Chapter 9
NINE
Madeline
I escape to the back lounge on the second floor—it’s the quietest corner of the Cove office.
It’s mid-afternoon; a little late for lunch but it’s the first chance I’ve had to take a break.
Light spills in through the tall industrial windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the sunbeams. From here, I can just make out the muted hum of the main workspace: keyboards clacking, printers whirring, laughter from the creative team down the hall.
My phone is on the table in front of me, the voice on the other end of it coming through the speaker while I try to finish my chicken salad and the last of my lukewarm mug of tea.
“Madeline, you can’t be serious,” my mother is saying, her tone crisp and perfectly clipped. “It’s the Legacy Tribute Gala. Your father is being honored. Everyone who matters will be there.”
“I know, Mom.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to keep my voice even. “It’s just…I would need to fly out on Thursday to make it there on time and I don’t think I can get away. I just started my new job, and we’re prepping for a big campaign.”
My parents moved to Bluewater, a three-hour flight from Vancouver when my dad realized he had a better shot at winning a seat there than he ever would in the city. Bluewater is a smaller riding with an easier audience to impress, a place where he could control the narrative.
“Well, that’s very unfortunate,” she says, the words dripping with disapproval.
“It will look terrible for your father if both you and your sister aren’t there.
You know how these things are. People talk.
And I can already hear them: ‘Poor Peter Ashcroft, even his daughters couldn’t be bothered to show up. ’ Is that really what you want?”
I close my eyes, leaning back against the chair. The metal is cool against my spine, grounding me. “Mom, it’s not about what other people might think. This job is important to me. I’m doing well here. I’m—”
“Oh please, Madeline.” Her sigh is a delicate, weaponized thing. “Are you talking about that marketing job? Honestly, darling, you’re wasting your potential there. How long do you really plan to work in that silly town?”
My throat tightens. I stare out the window, at the water glinting in the distance. “It’s a great job, Mom,” I say quietly. “Cove’s a global brand. I’m part of their campaign team.”
“Yes, fine,” she says dismissively, her tone making it clear she’s not interested in talking about my career.
“Cara has a new baby; people will understand why she can’t make it.
But I’ve already told everyone you’ll be there.
It’s in two weeks at the Hotel Pacific ballroom.
Please wear something classic. Not one of those linen things you seem to be living in lately. ”
A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Should I pull out my old debutante dress?”
Her sharp inhale crackles through the speaker. “There’s no need to be sarcastic.”
There is, actually. It’s the only way to survive these calls.
“Mom, I really have to go,” I say finally, my patience fraying. “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything.”
“Well,” she says, voice frosted. “I suppose that’s all we can expect from you these days.”
The line goes dead.
I close the screen on my phone, letting out a slow, shaky exhale.
My pulse still hums with irritation, my jaw aching from holding back everything I wanted to say.
For a long moment, I just sit here, staring at the broken shadows the windowpanes cast across the white wall.
The hum of the office feels a world away.
“You okay?”
I jump, my head snapping up. Jesse is a few feet away, leaning in the doorway. He’s holding a folder under one arm, one ankle crossed over the other, his brow drawn just slightly, his usual easy grin nowhere in sight.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, afraid of his response.
“Long enough,” he says quietly. “You looked like you were about to throw your phone through the window.”
“Hardly,” I say, feeling the heat rise up the back of my neck.
His brow lifts. “You sure? Because you definitely have the look of someone who’s about two seconds away from testing the structural integrity of our windows.”
Despite myself, a laugh slips out. I shake my head and take a sip of my tea. “Just a conversation with my mom. I’m used to it.”
He nods slowly, stepping farther into the room. “She sounds…tough.”
“That’s one word for it,” I murmur, tracing my thumb around the rim of my mug. “She’s determined I fly to Bluewater in two weeks for a political gala thing. My dad’s the mayor of Bluewater. He’s getting some leadership in public service award.”
Jesse whistles low. “Fancy.”
“You have no idea,” I say, managing a weak smile.
“It’s all crystal chandeliers and champagne towers and people in black tie pretending to like each other even though they’ll all trash each other on the drive home.
I’ve been to probably a hundred of these events over the years and I always hate them.
I would rather be literally anywhere else. ”
Jesse studies me for a beat, his gaze steady in a way that makes me feel far too seen. “So don’t go.”
“That’s not exactly up to me.”
“Sure, it is.” He shrugs one shoulder. “You’re an adult. You don’t owe anyone a weekend of fake smiles.”
I look at him, a little startled by the ease with which he says it. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not,” he admits, leaning against the edge of the table across from me. “But sometimes doing what’s right for you means pissing a few people off.”
The corner of my mouth lifts, despite the heaviness in my chest. “I’ll quote you on that when my mother blows a gasket.”
He grins faintly, that boyish flicker of humor sliding back into his eyes. “Happy to take the blame.”
We fall quiet. The air between us stretches, warm and charged. For a second, it’s almost peaceful — like the world’s stopped moving just long enough for me to catch my breath.
Then he clears his throat and straightens. “Come on,” he says lightly, nodding toward the door. “Becca’s waiting to go over the updated copy for the spring campaign. We should probably get back before she sends out a search party.”
“Right.” I grab my phone, tucking it into my back pocket as I stand, following him down the hall. The tension of the call with my mom still lingers, but now it’s mixed with something else entirely.
By the time we make it back to the shared workspace, Becca is already spreading mock-ups across the table. Marco and Tasha are there too, along with another woman I don’t recognize.
She’s stunning: dark blonde hair pulled into a sleek knot at the nape of her neck, a fitted cream sweater tucked neatly into tailored black pants, small gold hoops that catch the light as she looks over at me.
