Chapter 6
ALICE
"There you are!" Sydney materializes from around the hallway corner, her dark red hair swinging as she cuts off my path to the sanctuary of my office. "I've been waiting for you to get in. How was your coffee date?"
"It wasn't a date," I correct her, brushing past to continue down the hallway. She’s trying to make me laugh, but I’m not in the mood. "It was a business meeting."
In my office, I drop my leather messenger bag onto the mahogany desk that has been my command center for the past seven years.
The surface is meticulously organized — color-coded folders, not a speck of dust, a small pathos whose leaves hang off the corner of the desk.
Order in my physical space has always helped me maintain control when other aspects of my life spin into chaos.
Like now.
"So?" Sydney has followed me into the office, and her eager expression reminds me of a kid waiting to hear gossip at recess. "What happened? What was it about?”
I begin arranging the already-arranged items on my desk, a nervous habit. "Well… we came to an understanding of sorts."
"An understanding?" Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arch. "Okay. I’m listening.”
“We agreed to focus on what's best for Rooted Pantry. He's promised to respect my creative vision for the company."
"And you believe him?" She takes a seat in the chair across from my desk, crossing one long leg over the other.
The question gives me pause. Do I believe Oscar? Twelve years ago, I would have trusted him with my life. Now, I'm not even sure I would trust him with a coffee order.
"I don't know," I admit. "But what choice do I have? The acquisition is final. I can either work with him or watch from the sidelines as he dismantles everything we've built."
"Hmm." Sydney studies me with an intensity that makes me squirm. "What about those smoldering looks he keeps sending your way? Did you bring those up?"
"Smoldering?" I snort, though a flush creeps up my neck.
"Oh please.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. "I saw the way you two were circling each other yesterday. There's enough tension there to power the entire building."
"Any tension you perceived was pure professional antagonism," I insist, booting up my computer to signal the end of this discussion.
Sydney taps a manicured finger against her chin. "You know what I think?"
"I'm sure you're about to tell me."
"I think you've got a thing for him," she says. "And that's going to make working together… complicated."
My head snaps up from the email I'd been pretending to read. "I do not have a—"
The words die in my throat as I catch movement in my peripheral vision. Oscar stands in the doorway, hand poised as if about to knock on the open door, his expression unreadable.
How long has he been standing there? How much did he hear?
“I…” I try to say something to him, but the words don’t come.
“You look busy.” He gives me a terse nod. “I’ll come back later.”
“Oh, uh…”
But he’s already gone, and Sydney is staring at me with wide eyes. “Shit,” she breathes. “I’m sorry.”
“Shit indeed.” I drop my head into my hands. “Do you have a hole I can crawl into? I have some dying to do.”
Oscar doesn’t come back for whatever it was he originally wanted, but the afternoon crawls by in a series of increasingly excruciating encounters.
I spot him in the hallway outside the conference room, deep in conversation with Cole and two other members of his legal team.
He glances up, catches my eye, and I find myself suddenly fascinated by the potted fern beside me.
During the product development meeting, he sits directly across from me, asking insightful questions about our practices. I keep my answers clipped and professional, focusing on a point just above his left eyebrow to avoid actual eye contact.
By five o'clock, I'm jumping at shadows, convinced that every footstep outside my office is him coming to confront me about Sydney's embarrassing insinuation.
Gradually, the office empties. Marketing leaves first, then sales, then the accounting team. I stay glued to my desk, reviewing reports that can’t wait until tomorrow. The morning’s embarrassing encounter has made me slow, and there’s still plenty that needs to get done.
"You're still here."
I jump at the sound of his voice, knocking over my empty coffee mug. It rolls across my desk, threatening to fall before I catch it with fumbling hands.
Oscar leans against my office doorframe, looking unfairly good for someone who's been in meetings all day.
He's discarded his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves to reveal tanned forearms, and loosened his tie.
A lock of black hair falls across his forehead, giving him a rumpled, approachable look.
He looks like someone just professionally styled him for the sole purpose of walking into my office and making me lose my senses.
"Someone has to make sure this place doesn't fall apart during the transition," I say.
If my tone bothers him, he doesn't show it. Instead, he takes a step into my office, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. "Mind if I join you? I'd like to go over these distribution numbers.”
The moment stretches, taut with possibility, before I break it by gesturing to the chair across from me. "Be my guest. It's your company now, after all."
We work in silence for a while, spreadsheets and projections on the monitors between us.
Despite everything, there's a comfortable familiarity to the routine.
It reminds me of late nights in college, hunched over business plans in my cramped apartment, dreaming of changing the world together.
Back then, we were fueled by ambition and cheap coffee, our friendship strengthening with each challenge we overcame.
I steal glances at him when he isn't looking, noting how kind the years have been to him.
The lanky college boy has filled out, grown more confident, more powerful.
But beneath the designer clothes and carefully cultivated image, I catch glimpses of the person I once knew — the way he absent-mindedly taps his pen when concentrating, the slight twist of his lips when something doesn't add up.
