Chapter 22 #2
“Absolutely not—ha!” He fakes left and his arm darts past me before I can stop him, and I am so mortified I think I might die.
“I read that wrong, huh?” he says, turning the sign around so I can see my own stupid words staring back at me. I grab for it again, but he lifts it easily out of reach. “Funny, I didn’t see anything like this on your Instagram page.”
Normally, I would be thrilled at the idea of someone scrolling through my feed, but imagining Parker judging me based on those tiny square windows into my life makes me feel anything but happy.
It’s unsettling. The woman inside those boxes is the furthest thing from the one standing in front of him now.
But I don’t know how to explain that to him without sounding insane.
I cringe inwardly as I remember one of the last photos I posted was of me wedged between him and Sam at the bar.
I’d done it even before we got home that night, when I was drunk and not thinking clearly, before I talked more with Parker, the unfamiliar flutters of attraction began, which have only strengthened their hold on me since then.
By the next morning, I’d already felt weird about it.
I’d posted it, hoping that Caleb would see it and realize I wasn’t sitting around in a dark room with a pint of ice cream pining for him like he thought I was.
But less than twenty-four hours after posting the picture, it felt wrong.
I’d stared at that picture more than once, with my thumb hovering over the delete button, though I could never bring myself to do it.
Because what did that say about me? Instead, I’d tried to bury it under other photos of the farm, aesthetic and balance be damned.
Too bad Parker seemed to be combing through my page as if he were looking for evidence and he had no doubt seen it regardless.
“That’s because I’ve never done anything like that before.”
“Why not? It’s funny.”
I roll my eyes. “Maybe for a bachelorette party. But now, in the light of day, I’d like to burn it. Could you get that fire going again for me?”
He frowns. “You’re not serious?”
It’s my turn to laugh. “What else am I going to do with it? Nobody wants to buy this.”
“Maybe not your usual clientele, but around here, I guarantee you somebody would pay for this.”
I tilt my head sympathetically like he’s a small child who thinks they can make bank on a lemonade stand. Cute, but utterly misguided.
“People like my stuff because it lets them show off how happy they are.” I move around the room, pulling down cardstock samples as I go. I hold them up for him to see my best sellers. “‘Good vibes only.’ ‘My happily ever after starts here.’ ‘Eat, pray, love.’ That’s the bullshit people want.”
It’s also the kind of crap I’m not sure I can fake anymore.
What does that mean for my business, for me …
I have no idea. But since the inaugural event crashed and burned, the ashes still clinging to my shoes, any plans for that might be up in smoke regardless.
I thought I’d be relieved, knowing I at least tried before giving up.
But I know now I didn’t only want this for Lyla and me.
There was a part of me that wanted it for me.
Realizing I can’t keep doing this … feels like saying goodbye—something I’ve been doing more than enough of lately.
Still, knowing this makes me realize how much I haven’t missed my social media job —or any of my clients, for that matter.
Even though I could continue creating custom calligraphy on the side, producing wedding pieces, gifts, and cards until the day I die, I truly enjoyed the process of hosting an event.
Selling something I’ve created is one thing; what I love—really love—is creating an experience for people.
That’s probably why I was so successful in my social media job: the campaigns I created and the platforms I managed were all about shaping how people expected to experience a product or brand.
I’m positive now that I don’t want to do that for other people anymore.
After a month and a half of procrastinating at Salem Stables, it’s suddenly glaringly obvious that no part of me wants to go back to that.
It’s time to cut ties—officially—with my clients.
I deserve to have something I’m passionate about, and they deserve someone sincere and engaged.
The idea of stepping aside without a safety net is scary as hell, but maybe it’s the only way I’ll stop feeling stuck and finally move forward with whatever comes next for me.
“Maybe they want the bullshit because that’s what you’re offering them,” he says, stepping closer. “Give them something real. They might surprise you.”
I give a sad smile. “I’ve been doing this long enough to know people only want my help showing the shiny snapshots of themselves that make their lives look like something everyone else wants. It’s what I’m good at,” I add with a shrug.
Parker is studying me closely. I try to ignore the feeling that he can read every thought that’s crossing through my mind and toss the handful of samples onto a table unceremoniously, crossing the floor to pull the one out of his lowered hand.
I might be bad with directions, but at least I can find my way to my G-spot.
God, what was I thinking? I cringe, thinking about Lucy’s friends making fun of it in the back of the limo on their way home.
He shakes his head as he looks at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. “You don’t even see it, do you?” he asks quietly, eyes soft.
My eyes land on him again, and I blink. See what?
He steps closer, his hands drifting up to cup my face, tilting my chin up to his.
“What don’t I see?” I murmur, letting myself get lost in his sweet brown eyes.
“You’re talented, Sloan. You think you need to go along with what everyone expects of you, but you could do so much more than that if …” He frowns down at me as he struggles to find the words. “You have all the right instincts, Sloan. You need to trust yourself to follow them.”
I’m still absorbing this when he slants his lips over mine, overwhelming my senses with the slow sweep of his tongue over mine. Electricity shoots up my spine as he catches my bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently with just the right amount of pressure before he pulls back.
He drops his hands from my face and laces his fingers through mine, steering me towards the door.
“Where are we going?” I ask, following without even a second of hesitation.
He turns to face me, continuing to walk us both backward towards the door.
“You can wait here for forest creatures to feed you and braid your hair, Princess, or you can try your luck with my cooking.”
“Sure,” I say, holding back a smile. “Food sounds good.”