Chapter Ten
Focus
Dean
The elevator doors close with a soft hiss, and I immediately regret not taking the stairs.
Forty-three floors. Forty-three floors of thinking about vanilla and the way she laughs when George headbutts something expensive.
I check my phone. Three missed calls from Gideon. One text that reads, “WHERE ARE YOU?”
Perfect.
The elevator dings. Forty-third floor. I straighten my tie, roll my shoulders back, and remind myself why I’m here—partnership, legacy, the biggest case of my career.
Not as a wedding planner who smells like expensive candles and chaos.
I manage the elevator ride without once thinking about the way she smells and how I want to bury my face in her neck.
Well. Mostly.
I step into the familiar gray-and-glass hallway of Grant & Feldstein, nod to the receptionist, and head straight for my office.
“Whitaker!”
Gideon’s voice cuts through the hallway before I even reach my door. He’s standing outside the conference room, arms crossed, looking like a disappointed father whose kid just brought home a C-minus.
I stop. “Morning, Gideon.”
“Is it? Because according to my watch, morning was three hours ago.”
I glance at my phone. 9:47 a.m.
Shit.
“Traffic,” I say.
“From where? Connecticut?”
Close enough. “I’m here now.”
He steps closer, squinting like he’s trying to diagnose me. “You look… off.”
“I look tired.”
“No, you look annoyed. More than usual. Which is saying something, because your baseline is already pretty hostile.”
I unlock my office door. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’re wound tighter than a Swiss watch. What’s going on?”
I dump my briefcase on the desk and power up my laptop. “Nothing’s going on. I’ve got a motion to file and a client to close. Same as always.”
Gideon doesn’t move. He’s still standing in my doorway like a human roadblock.
“When’s the last time you took a vacation?”
Absurd. “I don’t take vacations.”
“When’s the last time you got laid?”
I look up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re walking around like someone who needs to either punch something or—”
“Gideon.”
“—get naked with someone who—”
“Gideon.”
He holds up his hands. “I’m just saying. Maybe delegate some of this workload. Take a long weekend. Get a massage. Find a nice woman who—”
An image flashes in my mind. Poppy. Her bare feet on the grass. Hair falling in her face as she laughs. The way she bit her bottom lip when she was thinking.
I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”
“You just twitched.”
“I didn’t twitch.”
“Your left eye twitched. Like a tell.”
This is why I hate people.
I sit down, open my laptop, and start typing. “The Morrison brief needs to be filed by five. The deposition notes need to be organized. And I’ve got a conference call with opposing counsel at two.”
Gideon leans against the doorframe. “Dean.”
“What.”
“You sure nothing’s going on at home?”
Home.
Where she’s probably reorganizing something. Singing to herself. Making lists in that careful handwriting. Where Muffin’s probably following her around like a furry stalker, and George is… God, I hope George is gone by now.
“Nothing’s going on.”
“Because if there was—say, a woman—I’d understand why you’re acting like someone stole your favorite pen.”
I stop typing. “There’s no woman.”
“Uh-huh.”
“There isn’t.”
“So you’re just naturally this tense?”
I lean back in my chair and give him the look that usually makes junior associates apologize for breathing.
It doesn’t work on Gideon.
Damn him.
“Okay,” he says, clearly unconvinced. “Well, when you’re done pretending you’re not thinking about whoever she is, Feldstein wants to see you. Conference room. Now.”
He walks away before I can argue.
I stare at my screen. The cursor blinks back at me, mocking.
There’s no woman.
There’s a wedding planner who’s temporarily disrupting my life. There’s a problem I need to solve. A distraction I need to eliminate.
That’s it.
I save the document, grab my notepad, and head for the conference room.
Feldstein is already seated when I walk in. Expensive suit, silver hair, the kind of quiet authority that makes everyone else in the room feel like they’re twelve years old.
“Dean. Sit.”
I sit.
“The Morrison case. Where are we at?”
I straighten my shoulders. “The motion’s drafted. Deposition’s scheduled for Friday. Opposing counsel’s getting desperate, so they’re stalling on discovery.”
“And you’re confident we’ll close this?”
“Yes.”
He leans back, studying me. “Good. Because if we don’t, there’s going to be a conversation about your future here. And not the kind that ends with your name on the wall.”
I nod. “Understood.”
