Chapter 2 - Gela
Why won’t my hands stop shaking? Here I am, trying to make what could be the biggest deal of my entire life, and I feel like I did when I got picked up for prom.
I take a sip of my coffee, but then push it aside, thinking better of it. Right now? I need poise, confidence, and most importantly, calm. Caffeine jitters aren’t on the menu.
This pitch has to be perfect. I could have taken the call in the office, but there was too much noise outside. The floor above us has been occupied, and apparently, the movers and packers need to ensure the entire building knows they’re doing their job.
I switch on my computer and stare at the clock, wanting to log in exactly on time.
I’ve still got ten minutes left to go, but it’s better to be early than late.
First impressions matter, and my team and I have spent weeks making sure we put our best foot forward today.
We’ve refined our PowerPoint presentation over a dozen times, developed a watertight budget, and invested thousands in a market research deck that the company doesn’t even expect us to provide on a preliminary call.
But having dedicated four years to a Northwestern marketing degree has taught me one single, spectacular truth: the show starts before the client ever hires you.
The client doesn’t care about their products or services as much as they care about the spin I can put on it.
The truth is: Many companies don’t believe in their product, and that’s why they need people like me to come in and create sales and to do it so damn well that they leave saying we always knew we had a hit on our hands.
And that’s what I plan to do today in the next thirty minutes.
Fitness Haven could be my biggest client yet—the kind that takes my little agency from a cute side hustle to a whale of a business. I plug in my charger, just in case, adjust my hair, and check my lipstick one last time on my phone screen.
Game time.
“You've got this,” I whisper to myself, typing in the Zoom meeting ID.
But the truth is, my hands still shake. I wish I hadn’t read the press alert this morning.
Until last night, I knew Fitness Haven had deep pockets, but this morning, I learned that the company has just secured Series A funding to the tune of $25 million.
They’re on track to become a billion-dollar company within the next decade, and somehow, by some miracle, they're considering my tiny agency to handle their social media rollout.
Hell yeah, I’m nervous.
Six months ago, I was just another marketing grad with a dream and a mountain of student debt.
Then Z Ventures appeared like a guardian angel with seed funding.
I still remember staring at the email, convinced it was spam.
They offered me such a substantial amount of money that I had to find out who they were.
But all I saw was a never-ending paper trail that led to no names.
None of my classmates had heard of them either.
“Who cares?” my roommate had said. “Money is money.”
It should have been a red flag, but I was so desperate to get my ideas off the ground that I simply thought I’d get to the bottom of it if the money ever came.
My roommate was right. That mysterious funding turned my dream into a real business: Gela Jones Digital Marketing. It all felt so good that I never even questioned who my funders might be. But sometimes, I find myself wondering why they’re so anonymous.
The Zoom call connects, and I instantly put on a pretty yet polite smile. I’ve practiced it for months now, every morning in front of the mirror, hoping it screams I'm confident but approachable, creative but dependable.
“Hi there! Gela Jones, so great to finally meet you!”
Okay Gela. Make your voice less screechy, will you?
“Hi, Gela. It’s lovely to finally chat,” a man in a suit nods at me from a digital room of half a dozen. I quickly scan the screen and read his name, and instantly recognize him as the head of sales for the company. That’s my guy, I think to myself. He’s the one I have to impress.
I run them through our pitch over the next twenty-five minutes and add in a few well-tuned jokes to keep their attention. By the time I’m wrapping up, I notice the entire room listening in to every word I say.
I break into a smile and put force behind every word.
“—and with targeted campaigns with mommy influencers focusing on the equipment's space-saving design, we can tap into the urban millennial market that your competitors are missing.” I finish and click my fingers for that extra zap.
There's a moment of silence as they register that the pitch is over, and my heart stops. If I fucked up? Well, nothing I can do about it now.
Then, I hear the words I’ve been dying to hear: “This is excellent work, Gela. Really impressive stuff.”
I want to sigh, but instead break into a grin.
“We're reviewing a few proposals this week, but we'll be in touch soon,” the CMO adds. “Honestly? Your approach is exactly what we've been looking for, but we have to go through the process.”
What? Is that an informal confirmation? It sure sounds like one. By now, after the hundreds of pitches I’ve made, I know one when I see one.
