The Big Dink (Smash Point Social Club #1)

Chapter 1

one

Watching Garrett Davis talk on the phone is more entertaining than TikTok.

Since his office is directly across from mine, I’m privy to a show at least once per hour, and the guessing game to determine what phone call he’s on still hasn't gotten old.

Especially since I let slip the existence of said game to Sam—my coworker, best friend, and sole reason I wake up every morning to brave the hellscape that is Denver traffic—the other night at the pub.

“Wait. You have a rubric? For judging his phone conversations?” Her eyes narrow like a hawk that’s locked in on a mouse scurrying through a corn field. After two years of daily interaction, she knows me better than my own parents.

“I mean, it's not that official.”

“You said ‘grading sheet,’ Alecia. That sounds fairly official.”

Ok, so that part is true. I had a coupon for a free customizable paper product from All Star Print, the company we use for all of our mailers.

Our company didn’t have a use for it, so after briefly considering a bulk order of Tinder business cards for Sam, I figured I’d make my little hobby more convenient.

“It’s just a notepad.” Skepticism writes itself all over her face, and I know what she’s thinking.

Since my last breakup, Sam has had me on a strict regimen of rewiring my brain.

I’m excellent at understanding what other people want.

Also quite adept at molding myself into that woman at the expense of my actual beliefs and opinions.

But that isn’t what I’m doing here. I’m not changing anything for him. It’s good to learn more about the man you’re interested in. This was simply a matter of curiosity and thoughtfulness.

“A normal notepad?” Sam asks.

I tuck my hair behind my ears. The pub always gets loud past eight, and I can barely hear myself think. “It’s a little bit custom.”

Sam laughs with a shake of her head, her chestnut curls bouncing. Somehow, even after a full day at the office, she looks like she just got a blowout. “That is . . .”

“Unhinged? Yes. I'm aware.”

“No. I was going to say exactly like you. To make a game in the first place, but then to arbitrate with rules—”

“I’m not arbitrating. It's just a way to keep track.”

“Of what?”

We’re in it at this point. There’s no use trying to hide anything. I scroll to the recent files on my phone until I find the template I submitted for printing, then I turn the screen toward her. "So the first section details body language before the phone is ever answered."

Sam purses her lips, attempting sobriety. “Okay.”

“Sometimes he leans back in his chair before he answers. I think he's trying to do that whole, ‘Things are going perfectly. Why wouldn't you want to choose us as your partner?’ thing that he always pulls out at vendor fairs.”

Sam nods. We recently witnessed his showboating at FanX. “So it’s someone from work.”

“I'm getting to that. That's in the next section. There have to be multiple check boxes from the same category for it to be a slam dunk.”

Sam sips on her margarita as I move on to the next section. The options there are: perfect posture in his chair, hunched over his desk, jumping up to stand, or chair swiveled around with his back to the glass.

"Oh, what's that one?” Sam points to the chair swivel.

“I've only seen him do it three times. I'm still trying to figure it out. Sometimes hunched over the desk can be combined with laughter or heavy sighs—”

“Never his sales voice?” Sam moves her finger up the screen.

“Never his sales voice. Sales voice only comes into play when the chair is leaned back or he's standing. So, if I have ‘leaning back in the chair’ plus ‘sales voice,’ I'm seventy-five percent sure it's a work call, but there have been a few times when category three tipped the scales."

Sam reads through the options. "Hand touches face, hand runs through hair, fingers pressed to bridge of nose."

"It's the hands through his hair. I swear there's something different about those calls."

"What do you think it is?"

I lean in, but don’t lower my voice, since a handful of babies, likely CU Denver students, are belting out the chorus to a Sabrina Carpenter song. "The other day, his door was open. Mine was cracked.”

Sam nods. “As always.”

“Right. And I overheard pieces of the conversation. They sounded work-related. He was talking about a contract with Hills and Co—"

"Oh, yeah. We finished that deal last Friday."

"Exactly, but here's the thing.” I pause for dramatic effect. “He was giving compliments."

Sam's head jerks back like I flicked her nose. "Compliments?"

"Mmhmm. Things like, ’You did an excellent job with that,’ and ‘Well, of course, it worked. It was your design.’”

Sam’s hand flies up to clutch her theoretical pearls. “He did not.”

I hold out my hands as if to say, “case closed.” The evidence is irrefutable.

“Garrett’s sleeping with someone at the office.”

My smile borders on maniacal. “No. Not sleeping with someone. Wants to be sleeping with someone. Remember when he was with Molly or—”

“Mel.”

"Yeah. Whatever. Those phone conversations? Never happened. He and Mel only ever texted.” What I would have given for a screenshot of those messages, based on his facial expressions alone.

"Well, maybe that was because of Mel."

I raise an eyebrow. I can’t blame Sam for being so oblivious. She wasn't the one with the approaching-unhealthy obsession with our coworker. "What does Garrett always do before he nails a contract?"

