Booked, Busy, and Not Thinking About Him
Gisele
Busy is a funny kind of armor. Looks productive from the outside. Responsible. Driven. But around here, we know the difference between building something… and hiding inside it. Because sooner or later, the thing you’re avoiding shows up anyway. And it usually doesn’t knock.
Playlist: “The Archer” by Taylor Swift
Carrie shows up at eight looking confused by my energy. “Did you sleep down here?”
“I got an early start.”
“Gisele.” She sets down her coffee, studies me with the disconcerting perceptiveness of someone who’s worked beside me for three years. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened. I’m motivated.”
“You’re manic.”
“I’m an entrepreneur in a competitive market.” I grab my appointment book, flip through pages I’ve already memorized. “There’s no room for complacency.”
Carrie doesn’t push further, but I can feel her watching me as I move through the morning. Watching and cataloging and probably drawing conclusions I don’t want to examine.
The first client arrives at 8:30. Then the next. Then three more in rapid succession. I fall into the rhythm of it—the comfortable dance of consultation, application, transformation. This is what I’m good at. This is what I can control.
My phone buzzes again around ten.
Bennett. Everything okay?
I should respond. Should explain that I need space, or that I’m busy, or literally anything that doesn’t involve staring at his name on my screen.
Me: Slammed today. Talk later.
Three words. Casual. Friendly. The kind of text you send to someone who doesn’t matter.
The lie tastes bitter, but I swallow it anyway. Because it’s easier than admitting we’ve been having sexual encounters non-stop and now I’m terrified of what that means.
Easier than facing the fact that I want him again. Right now. All the time.
Around noon, my inbox does something unexpected.
I’m between clients, scarfing down a protein bar that tastes like cardboard wrapped in disappointment, when an email notification pops up. The subject line makes me stop mid-chew.
Partnership Opportunity - Luxe Beauty Collective
Luxe Beauty is a regional brand I’ve been following for years—indie-owned, quality products, the kind of company that actually cares about the people using their stuff instead of just chasing margins.
They’ve been expanding their salon partnerships lately, and I’ve fantasized about reaching out but never had the guts.
Now they’re reaching out to me.
I open the email with shaking hands.
Ms. LaRue—
We’ve been following Glamboozled’s work for some time, and we’re impressed by what you’ve built. Your engagement with your community, your commitment to quality, and your distinctive approach to client care align perfectly with our brand values.
We’d like to discuss a potential collaboration: an exclusive partnership that would include product placement, co-branded content opportunities, and a signature look developed specifically around your aesthetic. We’re also interested in hosting our regional launch event at your location this fall.
If you’re interested, we’d love to schedule a call this week.
Jennifer Bates – Director of Promotions – Luxe Beauty
I read it three times to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
Then I read it a fourth time, because this feels too good to be true.
A signature look. Co-branded content. A launch event at my salon.
This is the kind of opportunity I’ve been working toward since I opened these doors five years ago. The kind of thing that could take Glamboozled from successful local business to actual regional presence.
“Carrie.” My voice comes out weird. Too high. “Carrie, come here.”
She appears immediately, probably because I sound like I’m either dying or winning the lottery. I shove my phone at her without explanation.
Her eyes scan the email. Widen. Snap up to meet mine.
“Holy shit.”
“I know.”
“Gisele, this is—”
“I know.”
“You have to say yes.”
“I know.”
We stare at each other for a beat, and then she’s hugging me, and I’m laughing—real laughter, not the performative kind I’ve been producing all morning—and for a moment everything else fades into background noise.
This is real. This is happening. This is something I built. Without him. Without anyone. Just me and my work and my determination to be someone who couldn’t be left.
Look, Dad. I did it anyway.
I call them back within the hour.
The conversation is a blur of logistics and timelines and possibilities that make my head spin.
They want to move fast—the launch event is scheduled for three months out, and they’re talking about content shoots starting next week.
I’ll need to clear my schedule, coordinate with my staff, probably hire additional help for the event itself.
It’s a lot. It’s overwhelming. It’s exactly what I need.
When I hang up, I immediately start making lists. Tasks to delegate. Supplies to order. Spaces to clear. My brain kicks into high gear, that familiar rush of creation and organization flooding my system.
I’m good at this. I know how to do this. I can manage it. Unlike Bennett. Unlike feelings that won’t fit into neat categories or respond to structure.
Unlike the way my chest cracks open every time I think about him showing up this morning and finding me gone.
My phone buzzes.
Bennett: Missed you this morning.
The words hit somewhere I’ve been trying to protect. Four words that shouldn’t matter. Four words from a man I’ve been trying not to think about all day.
He missed me.
Like I’m someone worth missing. Like my absence left a hole. And I know exactly what it cost him to say that. I shove my phone in a drawer and get back to work.
Margot shows up around three, because apparently the Sorrowville gossip network operates at the speed of light.
