Chapter 14
fourteen
Outside. No rush.
I’m still pacing in front of my living room mirror, adjusting my earrings for the sixth time. My closet wasn’t built for a fancy client dinner. It’s built for work chic and impulse farmer’s market rendezvous. Mostly just lounging after work. In my robe.
In the end, I went with my emergency date outfit—soft navy wrap dress, gold hoops, hair down in a wave that only half obeyed my curling iron. I throw on nude heels and grab a beige clutch. Hopefully classic and approachable.
When I step outside, Garrett’s silver car is idling at the curb, sleek and polished. He gets out as I approach and rounds the car to open my door. A perfect gentleman. “You look great.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying not to trip on the curb as I slide into the passenger seat.
His car smells like cedarwood and leather. He adjusts the temperature down a degree, then glances at me with a grin. “Thanks again for coming last-minute. These client things are always more fun with someone else there. And you’re good with people.”
The compliments are kind of freaking me out, if I’m being honest. Especially after last night. I have no idea if he means them or if he’s just saying the right thing at the right moment.
“That’s one way to put it.” I fasten my seatbelt. “I’m good at talking a lot.”
He pulls away from the curb. “Just ask questions. People love talking about themselves.”
I let out a puff of air. Some people loved talking about themselves. “Did you have fun at open play?”
Garrett nods. “Yeah, it’s always a good time.”
“You play there a lot?”
He shakes his head. “Not since I moved.”
Ah. So that’s why he had a connection to Smash Point. He used to live closer. “Do you and Calder still play tournaments together?”
“No. I’d be open to it though. He’s still got the shots of a pro even if his shoulder’s not quite back yet.”
Blood rushes in my ears. “Oh, he used to be pro?”
Garrett nods. “Yeah, he was on the PPA circuit. Had a few sponsorships. I didn’t know him back then, but I’ve watched his clips.”
I mentally kick myself. First rule of meeting new people: Google them. How had I missed that? My fingers fidget over the edges of my phone in my clutch.
Outside the window, Denver glows in the amber dusk.
Garrett starts talking about a new client, an eco-friendly packaging company that could be a huge account for us.
He outlines their sustainability goals, their brand philosophy, their leadership team.
I nod at the right times, occasionally tossing in a “That’s smart” or “Oh, I love that.”
Internally, I’m doing a whole different calculus. About my posture and where to put my hands. I want to sound sharp but warm, curious but not overeager. All while wishing I could press pause on the night, slide into the back seat, and look up videos of Calder.
“So, this is kind of a big deal for them?” I ask as we hit a red light.
“Yeah. They just expanded into national retail chains. The dinner’s their way of celebrating, and making sure we’re still the right partner as they scale.”
“So, no pressure.”
He smiles, reaching across the console to squeeze my hand. ”You’ll be perfect.” He doesn’t let go, and something that’s been niggling at me all evening works its way to the surface.
“I’m honestly surprised you didn’t ask Megan. She seems perfect for this kind of thing.” It was true. If I wanted to impress a client, as much as I love myself, she’d be the obvious choice.
His hand twitches. “Megan’s great, but she’s got her own priorities.”
“Oh?”
“No, I just mean she doesn’t work on the client side. When she leaves the office, she’s checked out.”
I frown. “But she organized the pickleball night. Seems like she’s open to some extracurriculars.” I don’t know why I’m arguing with him, but something about what he said rubs me the wrong way.
“For sure. Just the ones she’s interested in.” He pulls his hand back and adjusts the temperature again, then clears his throat. “You’re the obvious choice, by the way. Don’t sell yourself short.”
I smile, but something twists in my gut, just like it did the night before. I’m grateful when he starts asking questions about the market. He’s using his own conversational tactic, and I’m glad to play into it. Candles and mugs don’t make me feel queasy.
We pull up to Barolo Grill ten minutes later, and the valet lane gleams under the string lights. Garrett hands off the keys and places a steady hand at the small of my back as we walk through the doors.
Inside, everything smells like garlic and rosemary, the faint hum of a jazz trio drifting from the bar.
The host greets Garrett by name and leads us to a private dining room off the main floor.
Gold-toned light pools over a long table draped in linen, dotted with wine glasses and neatly folded menus.
Most of the seats are already filled. Garrett’s smile switches effortlessly to work mode as he introduces me around. “This is Alecia Monroe, she’s one of our marketing leads and an absolute lifesaver.”
The introductions blur into a parade of first names, handshakes, and smiles. I laugh at the right moments, sip my wine, and manage to remember at least half of their names. Lillian, the client’s co-founder, is warm and sharp. Her husband, quieter, tells me about their new packaging plant in Golden.
I let Garrett do most of the talking at first. He’s good at it. Just the right amount of charm, the perfect anecdotes. I chime in when needed, agreeing and adding a note of humor here and there. The perfect partner.
Everything is going smoothly. But by the time the main course arrives, Lillian and I get talking about women’s clothing trends, and I forget that I’m supposed to be smooth and polished, asking questions instead of taking over.
It takes all of two minutes for my non-work personality to come out in a big way. “It’s always the waistbands. In underwear, especially. Just accept that we have love handles and make them thicker! Or stretchier. There are really a thousand options that aren’t floss used to cut cakes.”
The woman next to us nearly chokes on her wine laughing. Lillian wipes tears from her eyes.
Garrett’s hand brushes my knee under the table. When I glance at him, he’s smiling, but he gives me a look.
I read it perfectly because it’s the exact look I used to get from my mom growing up. That’s a little much. Pull back a bit. Be a little less of you.
I don’t expect it to hit me so hard, but it does. At a certain point, all the little hits add up, and the breath gets knocked right out of you.
I pluck my napkin off my lap. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” I mouth “Bathroom” to Garrett when he looks apologetic, then escape before he can read the hurt on my face.
The women’s restroom is dim and elegant, all marble counters and golden sconces. I lock myself in a stall and lean against the door as I pull out my phone.
I flip to my messages with Sam.
You up? I need to rant.
I wait, but the three dots don’t appear.
The muffled laughter from the dining room seeps through the walls.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to feel, is it?
Garrett asked me here, but it feels like me is the last thing he wants.
He wants the version of me that makes him look good.
That fits the company brand style guide.
I scroll through my texts again, thumb hovering over Sam’s name, willing her to text back.
Nothing.
Then I remember how much I wanted my phone earlier and flip to my browser. I type in Calder’s name from his email. Pickleball clips immediately populate my results, and I click on the first one. Almost a million views?
I’m entranced. His back is to me in the clip, but I would know it was him anywhere just by the way he moves. Smooth and focused. I watch to the end and am about to start another when I realize numbing out to a guilty pleasure isn’t going to solve my current problem.
I go back to my texts and my thumb flicks down, scrolling instinctively, and lands on another name. I snort. When did I add Calder as a contact? And why did I put his name in like that? Probably another casualty of Oktoberfest.
I hesitate over our last conversation. My rational brain says this is definitely not a good idea. But my sad and frustrated brain that is about to go out there and eat a metric ton of pasta says it’s imperative.
Hey. Theoretically. What would you do if you were stuck at a work dinner and forgot how to be normal?
My heart races. I’m about to unsend it when the dots appear. Frederick Calder the Third is typing.