Chapter 7
OSCAR
"The seafood station needs to be at least six feet from the bar," I instruct the catering manager, gesturing to the far end of my expansive backyard deck. "And make sure the ice sculptures don't get direct sunlight."
The manager nods, making notes on her tablet. "Of course, Mr. Glynn.”
I check my watch, noting we have just under fifteen minutes before guests arrive. "And let's add more lanterns along the path from the driveway."
She hurries off to direct her team, and I scan the transformation taking place around me.
My Seattle home sits on a prime slice of waterfront property with clear views of Lake Washington, and the sprawling backyard, normally a serene retreat, is now a hive of activity as event staff prepare for the Rooted Pantry acquisition celebration.
White linen-covered tables dot the manicured lawn. A small stage has been set up for the jazz quartet. Bartenders stock three separate bars with top-shelf liquor, local craft beers, and an impressive wine selection.
It's going to be perfect — it has to be.
"This seems excessive for a casual corporate event," Cole remarks, appearing at my side with a glass of sparkling water in hand. "The Rooted Pantry team is what, thirty people total?"
"It's not just for them," I reply, accepting the water gratefully. "I've invited key distributors, retail partners, investors. It's a networking opportunity."
Cole raises an eyebrow. "Right. So it’s for all of them… not for-”
I shoot him a warning glance, already knowing whose name he was going to say. "This is about establishing goodwill with the entire company. If the employees feel valued, the transition will be smoother."
"Uh-huh." He takes a casual sip of his water. "That's why you've personally approved every detail down to the specific shade of the napkins."
"The napkins are branded with the Rooted Pantry logo," I counter, though I can feel heat rising to my face. "It's just attention to detail."
"Whatever you say, boss." He grins.
I wave him off, annoyed at how transparent I apparently am. Yes, I want to impress Alice. So what? She's my COO and having her on my side will make running Rooted Pantry infinitely easier. That's all this is — a pragmatic business decision.
At least that's what I keep telling myself as I adjust the placement of the floral centerpieces for the third time.
The truth is, I haven't stopped thinking about Alice since our late night at the office last week.
The way she seemed tongue tied after I dismissed Sydney's comment about her having feelings for me.
I'd meant to make her feel more comfortable, to take the pressure off, but something in her reaction made me wonder if I'd misread the situation entirely.
Not that it matters. Alice made it clear twelve years ago that she doesn’t see me as anything more than a business partner. The rejection stung enough the first time; I'm not eager for a repeat performance.
Tearing myself away from the centerpieces, and my hounding thoughts, I find the first guests are arriving. It’s mostly Rooted Pantry employees, arriving together in small groups. I greet everyone by name, having made getting to know each person a priority in the first week.
As more guests filter in, the party begins to take on a life of its own. The jazz quartet plays softly in the background, conversation and laughter fill the air, and the golden Seattle sunset casts everything in a warm glow. It's exactly the atmosphere I'd hoped for.
And then I see her.
Alice arrives alone, pausing at the entrance to the backyard. She's wearing a casual, floral dress that falls just below her knees, her brown hair swept into an elegant updo. Simple gold earrings catch the light when she turns her head, surveying the party.
She looks beautiful and completely out of place among everyone else on Earth. An angel among mortals.
I make my way toward her, weaving through clusters of guests.
"You made it," I say as I reach her, trying to sound casually pleased rather than desperately relieved. I was nervous that she might decide to skip the event after all.
"I said I would." Her expression is guarded but not hostile. Progress, perhaps.
"Can I get you a drink?" I offer, nodding toward the nearest bar.
"Sure. A gin and tonic, please.”
The bartender is quick with our drinks, and I see Alice smirk when I order the same cocktail as her. She probably thinks it’s another attempt at ingratiation.
Well… she’d be right.
"Quite the party," she remarks, taking a small sip. "Your home is beautiful."
"Thank you. I don't entertain often, so it's nice to put the space to use."