"Constant contact. Usually a gift or two. Lots of— Ohhh.” Sam realizes it before she finishes her sentence.

"Right. Phone calls. And then as soon as he has it in the bag?”

“Text and emails only."

"Exactly.”

“So you think there's someone he's interested in. But he hasn't sealed the deal."

I nod, leaning back in my chair and folding my arms. The student has become the master.

“Well, we have to figure out who it is.”

My thoughts exactly. I shouldn’t have waited this long to bring Sam in on my guilty pleasure. She’s been all in on every crazy adventure even before we started working together. The Bubble 5k, thrift store marathons, Pokémon GO missions. This was child’s play. “I'll bring you a notepad tomorrow.”

Sam looks genuinely concerned. “You have more of them? How many did you print?”

I didn’t answer that, but I kept my promise. Now, Sam and I both have a phone call tracker sheet hiding under knickknacks on our desks. It’s all incredibly convenient, as Sam, in her corner office, has a perfect view of the breakroom.

Just the other day, she noticed him answer a call while waiting for a new pot of coffee to brew.

There was bridge-of-the-nose pinching combined with heavy sighs.

With the lowered voice, we concluded it had to be family.

Not what we were looking for, but still good information.

By my calculations, he’d had four more family calls than usual in the past week and a half.

Why, you might ask, do I feel so motivated to keep such dedicated surveillance? That’s simple. I've been in love with Garrett Davis since Sam got me the interview here at Paper and Pixel eight months ago.

Garrett is traditionally handsome. Tall and lean with shoulders and arms that announce his gym membership, a head of thick, dark hair that he always wears product in, and baby-blue eyes I want to dive into and swim a few laps in.

He wears LuLulemon slacks and collared shirts with the sleeves always rolled up, featuring micro prints on the insides of the cuffs.

On top of that, he's whip-smart. As one of the founders, he helped build the company while he was in high school, from nothing but an inkjet printer and a contract with his mom’s real estate agent.

He knows how to land the whales. He is brilliant at it, sitting across from CEOs twice his age, dissecting clauses with a million-dollar smile, flipping objections into signatures.

Every time he emails over a fresh contract, signed and sealed, it feels like watching a magician pull money out of thin air.

And maybe that’s why I can’t help myself.

Because how do you not fall for the man who can talk anyone, even a Fortune 500 shark, into saying yes?

There’s no way I’ll use any of my reconnaissance against him, but having information about him has already proven useful.

After the day with two family calls in a row, I happened to bring in Parlor Doughnuts for breakfast. That earned me eye contact and a “What’s your favorite flavor?

” which I’m still second-guessing my answer to.

Maple was so cliché. Completely forgettable.

I should’ve gone with matcha or lemon basil.

Because as Garrett always says, “We don’t sell products, we sell the story they tell. ” And I sold basic vanilla.

My phone buzzes on the desk. A message from Sam.

911

My mouth goes dry. Sam doesn’t use emergency codes for low toner. This either means I’ve royally screwed over a client or . . . possibly hobby notepad-related? Either option is equally panic-inducing.

I push my chair back so fast it spins, and bolt out the door into the hall, jumping back when I nearly collide with—

Mother of pearl. Garrett.

“Where’s the fire?” he asks. With eye contact. And a crooked grin. My stomach is suddenly swimming with live eels.

“Oh, uh—just excited to talk with Sam about the Corren project.”

He raises an eyebrow, and his whole face shifts, turning into something new. That’s the thing about Garrett. I swear he must’ve been the one popular theater kid in high school. His entire being is a study in character. “That’s exciting to you?”

I smooth my hair, scoffing. “Not like exciting, exciting, if you know what I mean.” What the hell was I saying?

To a guy I worked with? “I mean, I’m just—” Don’t say excited, any other word but excited.

“Arous—” NOT THAT ONE! “Motivated to build that relationship. I think it will open the door to other opportunities in the tech space.”

Sweat trickles between my boobs. I pray my neck isn’t breaking out in hives, but my skin is already starting to itch. I give it three minutes before I need calamine.

He taps his Apple pencil against his forefinger. “Nice. I agree.” Garrett gives me one last look, then strides into his office.

I agree? He made a joke, smiled at me, and agreed? This was quickly becoming a day for the history books.

I rush down the hall and slide into Sam’s office, but before I can word vomit the past five minutes, I process the expression on her face. “What happened?”

She winces. “I’m so sorry, A.”

“What?” I stumble to the chair in front of her desk, my mind spiraling through worst-case possibilities.

Did I forget an order? Send a personal email to a client?

That happened once before, and I’m already reliving the shame of telling a reporter from 9 News that I was expecting my period on Tuesday.

Sam motions to a chair in front of her desk. “You should sit down.”

“Sam, I swear—”

“I’m serious.”

I drop into the upholstered swivel egg, holding her gaze like we are in a staring contest to the death.

When I think I might spontaneously combust, Sam finally blows out a breath. “I know who it is.”