The moment the call ends, I slump back in my chair like a deflated balloon, the adrenaline burning through my body.
Holy. Shit.
I allow myself to feel the thrill curve down my entire body before the exhaustion hits.
I worked into the early morning last night, and I only got a couple of hours of sleep. My eyes feel like they’ve just tussled with sandpaper.
I’d love another coffee, but I think what I need most is something fresh that could wake me up just enough so I can get home and hit the sack.
Perhaps a nice tea?
I gather my things and head to the counter, putting in my order for an iced peach tea. The barista, who works here every day at this time, smiles at me.
“You look tired. Long day?”
“I don’t think yesterday ended,” I laugh and start to fumble through my wallet for my card.
“Card machine’s down, hun.” She gives me an apologetic look.
“Oh, no worries.” I begin to fumble through my wallet for cash.
As he rings me up, I realize with horror that I only have a hundred-dollar bill—emergency cash my dad insisted I keep in my wallet “just in case.”
I’m guessing this is not the emergency he had in mind.
“Um, sorry, I’ve only got a hundred,” I say sheepishly and slide it across the counter, but the barista looks even more sheepish.
“I’m afraid we don’t have change, hun.”
“What?” I squeak and begin to dig in my bag now. “I’m sure I have some change…”
But I come up empty-handed.
I look up at her apologetically, resigned to go without the tea. “I’m so sorry, but maybe we can just cancel—”
“I’ve got it,” I hear a deep voice say behind me.
I turn around, and dear god, my brain short-circuits.
The man standing there is... well, he's the kind of handsome that makes you forget words. Dark hair, just messy enough to look like he’s walked off a photoshoot at the beach.
His jawline’s sharp, and his eyes are, dare I say it, pretty as hell, but on him?
They look like a mystery. Blue, green, or a shade of both.
They’re the kind of eyes I could never forget.
And he’s tall. Like, unfairly tall. Well dressed, too, like he’s got a personal tailor or something.
“I—that's really nice, but—” I stammer, suddenly aware that I might have been staring a beat too long.
Awkward much?
“Consider it my good deed for the day,” he says, handing the barista a twenty before I can protest further. His English sounds a little rough around the edges. Not bad…just…not true-born American. It’s sexy, though, and the way he rolls out his words feels like a caress to my senses.
“Well, now I owe you...” I trail off, realizing I don't know his name.
“Valentin.” He gives me his name without hesitation. “And you are?”
“Oh, I’m Gela.” I immediately throw out my hand, and just then, my bag slides down my shoulder. I awkwardly fold my arm to hang it on my elbow and bend over slightly to my side, keeping it in balance as I offer the handshake.
God, I can’t even imagine how clumsy I look right about now. I feel my neck heat. I see his eyes trace my body, making notes on how I stand, and pray he doesn’t think me a klutz.
Even if he does, he doesn’t say. He just smiles a little, so little in fact that I wonder if there is even a smile on that smoldering face, and takes my hand.
When he does? I swear there's an actual, physical jolt of electricity. Static? Probably static.
“Nice to meet you, Gela Jones.” He says my full name, as if it’s a secret we share.
The barista clears her throat. “Iced tea is up!”
I snatch my hand back with burning cheeks.
“So.” I turn back to Valentin. “I’d love to pay you back… is there any way I could?”
“Pay me back?” He looks at me quizzically, like it’s a concept he hasn’t heard of.
“Yes. You know…for the iced tea?” I take a sip and watch him over the rim of my cup. Behind him, people get impatient, and instead of placing his order, he actually steps out of line to talk to me.
“Oh!” I ask, flustered. “You lost your spot!”
“I don’t mind,” he shrugs, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Northwestern, right?” he asks.
I blink. “How did you—”
“The pin on your bag,” he explains, pointing to my forgotten alumni pin attached to my tote.
“Oh! Right. Class of 2022.”
Is he trying to make conversation with me, and would it be so bad? I can't remember the last time I noticed a guy in this way. Probably before I started my business and romance fell to priority number... well, it's not even on the list anymore.
“Smart girl,” he says, giving me a once-over that doesn’t feel entirely innocent. This should be my cue to run, right? But instead, I find my heart fluttering around like a little butterfly in my chest.
“Not that smart.” I strive to maintain a cool and aloof demeanor. Just then, my phone rings. I quickly glance over to see it’s from the office.