She takes in the lakefront view, the carefully landscaped gardens. "It must get lonely, all this space for one person."
The observation catches me off guard. "I suppose it can be. I'm not home much, to be honest."
"Too busy with work?" There's no bite to her words, just quiet curiosity.
“It’s… kind of all I know.” I stuff my free hand into a pants’ pocket. “When you spend years having to focus on your career, not having time for anything else… it can be hard to shift gears later on.”
Her gaze lingers on me, and she finally nods. “I understand completely.”
For a moment, I think we might have a real conversation — about the past, about the choices we've made, about the lives we've built separately. But then Sydney appears, her arm linked with a tall man I don’t recognize.
"Alice! Oscar! This is Derek."
The moment breaks, and we're pulled back into the usual party small talk.
I watch Alice slip into professional mode, explaining Rooted Pantry's history to Sydney’s date with practiced ease.
She's good with people, always has been.
It was one of the things that made us such effective partners back in college.
I handled the numbers and strategy; she handled the human element.
As the afternoon slowly turns into evening, I circulate among the guests, making sure everyone has what they need. But I can't help tracking Alice's movements from the corner of my eye, taking note of every step she takes, every person she speaks to.
What I don’t expect is for her to step onto the stage while the quartet is taking a break, to adjust the microphone to her height, and command the attention of everyone on the property.
"If I could have everyone's attention for a moment," she calls, her voice carrying across the yard.
The chatter dies down as guests turn toward her. I move closer, a moth to a flame.
"I wanted to take a moment to thank our host," Alice continues, raising her glass slightly in my direction. "Many of you know that I wasn't initially thrilled about this acquisition."
A ripple of knowing laughter passes through the Rooted Pantry employees.
"But in the past week, I've been reminded that change isn't always a bad thing." Her eyes find mine in the crowd. "Oscar has promised to honor the vision and values that make Rooted Pantry special, and that's more than I expected. So, here's to new beginnings and successful partnerships."
Murmurs of agreement and the clinking of glasses follow her toast. I'm frozen in place, stunned by this unexpected olive branch. When our eyes meet across the crowded yard, she gives me a small, genuine smile — the first since I walked back into her life.
Before I can respond, someone suggests a game — a corn hole ‘tournament’, and people quickly begin organizing themselves into groups.
"Alice, you're with me," I hear Sydney declare, grabbing her friend's arm. "Oscar, you too!"
“What’s the prize?” someone calls out.
People laugh. “Satisfaction,” Mike from HR says.
We redirect our focus to the game, but something has changed. The tension between myself and Alice has transformed from hostile to something else entirely — something complicated and dangerous… and thrilling.
I want to talk to her about what she said, tell her how much it moved me, but we’re surrounded by people, and my throat is thick with emotion. Did she really mean all of that, or is she only trying to butter me up?
I’m well aware that I shouldn’t care, that reading into things won’t get me anywhere. Still, it’s a nice, comfy fantasy, thinking that she might actually like me now.
By the time our team is declared the winner, the sun has set completely. String lights twinkle overhead, creating a canopy of stars. The jazz quartet has shifted to more upbeat numbers, and several couples have begun dancing on the small area cleared for that purpose.
Sydney drags her date toward the dance floor, and Alice and I are left alone, standing close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.
"Thank you for the toast earlier," I say, turning to face her. "It was unexpected."
She shrugs, the movement elegant and delicate. "It was sincere. You've been… different than I expected."
"Different good or different bad?"
"I'm still deciding." The corners of her mouth lift in a small smile. "But I'm leaning toward good."
It's not forgiveness, not even close. But it's a start — more than I dared hope for when I sent out the party invitations.
As we stand together under the string lights, watching our employees celebrate, I allow myself to imagine, just for a moment, a world where Alice and I find our way back to being partners in the truest sense of the word.
It's a dangerous thought, one that I would caution any friend against entertaining.
But as Alice gives me another smile, and we stand side by side, swaying to the music, I can't bring myself to care about what's smart or sensible.
Not one bit.