“I hope so. Because I’ve been watching you, Dean. You’re good. Damn good. But good isn’t enough anymore. I need brilliant. I need someone who can handle the pressure, close the deal, and never let personal shit interfere with business.”
Personal shit.
Like goats. And vanilla candles. And the way she looked at me while she sipped that glass of champagne.
“There’s no personal shit,” I say.
“Glad to hear it. Because this client? He’s worth eight figures. And if we land him, you’re looking at partnership. Real partnership. Not just a promotion.”
It’s everything I’ve been working toward for over a decade.
He stands, smooths his tie, and heads for the door.
“Don’t screw this up, Dean.”
The door closes behind him with a soft click.
I sit there for a minute, staring at the conference table. Eight figures. Partnership. Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve wanted.
I pull out my phone and check the time. It’s just past ten.
I wonder what she’s doing right now. If she’s fixed whatever George broke. If she’s still barefoot on the lawn, making everything look effortless.
I wonder if she’s thought about me at all.
Then I remember where I am. Who I am. What’s at stake.
I put the phone away and get back to work.
By four o’clock, I’ve written sixteen pages of legalese, fielded twelve phone calls, and consumed enough coffee to power a small city.
I’ve also thought about Poppy exactly… let’s call it zero times. Sure.
If you don’t count the moment I caught myself wondering if she’d eaten lunch.
Or the time I imagined her reaction to Gideon’s massage comment.
Okay, fine. I’ve thought about her more than zero times.
But not enough to matter. Not enough to interfere with work.
I’m in the middle of reviewing case precedent when my phone buzzes.
Text message.
Unknown number.
My stomach does something weird.
I open it.
POPPY: George update: FINALLY picked up. Your lawn is safe. Also, Muffin misses you. She’s been sitting by the front door for an hour.
A picture follows. Muffin, pressed against the glass door, looking tragically abandoned. I stare at the photo longer than I should.
Then I type back: Good. About George, not Muffin.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
POPPY: She’s really committed to this heartbreak thing. Very dramatic.
DEAN: She’s dramatic about everything.
POPPY: Wonder where she gets that from.
I almost smile. Almost.
DEAN: How did you get this number?
POPPY: Mason. Hope that’s okay.
It’s not okay. It’s the opposite of okay. Because now she can text me whenever she wants, and I’ll probably answer, and that’s exactly the kind of personal shit Feldstein was talking about.
DEAN: Fine.
POPPY: Such enthusiasm. I’m swooning.
I put the phone down. Face down. Like that’ll help.
It buzzes again.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
I flip it over.
POPPY: Also, quick question about tomorrow’s delivery schedule…
Work. It’s about work. I can answer work questions.
DEAN: What about it?
POPPY: The florist needs access to the kitchen for water. Is that okay?
DEAN: Yes.
POPPY: And the caterer wants to do a walk-through at 8 a.m.
DEAN: Fine.
POPPY: You’re really not a morning person, are you?
DEAN: I’m a person who likes advance notice.
POPPY: Noted. I’ll send you a detailed itinerary.
DEAN: Please don’t.
POPPY: Too late. Already making it.
Of course she is.
DEAN: Color-coded?
POPPY: Obviously. What do you take me for, an amateur?
This time I do smile. Just a little. And that’s the problem.
I put the phone in my desk drawer and lock it.
I’ve got two hours to finish this motion. Two hours to prove I’m partnership material. Two hours to focus on what actually matters.
Not vanilla candles.
Not color-coded itineraries.
And definitely not the way she says my name like it’s a challenge and a promise at the same time.
I open a new document and start typing.
The phone buzzes from inside the drawer.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
I keep typing.
The third buzz breaks me.
I unlock the drawer and check the message.
POPPY: Your brother says you play piano. True or false?
I stare at the text.
Why does she want to know?
Why does it matter?
Why am I already typing back?
DEAN: True.
POPPY: What kind of music?
DEAN: Classical mostly. Some jazz.
POPPY: That’s… actually really sexy.
I stop breathing.
Did she just—
My phone rings. Gideon’s name is on the screen.
I answer on the second ring, my voice rougher than it should be.
“What?”
“Feldstein wants to see you. Again. Now.”
I clear my throat. “On my way.”
I hang up, shove the phone back in the drawer, and head for the conference room.
But I can’t stop thinking about that word.
Sexy.
She thinks I’m sexy.
And that’s exactly the kind of personal shit that’s going to ruin everything.