There’s something effortlessly beautiful about her.
She strikes me as the kind of woman who could walk into any room and command it without saying a word.
“Madeline,” Jesse says, motioning toward the woman. “This is Landyn Sinclair. She heads up PR and brand strategy. She joined a few months ago.”
Landyn stands, offering a warm, genuine smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Madeline.”
“Likewise,” I say, returning the smile.
“We’re just going over some of the spring campaign’s visuals,” she says, turning toward the table. “Ford wants to see these tomorrow. Should we start?”
“Sure,” Jesse says, clapping his hands. “Let’s jump in.”
The meeting begins in a whirl of conversation. We walk through layouts and color palletes and come up with a schedule for the week ahead. I jot a few notes as Jesse talks through the tagline. It’s catchy, but something about it feels…off.
“Thoughts?” he asks the team, leaning back like he’s waiting for a round of applause from the room.
“Strong concept,” Becca says as Marco nods in agreement. “Visually clean.”
I glance at the board again, biting the inside of my cheek.
Becca’s right—it’s clean, but maybe that’s exactly the problem—it’s too polished.
It’s the kind of campaign that looks perfect on paper but doesn’t make anyone feel anything.
It doesn’t give the consumer a reason to stop scrolling and actually care.
As the rest of the team breaks off into a discussion on ad placement, I pick up a blue sticky note and jot down my thoughts.
Doesn’t feel authentic to Cove’s voice. Too polished.
Where’s the real connection? I barely finish pressing the corner down on my folder before Jesse notices and leans in to read it.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks quietly, an edge to his voice. “’Not authentic to Cove’s voice?’ Considering I helped build Cove’s voice, I’m curious what part of it doesn’t feel authentic.”
“I just think it feels more corporate than personal. Cove’s whole appeal is the West Coast lifestyle — real people, real connection. This feels like a break from that.”
His jaw flexes. “It’s an ad campaign, not a memoir.”
“And that’s exactly the problem,” I shoot back before I can stop myself. “People don’t want perfection, Jesse. They want to feel something.”
He exhales through his nose, slow and measured. “Noted,” he says flatly, pulling the mock-up toward him. “Maybe we’ll run it by Ford.”
“Sounds good,” I reply curtly, annoyed by his sudden shift in tone. He may not like it, but it’s fair and honest feedback. I count to three in my head as Becca clears her throat, trying to reel the room back into the conversation.
“Okay, I think we’ve covered what we need to,” she says. “Jesse will think on the tagline and in the meantime, we all know what we need to do, right? Thanks, everyone.”
The room empties out, but as I gather my laptop and notes I can feel the tension radiating off Jesse beside me.
His easy composure has been replaced by something sharper and the easy rhythm we had before the meeting is gone.
The silence stretches, the half-finished argument still hanging between us.
I push my chair out from the table, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a glance.
“You don’t hold back, do you?” he says finally, leaning back in his chair as he gives me an appraising look.
“Would you prefer if I kept my opinions to myself?”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t look at me like I kicked your puppy every time we disagree.”
That makes me stop. “Me?” I ask, incredulous. “You asked for our thoughts and then got annoyed when you heard them. I’m not just looking for ways to disagree with you, Jesse.”
He chuckles. “I can’t decide if you’re fearless or just enjoy arguing with me.”
“Fearless, maybe.” I finally meet his gaze, the challenge in my eyes matching the gleam in his. “But I wouldn’t lose sleep overthinking it. I’m just here to do the job you hired me to do.”
His mouth twitches, like he’s fighting a grin. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
The tension between us hums, alive and unspoken. I sling my bag over my shoulder and turn back toward the door, desperate to end whatever this is, to put some space between us.
And then he says, “Hey—about that event you mentioned. The thing honoring your dad?”
“What about it?”
He shrugs, so casually it almost feels rehearsed. “If you need a few days off, you can work remote. And if you need someone to go with you, I don’t mind. I’ve got an expensive suit and a high tolerance for champagne and small talk.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re offering to be my plus one at what is guaranteed to be one of the most nauseating social events of the year?”
“Why not?” he says easily. “We can make a game out of it—guess who spent the most money on their outfit, rate the speeches, make bets on which socialite will slip her number to the bartender half her age.”
“Why would you want to come with me?”
“For the free drinks,” he says, that damn grin making another appearance. “Also, I think you’ll find I’m charming company.”
“I doubt that,” I mutter under my breath before I can stop myself.
“Harsh,” he says, feigning a wince. “I’m offering moral support here.”
“Jesse, we’ve already proven we can barely make it through a meeting without finding something to argue about. And I’d prefer not to lose my job once you’ve met my family and realize why I moved three hours away from them.”
Jesse’s mouth curves. He’s clearly finding this very amusing. “I can handle your family, Madeline.”
I huff out a laugh. “Don’t be so sure. You’ve never met my mother.”
“Piece of cake,” he says, leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. He’s the picture of infuriating calm. “Consider it part of my ongoing effort to prove I’m not the guy you think I am.”
I fight the ridiculous flutter that rises in my chest. “Not happening,” I say, shaking my head. “And for the record, it would take a lot more than fake charm to change my mind.”
He snaps the lid of his laptop shut and stands, the faintest grin tugging at his mouth. “Guess I’ll just have to find another way, then.”
“Don’t bother,” I toss over my shoulder, heading for the door before he can see the smile threatening to give me away.
Behind me, I hear the quiet rustle of paper. When I glance back, I see him sliding one of my color-coded sticky notes from the table into his pocket, his low laugh chasing me all the way down the hall.