“I heard you’re becoming a beauty mogul.” She drops into the waiting area, legs crossed, expression somewhere between impressed and suspicious. “Care to elaborate?”
“News travels fast.”
“Linda overheard you on the phone. She told Ida. Ida told everyone.” Margot shrugs. “You know how this works.”
I do know how this works. I just forgot, briefly, that nothing in this town stays private for more than fifteen minutes.
“It’s a brand partnership.” I keep organizing the products I’ve already organized twice. “Luxe Beauty. They want to do a collaboration.”
“And you said yes.”
“Of course I said yes. It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her tone says she’s hearing more than I’m saying. “And this has nothing to do with the man you’ve been attached to at the hip for the past two weeks?”
“I’m not hiding. I’m—”
“Hiding.” She cuts me off without apology. “I’ve known you for fifteen years, Gisele. I know how you look when you’re excited about an opportunity, and I know how you look when you’re running from something. Right now, you’re doing both.”
“I slept with him.” The confession bursts out before I can stop it. “Two and half times. And now I don’t know how to be normal around him.”
Margot doesn’t look surprised. Just waits.
“He makes me want things I can’t have. Things that don’t fit into what I’ve built here.”
“Like what?”
“Like someone who stays.”
The accuracy of the assessment makes me want to scream.
“It’s complicated,” I finally say.
“It’s always complicated.” She reaches over, stills my restless hands with her own. “But avoiding him isn’t going to make it less complicated. It’s just going to make it messier when you finally have to deal with it.”
“I’m not ready to deal with it.”
“Then tell him that.” She squeezes my fingers once before releasing them.
But I won’t. We both know I won’t. Because saying “I need space” requires admitting why, and I’m not ready to hand him that power.
“He’s a big boy. He can handle ‘I need space’ if you actually say the words instead of just disappearing into your work and hoping he figures it out. ”
She’s right. Of course she’s right. Margot is always right about the things I don’t want to hear.
“I’ll text him,” I say.
“Good.” She grabs her bag, heads for the door. “Now tell me more about this brand deal. I want details, and I want them with wine, and I want them tonight.”
“I have appointments until seven.”
“Then I’ll be here at seven-fifteen.” She waves over her shoulder. “Congratulations, by the way. This really is incredible.”
The door closes behind her, and I’m alone with my lists and my half-organized displays and the phone in the drawer that I still haven’t answered.
I’ll text him.
Soon.
The afternoon blurs by in a haze of productivity.
I confirm schedules, reach out to potential assistants for the event, start sketching ideas for the signature look they mentioned.
My brain buzzes with possibilities—color palettes, styling techniques, ways to make this collaboration feel authentic to what I’ve built.
It’s good work. Important work. The kind of thing I’ve been working toward for years.
And yet.
In the gaps between tasks—the thirty-second pauses while waiting for an email response, the quiet moments while a client’s color processes—my mind keeps drifting to places I don’t want it to go.
To Bennett’s hands on my skin. To the way he looked at me when he said he wasn’t going anywhere. To the vulnerability in his voice when he admitted he was terrified.
I wasn’t supposed to feel this much.
I was supposed to help him. Fix him. Send him back into the world better than I found him.
I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him.
The thought stops me cold. Love. That’s what this is.
I’m in love with Bennett Foster, and I’m handling it by hiding in my work. The whole point of Operation Soft Boy was helping him learn to process emotions, not developing feelings so intense they make me want to hide in my work rather than face them.
But here I am. Hiding in my work.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I stand in the middle of my salon, surrounded by the evidence of everything I’m building, and feel something crack beneath the surface of my carefully constructed composure.
The rest of the evening passes in a blur. I finish my appointments. I meet Margot for wine. I talk about the partnership, the plans, the possibilities—all the safe topics that don’t involve acknowledging what I’m really feeling.
When I finally get home, alone in my apartment above the salon, the silence hits different than usual.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror while washing my face. Same person I’ve always been. Same determined set to my jaw, same careful composure, same practiced expression that says everything is fine.
But underneath it, something’s shifted.
Today was good. The partnership is real, and it matters, and I should be celebrating. I should be focused on the incredible opportunity that landed in my lap.
Instead, I’m standing in my bathroom at ten PM, thinking about a man I’ve been actively avoiding because his presence makes me feel things I don’t know how to control. Control. That’s what this is really about. I built a life I could manage, and Bennett walked in and made everything messy.
Made me messy.
And instead of dealing with it, I’m hiding behind a brand deal and pretending work is enough.
I built this life carefully. Brick by brick, choice by choice. The salon. The reputation. The person everyone in Sorrowville thinks they know—confident, put-together, never desperate for anything she can’t achieve on her own.
Bennett threatens all of it. And that’s terrifying.
I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
The lie tastes familiar, like something I’ve been telling myself for a very long time.
I’m not sure it’s working anymore.