Chapter 4 #3
“I know who you are,” she says, laughing.
She pulls out her phone, already swiping through screens.
“The Dominion’s PR team reached out this morning.
Mentioned you’d started your outreach program and that it might make a nice human-interest piece.
Community involvement, local businesses, all that good stuff.
” She looks around the shop, already framing shots with her hands.
“This place is gorgeous. Super photogenic.”
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure they can both hear it. PR team. Reached out. Human-interest piece.
“Wait,” I manage, my voice coming out strangled. “The team called you?”
Melissa nods, still smiling. “This morning. They’re really invested in getting positive press for the outreach program. Smart move, honestly. Builds goodwill, shows the players giving back.” She looks at Sawyer. “Especially after that press conference thing. No offense.”
“None taken,” Sawyer says quietly.
But he’s not looking at her. He’s looking at me.
I can feel my pulse in my throat. My hands. My chest feels too tight.
“I didn’t know they were going to do this,” Sawyer says quickly. “I swear, I had no idea—”
“Oh, it’s standard procedure,” Melissa interrupts cheerfully, oblivious. “They probably just wanted to get ahead of it. Good publicity’s good for everyone, right?” She looks at me expectantly. “Can I get a few quotes? Maybe some photos of you two together? The plants make a great backdrop.”
By some miracle, Charlie appears from the back room. He takes one look at my face and immediately steps forward. “Actually,” he says smoothly, “Juliette’s got a supplier call in about five minutes. Pretty urgent. But I’m Charlie, the shop manager. Happy to help however I can.”
Melissa’s smile falters slightly. “Oh. Well, I really was hoping to talk to the owner—”
“And she’ll be happy to connect later this week,” Charlie continues, his voice pleasant but firm. “Why don’t you leave your card? We can set something up properly.”
Melissa hesitates, glancing between me and Sawyer like she’s trying to figure out what she’s missing.
Then she shrugs, pulling a business card from her bag.
“Sure. Yeah. Just give me a call when you can.” She hands it to Charlie, then turns to Sawyer.
“Any chance I could get a quick quote from you? Just about what you’re hoping to learn from the experience? ”
“It’s my first day with this business.” Sawyer’s jaw tightens. “I think I’d rather wait until Juliette and I have had a chance to talk about how we want to handle press. If that’s okay.”
Melissa furrows her brow, clearly not expecting pushback. “Oh. Okay. Sure.” She glances around one more time, then heads for the door. “I’ll be in touch!”
The bell chimes as she leaves and we’re in silence once more. I’m still standing behind the counter, hands braced against the wood like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
Sawyer takes a step toward me. “Juliette—”
“A reporter,” I say flatly. “Why wouldn’t anyone let me know they were coming?”
Sawyer shakes his head. “Hey, I didn’t even know that was going to happen. They usually like to prep us, I swear.”
I put a hand on my hip. “But it sounds like your team or PR or whatever did know.”
He stops, considering things. “It sounds like it.”
“They called a reporter.” My voice sounds distant, like it’s coming from someone else. “Without asking me. Without warning me. I’m sorry, but it’s unprofessional.”
“I’ll call them,” Sawyer says quickly. “Right now. I’ll tell them they can’t do that again. They need permission. Your permission.”
When I allow my eyes to meet his, I can see the genuine distress on his face. The way he’s standing there like he wants to fix this but doesn’t know how.
This is what “partnership” with a professional athlete means.
Publicity. Attention. Reporters showing up unannounced because someone decided it would make good PR, a great story for the papers.
Most people would be okay with this. How were they to know I’m skittish about this stuff?
Thanks to my own trauma, reporters can trigger me if I’m not handled with a little care?
“They’re going to keep stopping by,” I say quietly.
“Not if I tell them to stop—”
“Sawyer.” I shake my head. “This is what you do. This is your world. Cameras. Interviews. People wanting a piece of you.” I gesture vaguely at the shop, at myself. “This is mine. A little spot of my own that is currently under a microscope for a business grant.”
He doesn’t say anything, he just listens. If he only knew about the reporters that camped outside that very door after Jumbotron-gate.
“And now—” I stop, because finishing that sentence feels like admitting too much.
I went through something that showed me most people’s memories do indeed have an expiration date.
People will move on from one dumpster fire in the media to another, and swiftly; however, I don’t know how I feel about the fact someone could connect the dots, pull up old articles, remember the Kiss Cam disaster and the viral humiliation and—
“Hey.” Sawyer’s voice cuts through the spiral. “Hold on. Take a breath.”
As he says the words, I realize I’m not breathing. I haven’t been. My chest is tight and my vision’s fuzzing at the edges and—
“Juliette.” Charlie’s beside me now, hand on my shoulder. “Sit down.”
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“You’re not fine,” Charlie says gently. “You’re pushing yourself into a panic attack again, and you don’t want Theo to witness it. It’s okay, we just need to calm your nervous system.”
I sink onto the stool behind the counter, head in my hands, taking measured breaths in and out.
Sawyer stands in front of me, looking like he's been punched. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I manage.
“It kind of is.” He’s quiet for a long moment before he speaks again. “What do you need?”
The question catches me off guard.
“What do I need?” I repeat.
“Yeah. Right now. What would help?”
I stare at him as Charlie rubs my shoulders. At this man who showed up with coffee and good intentions, but has now accidentally shoved my carefully controlled life into the path of a spotlight I’ve spent three years avoiding.
“I need you to make sure that doesn’t happen again. Not without me knowing first.”
“Done,” he says immediately. “I’ll call the team right now. I’ll tell them any press has to go through you or Charlie. No exceptions.”
I want to believe him. Oh boy, I want to believe him. But I’ve learned the hard way that good intentions don’t stop the world from spinning out of control.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Sawyer pulls out his phone, already dialing. He steps toward the door, giving me space, his voice low as he starts talking to someone on the other end.
Charlie crouches beside me. “You okay?”
“No,” I admit.
“Fair.” He pauses for a beat. “You want me to tell him to leave?”
I look at Sawyer’s back. At the tension in his shoulders.
The way he gestures emphatically, clearly arguing with whoever’s on the phone.
I should be honored that he’s fighting for me, for the store, but the embarrassment of a near panic attack on his first day with us is starting to crowd that thought out.
“No,” I say finally. “Not yet.”
“But maybe eventually?”
I close my eyes. “I don’t know.”
And that’s the scariest part. Because for a few minutes there—standing with him, reviewing paperwork, letting myself imagine that maybe this could actually help—I’d let my guard down.
I’d let myself hope.
And hope, I’ve learned, is the most dangerous thing of all.