartment, tells me. They hand me the scalding paper cup with an insulated band and then slide a wax paper bag with the store’s logo toward me.
“How many times do I have to tell you—”
“It’s a new recipe. I need beta testers. Try it and tell me tomorrow what you think.”
They smile broadly.
Marni’s owned the Baked In Coffee Bar for several years now, but they never change it.
For years, I’ve been plied with pastries and other goodies. Sometimes it’s, “extra that came in.” Sometimes it’s, “a batch that burned” of an item that looks perfectly fine.
When I first moved to Tavers City for my internship, I didn’t know anyone. Both my family and my university were across the country, so it was just me and the coffee shops.
The Baked In, under both prior and current ownership, has been the perfect place to escape the quiet emptiness of my apartment. I hid here to be around people without being around people during my three-year internship. I studied for my architect’s license here.
Once I’d passed the AREs, I simply kept coming. The coffee’s great, the pastries are yummy, and people like Marni are good co-existence company.
“Thanks. I’ll let you know,” I tell them.
I’ve always been a creature of habit. I like what I like and there’s no point in deviating from that.
Well, except when your best friend plies you with margaritas and convinces you to be reckless.
The week and a half since that night at The Botanical has been both a joy and a sadness.
On the one hand, I had an absolutely amazing night. Wick was... everything I could ever ask for. Strong. Thoughtful. Masculine. Unbelievably sexy.
While I walk to the subway, with my coffee in hand and pastry secured in my oversized purse-slash-laptop-bag, I probably look like an absolute fool with a dopey grin on my face.
As if on an infinite loop, I replay the entire evening in my head—from the moment he hit on me at the bar to the last image of him asleep in the bed. I’ve got his address, but I left him behind for a reason.
It’s best it was only a one-night stand.
Guys like Wick are fiction. He’s a figment of a long-held fantasy. They don’t exist in the real world.
The lives of mere mortals cannot contain them.
With each passing day, the constant recapping makes the memory so dreamlike that I start to doubt whether it happened at all. How many women go home with a wealthy, handsome man who can blow your back out so hard, your spine disintegrates?
My confidence, though, that’s become unshakable. My memories may be fading, but the residual energy from my night with Wick lingers. I can’t help but feel empowered mentally, emotionally, and physically.
My mind has played tricks on me, though, thinking I see him at every corner or convincing me someone is watching.
It’s impossible, of course. I didn’t even give him my real name.
My sex-starved brain supplies desperate specters of his big form at Baked In, a glimpse of gold-green eyes on the street, and a flash of black hair at the bank.
Fuck Trent. And fuck Wickham, every night in my dreams.
Before I make it to the office, I toss the mostly empty coffee cup into a trash can to hide the evidence of its existence from Violet.
It’s the second Monday A.W.—after Wickham—and I slide into my chair in my office.
Sunlight streams through the glass windows and illuminates the blondewood desk like a spotlight. I’ve got revisions to deal with, but I’m excited to see this project through.
I’ve always loved my job, but mornings like this emphasize how much I’m meant to be where I am.
Parsens is one of the preeminent architectural firms in the nation. That I’ve survived not only four years here but received accolades and even an industry award is astonishing.
I work clean and stay organized.
I keep my head down.
I don’t engage in any drama.
I dismiss the stress.
It’s why Alan considers me his right-hand woman in Mixed Use.
“Shitty Monday, Annie,” Violet says in a sing-song rhythm as she plops a coffee cup onto my desk. She falls into the client chair on the other side of my L-shaped desk and leans away to put her feet up.
Vi has been bringing me coffee since my first day at Parsens. I don’t have the heart to tell her I stop at Baked In. It’d be easier to give up Marni, but I also can’t have a good day without it.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “The sun is shining. Coffee’s hot. It’s a brand-new day.”
She goofily rolls her eyes. “Listen, if I’d known his dick was that good, I’d have stolen him for myself.”
I grind my teeth to meter my response. It’s no use engaging with my best friend on Wick. She’s still mad I didn’t leave my number. She told me to show up at his house in lingerie.
