Chapter 5
OSCAR
It might be a little early, but I send Alice a text at five-thirty AM asking her to meet me at seven at GreenBean Coffee, a small shop two blocks from Rooted Pantry's headquarters. She responds with a terse "fine" that somehow manages to convey both irritation and resignation even in text form.
Getting ready in my hotel suite, I find myself spending more time than usual selecting a tie. The navy silk one? Too formal. The striped one? Too casual. Finally, I settle on a deep burgundy that complements my charcoal suit.
"It's just a business meeting," I mutter to my reflection as I adjust the knot.
But it's not just business, and I know it. It's Alice. The woman who once knew me better than anyone. The woman who turned me down all those years ago, shattering something inside me that I've never quite managed to repair, despite all my successes and the women I’ve dated since her.
I arrive at the coffee shop fifteen minutes early, choosing a corner table with a view of the door.
The morning light casts a golden glow over the street, highlighting the cars and foot traffic.
After ordering a double espresso I sit and wait, scrolling through emails on my phone while trying not to glance at the door every thirty seconds.
At exactly seven on the dot, Alice walks in.
She's wearing a navy pantsuit with a cream blouse underneath, her brown hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders.
Even dressed for a stuffy office, there's something soft about her that catches my breath.
A barista greets her by name, and she smiles — that genuine smile that made a lasting impression on my heart, the one that crinkles the corners of her eyes and makes her whole face light up.
But that smile isn't for me anymore, a thought that stings more than it should.
She orders before approaching my table, her expression shifting to something more guarded as she gets closer.
"Good morning," I say, standing as she reaches the table.
"Morning," she replies, setting her bag down and taking a seat across from me. "I hope this is important enough to justify the early hour."
"I'm a firm believer in discussing important matters when minds are fresh," I reply, trying to keep my tone light.
She raises an eyebrow. "And what exactly constitutes an 'important matter' in this case?"
Before I can answer, a barista calls her name. She excuses herself to collect her drink — some complicated concoction with oat milk that sounds familiar. Some things never change.
"You're a regular," I comment as she returns to our table.
"Five days a week for the past six years," she confirms, taking a careful sip. "Some of us don't flit around from city to city, acquisition to acquisition."
There's a bite to her words that I choose to ignore. "Consistency has its merits."
"As does loyalty," she counters, her brown eyes meeting mine with challenge.
The air between us crackles with unspoken accusations. I take a breath, reminding myself that I called this meeting to smooth things over, not reignite old flames — of either the passionate or hostile variety.
"Alice, I want to talk about your position at Rooted Pantry."
Her spine straightens, body tensing like she's preparing for a blow. "What about my position?"
"I want you to have real input in the company's future direction. What I said yesterday wasn’t just talk."
Surprise flickers across her face. "Why? You've never needed anyone else's input before. Your companies are run with military precision, all decisions flowing from the top down. Don’t tell me you aren’t going to run the same techniques here.”
She holds up a hand. “I know. You told me that you will come to me for creative decisions. You said that’s not just talk...”
“But you don’t believe it?” I'm still taken aback by how much she knows about my business practices. Maybe she hasn't been as disinterested in my career as I imagined.
She bites her bottom lip, not wanting to answer.
"You've been keeping tabs on me?" I ask, shifting gears, unable to hide a small smile.
Her cheeks flush slightly. "No. I looked into your business yesterday. It's called market research, Oscar. Know your competition."
"We’re not competitors – we work together now," I point out.
"Everyone in this industry is competition on some level," she replies smoothly, though the pink in her cheeks deepens.
I lean back in my chair, studying her. Even flustered, she's magnificent — all fierce intelligence and unwavering conviction. I've dated supermodels and executives, heirs and artists, but none of them had this effect on me. None of them made my heart race with a single glance.
"Rooted Pantry is different from my other acquisitions," I admit. "It has… heart."
"And you're worried you'll kill that if you start implementing your usual efficiency measures," she finishes for me.
I nod, impressed by her perceptiveness. "Exactly. The company's soul is what makes it valuable. And you, Alice, are a big part of that soul."
She takes another sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim. I find myself distracted by the way her lips press against the ceramic, leaving a faint impression of pink lipstick.
"You're willing to give me that much autonomy?" Disbelief colors her tone.
"Yes," I say simply. "I trust your judgment."
Her eyes widen slightly, and for a moment I glimpse vulnerability there. "After twelve years of silence, you're suddenly willing to trust me with your company? You don’t even know who I am now."
I can argue that last point. A woman like Alice makes it very well known who she is. She broadcasts through both action and words.
"Our history is… complicated," I acknowledge, choosing my words carefully. "But your track record speaks for itself. Rooted Pantry's growth under your leadership has been impressive."
