Chapter 8
ALICE
Maybe it’s the liquor. Maybe it’s the romantic atmosphere, courtesy of the string lights, the music, and the gentle breeze coming off the lake.
Whatever the reason, the sun has barely set when I find myself on the dance floor with an unlikely partner.
"You're not as terrible a dancer as you were in college," I tease Oscar, letting him spin me under his arm.
His laugh is rich and uninhibited. "I've had practice since then."
Of course he has. With the finest teachers?
Maybe. There’s little left that he can’t buy.
I try to imagine his life during our twelve years apart, where he’s gone, what he’s learned, who he was with. It’s like trying to imagine an alien world, though, and every time I make the attempt, I come up short.
But does it really matter? We’re here now, and things are – oddly enough – working out.
The week of tension since the acquisition seems to have melted away beneath the summer night sky, replaced by something that feels dangerously like nostalgia. I did the right thing with my speech, which wasn’t impulsive, but rather something I had thought about for hours today.
Oscar clearly doesn’t hold any ill will toward me, so, despite what he did, I realize it’s up to me to make things better between us. He promised to give me creative say in the company, and this is what I can give him in return: a peace offering.
So far, it seems to be working very well.
"I'm glad you came tonight," Oscar says, his voice dropping lower. "I wasn't sure you would."
"And miss free champagne? Please." I roll my eyes, but only to avoid looking straight at him. "You know how to throw a good party, I'll give you that."
The song shifts to something slower, and Oscar's hand slides to the small of my back, a whisper of pressure that sends an unwelcome shiver up my spine. It’s only natural to stand this close while slow-dancing, but it makes it hard to remember how to breathe properly.
Around us, our coworkers dance and mingle, some casting curious glances our way.
How much of the story they have, I’m not sure.
Nor do I want to distract myself from my work by getting caught up in possible rumors or trying to prove something to people.
I’ve always let a job well done speak for my character.
"Want another drink?" Oscar asks as the song ends. "The specialty of the night is 20th Centuries.”
“I have no idea what that is, but sure.”
"I promise you’ll like it.”
“Oh, yeah?” I raise an eyebrow. “What makes you so sure.”
"Gin. Lemon juice. Creme de cacao. Unless you no longer like those things…”
I bite into my smile. Nope. He’s nailed me.
Oscar weaves through the crowd toward one of the several bars set up around the property, and I watch him go, unable to deny that he cuts an impressive figure in his tailored suit.
The man knows how to dress now; I'll give him that.
Gone are the days of hoodies and jeans that hung too loose on his lanky frame.
In fact, he’s also clearly not lanky anymore. He’s filled out with strong, compact muscles.
Needing to distract myself from the pointless thoughts about his body, I take a moment to look around at his estate.
The sprawling lakefront property must have cost a fortune, with its perfectly landscaped gardens, infinity pool that appears to merge with the lake beyond, and the sleek, modern mansion that looks like something out of an architectural magazine.
It's beautiful, undeniably, but also a reminder of how far Oscar has come — and how far apart our lives have grown.
"Well, well, well." Sydney materializes at my side, her red curls bouncing. "Look who's dancing with the enemy."
"It's just a dance," I say, but even I can hear how defensive I sound.
"Mmhmm." She sips her drink, eyes sparkling with mischief. "And that was just drool on your chin."
"I was not drooling!"
"Nearly." She bumps her shoulder against mine. "I haven't seen you look at someone like that since… hm… never."
I scoff, but there's a fluttering in my stomach I'm trying very hard to ignore. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm just… making an effort. For the company."
"Sure, sure. For the company."
"Have you seen this place?" I gesture around us. "It's like he's compensating for something."
Sydney laughs. "Maybe he is. Why don't you find out?"
I open my mouth to protest, when Oscar returns, balancing three drinks in his hands.
"I figured I'd grab one for you too, Sydney," he says, extending a glass to her.
"My hero." Sydney accepts it with a grin. "I was just telling Alice how impressive the party is. You've really gone all out."
“Thank you. Everyone deserves a good time after all the upheaval lately. Will you be at the team building game tomorrow?"
“Of course.” She smiles wide. I know for a fact that she would rather drink tar than go to a team-building exercise, but what else are we supposed to do?
Another song starts, and Sydney is drawn back to the dance floor, leaving Oscar and me alone once more. The drink he’s brought me is sweet and strong, and sipping it makes me feel pleasantly warm.
“Tonight is really nice,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
I can feel his eyes on me, and that alone makes me too flustered to look his way.
“Thank you again for what you said earlier,” he says softly, his voice breaking at the end.
“I… I think I’ve maybe been unfair to you.” I finally get the courage to turn and look at him, but as I do I lose my balance slightly, my heel catching in the grass.
My cocktail glass slips from my hand, shattering against one of the stone pavers that form a path across the lawn.
"Shit!" I drop to my knees without thinking, reaching to pick up the larger shards.
"Alice, don't—" Oscar starts, but it's too late. A sharp pain slices across my palm as a piece of glass cuts deep.
I pull my hand back, watching blood well up and spill across my skin. The cut on my palm isn’t deep or serious, but it’s bleeding and I feel like an idiot.
Oscar is kneeling beside me in an instant, his face tight with concern. "Let me see."
"It's fine," I insist, but he's already taking my wrist gently, examining the cut in the dim light.
"That's going to need cleaning," he says, his voice firm. "Come inside. I have a first aid kit."
"Really, it's not that bad—"
"Alice." His tone brooks no argument. "You're bleeding all over your dress. Let me help."
I glance down and see that he's right — drops of blood are already staining the fabric of my cocktail dress. “Okay,” I agree. “Thank you.”