When Vi first teased me about sharing him so she could get the star treatment, I slammed the lid on the copier so hard, it cracked the glass.
It made her laugh until she peed herself.
She’s committed to doing it ever since, insisting she’s only “desensitizing” me.
I hate that I love her.
“Can’t I be a happy person?” I ask instead of snapping at her.
“On a Monday before nine a.m.? No.”
“Don’t you have a meeting every Monday at nine?”
“Ugh, don’t remind me. It’s cruel and unusual punishment to discuss receivables and payables first thing every week.”
“Well, you are a receivables and payables clerk.”
“You’re no fun anymore. Maybe I don’t want you to find Wick again. I want my straight-edge, sarcastic best friend back.”
Standing, I use two fingers to push her crossed feet off my desk. She sighs and stands.
“Lunch?” I ask to smooth things over.
“Absolutely. There’s a new guy in HR, and I heard that someone was made partner but they haven’t said who yet.”
I perk up at that. If the firm is open to expanding equity partnership, I one-thousand-percent want in. I’m still years off from that kind of promotion, but it’s promising they’re opening doors.
“They’re taking on new partners?” I ask.
“That’s the gossip. Someone new from outside the company.”
My shoulders slump. Outside the company is not the upward mobility I’m hoping for.
Violet leaves me with that mixed blessing of a news tip. And, sure enough, when I unlock my computer, an email is waiting in my inbox.
Please gather in Huddle Space 120 at 2:00 for an announcement.
With any luck, I can finagle my way onto the new person’s team for a project or two. Most of the partners already know my name and face and like my work. The newcomer is merely one more person to prove myself to.
The day flies by. Revisions to an apartment complex expansion based on new engineering drafts devour my time and attention.
Don’t you love it when a plan comes together?
Violet stops me for lunch even though I’m on a roll, and we eat our food in the abandoned staff room on the fourth floor. We used to eat in the common kitchen and dining area on two, but it gets to be so noisy and we like to talk without eavesdroppers.
That can be a double-edged sword, though, since it means we also don’t get any of the news, but it doesn’t seem there’s much we don’t already know.
According to Violet, the new HR guy is a wizard and an asshole. His first order of business was to hang sports memorabilia on his office walls, which says enough to know I’m not interested.
Not that anyone can compare . . .
I might’ve been ruined by the perfect one-night stand with thick black hair and barely straddle-able shoulders.
Vi got the same generic email I got and heard the same story from several other people about someone outside the company being acquired . It’s more activity than most Mondays.
I push through the next hour to finish the plans before the all-hands meeting. If I get the project update done, perhaps it’ll be something I can use to impress the new partner with.
Violet retrieves me, and we muster with the others in the largest conference room.
Milton Adelard, Parsens’ co-founder and its largest shareholder, is already sitting at the head of the conference table. The rest of the partners and a few of the principles fill the seats at the conference table.
Not that I can see them well.
The room is packed with people by the time we make it in, and Violet and I have to lean against the glass partition half way down the room.
“Alright, alright, everyone settle down,” Milton says. He stands and straightens his suit. He’s still fairly young, hardly into his sixties. The tailored suit and flashy watch probably age him down, though.
“As some of you may know, and I’m sure the gossips have already spread”—he pauses for a few muffled chuckles in the room—“that we’re taking on new blood. You may not think of me as old, but after my second grandson, I’m finding more and more that I’d like to step back from my managerial role.
“Rest assured, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still keep our biggest clients happy and oversee projects where needed. But, I think it’s time for a semi-retirement. I helped found this firm forty years ago, and it will always be my baby, but it’s time to let someone else tend it.”
There’s polite applause, but it seems like everyone is too stunned to fully respond. He must truly trust whomever he’s bringing in.
“Settle down now,” he continues. “I’m raising Alan Greenwich to replace me. As Director of Mixed Use, he’s helped lead the company in the direction that will keep us stable for another 40 years. I’ve also decided the time is right to sell my ownership of the company to ensure I don’t try to claw my way back in.
“I’d like everyone to meet Wickham Barrett, our newest investor and primary shareholder.”