"These projections for the SoCa market seem optimistic," he says, breaking the silence and pointing at a number on the screen.
"They're based on our pilot program last quarter. We outperformed expectations by seventeen percent."
"Impressive. What was the key factor?"
"Localized marketing. We partnered with community gardens, hosted cooking classes featuring our products."
Oscar nods, genuinely interested. "Not just slapping the product on shelves and hoping for the best."
"Exactly. Rooted Pantry has always been about connection — to food sources, to communities, to each other."
"That's what drew me to the company," he admits. "You've built something authentic here, Alice."
The compliment catches me off guard. "Thanks," I mumble, suddenly very interested in straightening a stack of papers. "It wasn't just me, though. The whole team—"
"Takes a good leader," he interrupts. "And you’re the last founding member left here. Don't deflect. You should be proud."
Our eyes meet across the desk, and again I see a flash of the old Oscar, the one who believed in me, who pushed me to acknowledge my strengths. The one who was my biggest supporter before he became my biggest disappointment.
The moment stretches between us, charged with something I'm not ready to name. I clear my throat, desperate to break the tension.
"About what you overheard earlier…" I finally say, unable to bear the elephant in the room any longer.
"Sydney suggesting you have a 'thing' for me?"
I wince at his directness. "Yes. That. I just wanted to say—"
"You don't need to explain," he interrupts coolly. "I know you don't. We can move on."
“Oh. Uh… okay.”
I open my mouth, about to say more, but I don’t even know what to say.
His dismissal stings in a way I wasn't prepared for. Of course, he assumes I couldn't possibly have feelings for him. Why would I? He's the man who walked away from our dreams, who betrayed my trust, who—
Who still makes my pulse quicken when he looks at me.
The realization is as unwelcome as it is undeniable. Somewhere beneath the layers of hurt and resentment, a part of me still responds to him. A part I've tried very hard to silence for twelve years.
"Right," I say, my voice sounding strained. "Good. I'm glad that's… clear."
Oscar returns his attention to the reports, apparently untroubled by the conversation we've just had. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here having an existential crisis over feelings I shouldn't be having for a man I shouldn't want.
God, this is ridiculous. I'm acting like a lovesick teenager instead of a professional adult. I need to get away from him before I do something stupid — like ask why he's so certain I don't have feelings for him, or worse, confirm Sydney's suspicions.
"I should go," I say abruptly, gathering my things with trembling hands. "It's late."
Oscar glances at his watch. "It's only six-thirty."
"I have… plans." The lie sounds hollow even to my ears. “I need to… feed my cat.”
God. Did I seriously just say that? I couldn’t even make the lie a good one, like I have a date or something.
“I thought you were allergic to cats.”
“That’s what antihistamines are for.” I avoid his eyes while searching for a good name for my fictional cat in case he asks.
"Of course. Don't let me keep you. Can we finish reviewing these tomorrow. Maybe over lunch?"
The suggestion of extending our time together sends a jolt of panic through me. "I can't. I have a lunch meeting with the marketing team."
"Dinner, then?"
"I don't think that's a good idea," I say, too quickly.
Oscar leans back in his chair, studying me with those penetrating eyes. "Why not? It's just a business dinner, Alice."
Is it, though? Something about the way he's looking at me suggests otherwise. Or maybe that's just my imagination, tainted by Sydney's romantic notions and my own confusing feelings.
"I prefer to keep work and meals separate," I lie, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Gives my digestive system a break from spreadsheets."
He chuckles, the sound tantalizingly erotic. "Always quick with a comeback. That hasn't changed."
What has changed, I want to ask, but don't. Because I'm afraid of the answer. Afraid that too much has changed, or worse, that not enough has.
"Good night, Oscar," I say, moving toward the door.
"Alice," he calls after me, his voice stopping me in my tracks. "For what it's worth, I meant what I said this morning. I value your vision for this company. That's not just talk."
I don’t turn back. I just nod, already knowing his gaze is on me, and then leave the room.
Only when I'm safely enclosed in the elevator, doors sliding shut on the image of him still sitting at my desk, do I let out the breath I've been holding in.
My reflection in the mirrored wall looks back at me accusingly — flushed cheeks, bright eyes, a woman clearly affected by the man she just left.
"It's nothing," I tell my reflection as the elevator descends. "Just… residual feelings. Old history resurfacing. It doesn't mean anything."
But as I walk out into the cool Seattle evening, Oscar still very much fills my mind’s eye.
This is absurd. I've spent years building a life without him. Years convincing myself that I’m better off without him, that it’s good that he showed his true colors early on. Years telling myself that I'm immune to his influence.
One week in his presence and I'm coming undone.
I start the car engine, desperate to put as much distance between us as possible. Distance is the only thing that will clear my head. Distance and time… and maybe a very large glass of wine.
Because I absolutely, positively do not have a thing for Oscar. I can’t. I won’t.
At least that's what I keep telling myself as I drive away from Rooted Pantry — and him — as fast as legally possible.