She tilts her head, studying me with those perceptive brown eyes. "This doesn't sound like the Oscar Glynn that business magazines profile. The 'ruthless health food mogul' who 'cuts fat without mercy'."
I wince at the quotes. "Don't believe everything you read."
"Then who should I believe? The boy I knew in college or the businessman sitting across from me now?"
The question hangs between us, loaded with history and hurt and things we never said. I open my mouth to respond when a voice interrupts us.
"Oh my God, Oscar? Alice? Is that really you guys?"
We both turn to see a woman with blonde hair and oversized glasses standing beside our table, beaming at us. It takes me a moment to place her — Christina Logan, who lived in Alice’s building and took several business classes with us.
"Chris," Alice says, her surprise evident. "Hi!"
"I thought that was you!" Christina exclaims. "Wow, you both look amazing!" She glances between us, her smile growing impossibly wider. "I always knew you two would end up together."
I choke on my coffee.
Alice's face flames red. "Oh, we're not—"
"We're just—" I start simultaneously.
"Business," Alice finishes. "We're working together."
Christina looks confused. "Oh! I just assumed… I mean, you guys were inseparable in college. Everyone thought it was just a matter of time."
I feel a rush of heat up my neck and pray it doesn't show. Did everyone really think that? Was I that obvious about my feelings?
"Oscar recently acquired the company I work for," Alice explains, her voice unnaturally high.
"Wow!" She looks impressed. "That's amazing. I've read about you online, Oscar, but I had no idea you and Alice were still… connected."
"We weren't," Alice says quickly. "Until yesterday."
An awkward silence falls. I clear my throat. "How about you, Christina? What are you up to these days?"
Thankfully, she launches into a detailed account of her life since graduation — her marketing career, two kids, recent divorce — giving me a moment to regain my composure. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Alice fidgeting with her coffee cup, clearly as uncomfortable as I am.
After a few minutes of catching up, Christina checks her watch.
"Oh shoot, I'm going to be late for a client meeting.
It was so great seeing you both!" She puts a hand on each of our shoulders.
"Don't be strangers, okay? The alumni group has a Facebook page if you want to reconnect with more old friends. "
With a final wave, she hurries out of the coffee shop, leaving Alice and me in awkward silence.
"Well," I finally say. “Uh…”
"Yep," Alice supplies.
Despite everything, I laugh, and after a moment, she joins me, the tension between us easing slightly.
"Was it really that obvious?" I ask before I can stop myself. "How I felt about you back then?"
The question slips out, dangerous and exposed. I regret it immediately, but it's too late to take it back.
Alice's laughter fades, and she looks down at her coffee. "I don't know," she says softly. "Maybe to everyone else."
But not to her, is the implication. Not to the one person who I wanted to notice the most. The only person I really cared about…
I clear my throat, desperate to get back to safer ground. "As I was saying about your role at Rooted Pantry—"
"You're serious about this," she interrupts, looking up at me with renewed focus. "About giving me that autonomy?"
"Yes," I confirm. "I am."
She studies me for a long moment, and I find myself holding my breath, drinking in the details of her face. The small freckle near her left eye. The way her lower lip is slightly fuller than her upper one. The tiny furrow that appears between her brows when she's thinking hard.
"I poured my heart and soul into Rooted Pantry," she says finally, her voice quiet but intense. "I will not step aside only to have you turn it into another soulless brand in your empire."
Her passion is captivating, and I find myself leaning toward her, drawn by the force of her conviction. "I respect that," I tell her honestly. "And I meant what I said. As one of the founders, you'll have final say on creative decisions."
Something in my tone or expression must convince her because she gives a small nod. "Okay."
"Okay?" I repeat, surprised by her capitulation.
"I'm not saying I trust you," she clarifies quickly. "But I'm willing to try this arrangement. For Rooted Pantry's sake."
Relief washes through me. "That's all I'm asking for."
She narrows her eyes at me. "For now."
I can't help but smile. Even suspicious, even angry, she's magnificent. "For now," I agree.
“Anything else?” She checks her phone. “I should head to the office soon.”
“There’s, uh, one more thing. I’m throwing a party next week. For the office.”
"A party?" she repeats, skeptical.
"To welcome Rooted Pantry into the family," I explain. "It's important for morale, for team building. I hope you'll be there."
She hesitates, and I find myself holding my breath again, inexplicably anxious for her answer.
"I'll think about it," she says finally.
It's not a yes, but it's not a no either. And I'll take it.
“You’re right about the time.” I stand. “We should get to work.”
We head to the door at the same time and nearly end up bumping into each other. Her natural scent invades my space, and I go weak in the knees.
“Sorry,” she says, at the same time as I say, “Excuse me.”
“You go–”
“No, you first.” I gesture towards the exit.
She gives me a strained smile and scurries for the door. With her back to me, I sigh. Nope, us working together won’t be awkward at all.
Not… one… bit.