“Hey, listen.” I put the call on silent for now, deciding to call back later, and look up to see Valentin watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip. “About that money…” My voice trails off, like my brain can’t comprehend words and how handsome he is at the same time.
“Like I said, my treat.”
“Well, thanks again for the coffee,” I say, suddenly needing to escape before I make it obvious that I’m staring at him like eye candy. “I should get back to work.”
“Of course.” He smiles a full one at last, and his serious face transforms into something that should come with a warning label. “I hope we run into each other again, Gela Jones.”
“Boston's a big city,” I say hoarsely.
“Not that big,” he replies.
***
The next day, I'm back at my usual coffee shop table, this time with slightly more sleep, thank god. It’s an easy workday today, where I get to do the stuff I love—content creation. I've just settled in when I see someone put a to-go cup on my table.
“Your debt collection service has arrived.”
That voice…
I look up to find Valentin standing there. “Hope you like coffee.”
“You're kidding,” I say, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face.
“About the debt? I swear I’m not.”
My heart does a little somersault. Shit. How could I forget? “Oh, of course, just give me a moment.” I reach for my bag, flustered like hell, when I feel his hand over mine.
I let out a little gasp and look up, only to see his eyes alive with something amusing. For a moment there, we stay transfixed. “I was joking, Gela Jones,” he says my name like a shared secret again.
When he lets go of my hand, I find it shaking. I quickly reach for the coffee cup, just to do something with it.
He gestures to the empty chair across from me. “Mind if I join? Unless I'm interrupting your work.”
“Just some boring analytics,” I say, closing my laptop slightly. “Please, sit.”
He does, and I notice again how well his suit fits him. Now that I think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen a man look this good in a suit before, and I belong in Corporate America.
“So,” I say, taking a sip of the coffee, “Thank you for this. Do you often buy drinks for people at this coffee shop?”
The minute I ask the question, I wince. He notices, for he chuckles. “Well,” he says, leaning forward and locking eyes with me. “That would be a strange habit, don’t you think?”
“I…guess so,” I say, trying to keep my tone even. But the truth? Having him in my orbit set my skin on fire.
What I want to ask is why he bought me a coffee today. Yesterday, I understood. Now? It feels dangerously like attention.
I feel heat rise to my cheeks at that thought. I'm not used to this—especially from extremely attractive men.
“Well, thanks for the caffeine,” I say. “Now I don't have to bother with that hundred-dollar bill again.”
“Happy to help.” He leans back, studying me. “So, you work around here?”
And somehow, I find myself telling him about my agency.
He listens, really listens, asking questions that show he's actually paying attention. It's disarming.
“What about you?” I finally ask. “What brings you to this coffee shop two days in a row? Besides debt collection, of course.”
Something flickers in his expression. “Business meetings nearby.”
“Ah,” I nod. “Hence the suit.”
“Hence the suit,” he agrees. “Though trust me, I'd rather be in anything else.”
And just like that, my mind goes places it has no business going. I clear my throat. “Well, Boston's business district isn't exactly known for casual Fridays, so maybe you need another job.”
“True. But there are compensations.” His eyes meet mine. “Good coffee. Better company.”
Is he flirting? He's definitely flirting. And I'm out of practice.
“I should probably get back to work,” I say, knowing this has to come to an end sometime.
“Of course.” He stands, not overstaying his welcome. “Maybe I'll see you around again, Gela Jones.”
“Maybe,” I echo, and for some reason, find myself hoping.
But over the next week, maybe it will turn into a definitely. I spot him at the grocery store near my office and for a second, think I should pretend not to see him, but he looks so damn confused over those avocados that I have to step in and help him make the right buy.
This time? I pay for him. He tries to protest, but when I glower? He lets me.
Two evenings after, I turn the corner at the bookstore and slam into a wall of a chest, only to look up to see …him. Valentin.
“Gela Jones, you stalking me?” He grins at me, and I swear, I nearly panic.
“Well, I could ask the same thing…” I smile back and realize I might just be flirting back.
Then? We run into each other at the park, where I sometimes work when my office space feels too confining for creativity.
And each time? There’s that same current. That same easy conversation that somehow makes me forget I'm supposed to be working. That same lingering goodbye, where I wonder if he's going to ask for my number.
He never does.