Oscar helps me to my feet, his hand warm and steady at my elbow. Sliding glass doors take us into a kitchen that's all gleaming stainless steel and white marble. It's bigger than my entire apartment and looks like it's barely been used.
"Do you ever actually cook in here?" I ask, momentarily distracted from the pain.
Oscar's lips curl upwards. "Occasionally. When I have time. My cook makes most of the meals, and she keeps the place spotless." He guides me to one of the barstools at the enormous island. "Wait here."
He disappears down a hallway and returns a minute later with a sleek first aid kit.
"That's a serious kit," I observe as he opens it to reveal neatly organized supplies.
"I like to be prepared." He pulls up another stool to sit directly in front of me, taking my injured hand in his. "This might sting a bit."
He works with gentle efficiency, cleaning the cut with antiseptic that makes me hiss through my teeth.
The kitchen is mostly dark, lit only by under-cabinet lights that cast Oscar’s features in warm gold and shadow.
I find myself studying him — the strong line of his jaw now dusted with carefully maintained stubble, the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes that weren't there in college, the way his lips press together in concentration.
He's aged well, damn him.
"Almost done," he says, reaching for a tube of antibiotic ointment. His fingers are surprisingly gentle as he applies it to the cut.
As he wraps the bandage around my palm, I'm struck by how surreal this moment feels — being here with him, a man who had such a profound impact on my life in more ways than one and who I assumed I would never see again.
If someone had told me a month ago that this would happen, I'd have laughed in their face.
"There," he says, securing the bandage with medical tape. "Good as new."
But he doesn't let go of my hand, and I don't pull away. We sit like that for a beat too long, his fingers warm against my skin, his eyes on mine.
"Thank you," I say, my voice coming out softer than I intended.
"Anytime." His thumb brushes lightly over my wrist, and I feel my pulse jump in response. "Though maybe try not to make a habit of picking up broken glass."
I laugh quietly. "I'll do my best."
Through the windows, I can see the party continuing on the lawn, the guests now just silhouettes against the backdrop of the lake. The glass walls make it feel like we're still outside, but in our own private bubble, separated from the rest of the world.
It would be so easy to lean forward, to close the small distance between us.
The thought comes unbidden, and I'm not sure if it's the alcohol or the intimacy of the moment, or just years of pent-up feelings finally breaking through, but suddenly I'm wondering what it would be like to kiss Oscar, not as the college kids we once were, but as the adults we've become.
Does he still feel something for me? The way he's looking at me, I think he might.
Maybe… maybe there's a chance for us to start over. To try again, but differently this time. Without the misunderstandings and hurt feelings that tore us apart before.
"Alice," he says, his voice low, and I can tell he's feeling it too — this strange current running between us.
"Yes?" My heart is hammering against my ribs.
He hesitates, then smiles — that boyish, genuine smile I remember so well. "I'm really glad you're here. Working with you again, even with all the bickering… it feels right."
A warm flush spreads through me. "It does, doesn't it? Despite everything."
"I think we make a good team. We always did."
"When we're not at each other's throats," I add with a small laugh.
"Even then." His eyes crinkle. "No one challenges me like you do. It's… refreshing."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. "Glad to be of service."
"I mean it." His expression grows more serious. "These past few years, I've been surrounded by yes-men. People are too afraid to tell me when my ideas suck."
"Well, you know me. Never been afraid to tell you when you're being an idiot."
He laughs. "Exactly. And that's what Rooted Pantry needs — what I need.
Someone who isn't afraid to push back." His eyes are bright with enthusiasm now.
"I can't wait to get the latest sales report tomorrow.
I've got some ideas I want to run by you — ways we could optimize distribution channels in the northeast, especially. "
And just like that, the spell is broken.
"The sales report," I repeat, my voice sounding robotic.
Oscar doesn't seem to notice the shift. "Yeah, I've been looking at the numbers, and your recent plans, and–"
I slowly withdraw my hand from his. "You can’t stop thinking about work, can you?”
He blinks, confusion crossing his face. "I… I want your input.”
"My input." I stand up, suddenly needing some distance. "Right."
"Alice?" He stands too, frowning now. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I force a smile that feels brittle on my face. "Just remembering who I'm dealing with."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
I gesture vaguely with my bandaged hand. "This. You. Talking about sales reports and profit margins in the middle of—" I cut myself off, not sure how to describe what was happening between us a moment ago.
"In the middle of what?" His voice has a challenging edge now.
Damn. So, I imagined it. We weren’t having a moment after all.
"Nothing. Forget it." I move toward the glass doors. "We should get back to the party. People will wonder where we've gone."
"Let them wonder." He steps into my path. "What were you going to say, Alice?"
I meet his gaze, conflicted. Part of me wants to brush this off, to go back outside and pretend this moment never happened. But another part — the part that's still angry after all these years — wants this confrontation.
“Nothing.” I wave my hand. “Forget about it. It wasn’t important.”
I let my guard down, let myself get lost in some unrealistic fantasy. I won’t blame it on the alcohol, because that just brought to the surface what I was already feeling. Sydney is right – I do have a thing for Oscar.
And if I know what’s good for myself, I’ll stuff those feelings deep, deep down, into the darkest place they can go.
Oscar might have liked me at one point, but it’s clear that his true love is the bottom line. That’s probably why he left Organic Now — he didn’t think it would rake in the money he was so hungry for. And even tonight, during off-hours in this dark kitchen, all he can think about is work.
The truth is there’s no room for competition.
Without another word, I turn and walk out onto the patio, leaving Oscar alone in his beautiful, empty mansion.