Chapter 9 Sloane
Chapter nine
Sloane
“No.”
Paige laughs at the dress in my hands. “Even I wouldn’t wear that on a date.”
“That’s not a no,” she adds, immediately. “That’s a cry for help.”
I’m standing in my bedroom holding up a dress I absolutely do own but only take out when I’m alone and feeling reckless.
Paige lounges on my bed like she’s here to supervise a reality makeover episode, while Nancy sits cross-legged on the floor with a glass of wine, observing us like we’re a fascinating social experiment.
“It’s a charity dinner,” I say. “Not a date.”
Paige points at the dress. “That dress is a felony.”
“It’s aspirational,” I say. “You know. Appropriate if I were interviewing at a strip club.”
Nancy nods her head. “It’s whispering something.”
Paige nods. “Threateningly.”
I giggle and drop the dress onto the bed and reach for something safer. Something neutral. Something that says competent adult woman who knows how to keep a situation firmly in bounds.
“This,” I say, holding up a soft black top.
Paige groans. “You wear that to meetings.”
“I wear it to important meetings,” I correct.
“And yet,” Nancy says, taking a sip of her wine, “you didn't wear it on stage last night.”
“That was different.”
“Because?” Paige prompts.
“Because there were cameras,” I say.
Paige blinks. “There will be cameras tonight.”
“Different cameras,” I say, even though that argument collapses immediately under scrutiny.
My phone buzzes on the dresser, like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
PR: Car service scheduled for 6:45. Cameras on arrival. Fifteen-minute window. Will follow up with dinner details momentarily.
I don’t react.
I definitely don’t feel my stomach tighten.
Nancy glances up. “That’s the face you make when you’re about to say everything’s fine and then reorganize a pantry.”
“Everything is fine,” I say. “This is an assignment. A public-facing charity engagement.”
Paige grins. “You’re going on a date.”
“I’m absolutely not.”
Nancy sets her glass down and points at me. “You’re going to dinner with an attractive man you chose.”
“For professional reasons.”
“You didn’t choose the most professional option,” Nancy says mildly.
I pause.
Paige’s eyes light up. “Oh my God. She’s right.”
“She’s not,” I say.
“Mason would’ve been easier,” Nancy continues, unbothered. “So would Gregory. Predictable. On-script. Safe.”
“I chose Colby because he was appropriate.”
Paige snorts. “You chose Colby because you liked him the best.”
“That’s not…”
“He didn’t sell himself,” Paige says. “He didn’t flirt. He didn’t posture.”
Nancy nods. “He was intriguing and that's hot.”
I open my mouth to argue and realize I don’t actually have a rebuttal.
“I chose him because he respected the format,” I say instead.
“And now you’re standing in your bedroom debating whether to wear Meeting Black or Something With a Neckline,” Paige says.
I look down at what I’m holding.
It is, objectively, Meeting Black.
I sigh and swap it for something softer. Still appropriate. Still composed. But not armor.
“There,” I say. “Compromise.” Pink V-neck sweater. Black pants. Soft enough to feel human, structured enough to feel competent.
Paige claps. “V-necks mean you’re open,” she announces. “She’s doing a tiny bit a date, everyone!”
“It’s not a date,” I say out loud.
Inside, my brain quietly amends that statement.
Okay. Maybe a tiny bit a date.
My phone buzzes again.
PR: Dinner is confirmed at The Finch. Cameras on arrival and first course.
I stare at the screen for half a second longer than necessary.
“That’s smart,” I say.
Paige raises a brow. “You say that like you’re relieved.”
“I like knowing the parameters,” I say. “Timing. Cameras. When I’m officially on.”
Nancy smiles faintly. “You like knowing control points.”
I ignore that and reach for my shoes.
Paige hops off the bed and pulls me into a hug. “You’re going to be great.”
“I know.”
“You’re allowed to enjoy it.”
“I am enjoying it,” I say, which is technically true. I enjoy being prepared. I enjoy having a plan. I enjoy not being surprised.
Nancy stands and smooths my sleeve, precise as always. “Just remember, you don’t owe anyone a performance.”
That lands harder than I expect.
***
The car pulls up outside right on time.
I grab my coat, take one last look in the mirror, and straighten my shoulders.
This is controlled.
This is contained.
This is… not exactly a date.
The Nashville air is sharp when I step outside, winter biting just enough to keep me alert. Cameras are already positioned, discreet but present. I school my expression into something calm, pleasant and practiced.
The car door opens. I slide in, composed.
As we pull away, my reflection stares back at me in the tinted glass.
I look like I have everything handled.
In about 20 minutes, the restaurant comes into view, warm lights glowing against the cold. I step out, coat on, posture set.
And then I see him.
Colby Hayes is waiting near the entrance, hands in his pockets, relaxed like this isn’t being tracked, timed, and archived.
He looks up.
Our eyes meet.
And my body reacts before my brain can intervene.
Not nerves.
Recognition.
I smooth it out immediately, step forward, remind myself of the plan.
But as I walk toward him, I have the very inconvenient thought that this is already more than I planned for.
He smiles when he sees me, easy and unforced, like this is exactly where he expected to be.
“Hey,” he says.
It’s simple. Not performative. Not loud. Just… there.
“Hey,” I answer, matching it, because suddenly anything clever feels like it would overshoot the moment.
The cameras click to life immediately, subtle but present, and I feel myself slide into place. Posture. Expression. The version of me that knows how to exist under observation.
Colby turns slightly, angling his body toward me in a way that keeps me centered but doesn’t block the cameras. It’s instinctive. Or practiced. Or both.
“You ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say, which is true in the technical sense.
We step inside together, warmth replacing the cold, sound softening into low conversation and clinking glassware. The Finch is exactly what I expected. It’s dim without being dark, polished without trying too hard… a place that understands restraint.
A host greets us by name. Of course he does.
We’re led to a table near the front, visible enough for the cameras to do their job, tucked just enough that it doesn’t feel like a stage. I clock the angles without thinking. Colby does the same, his gaze scanning once, twice, then settling back on me.
“You okay with this spot?” he asks quietly, before I sit.
It’s such a small thing. Such an unnecessary courtesy.
“Yes,” I say. “This is good.”
He nods, satisfied, and pulls out my chair.
I notice that he doesn’t make a thing of it. Doesn’t wait for a reaction. Just does it, then takes his own seat across from me.
The cameras hover closer as we sit. Drinks and appetizers are ordered quickly. Water first. Sensible.
“So,” he says, once we’re settled. “How’s your day going so far?”
I blink.
That’s it. That’s the opening.
“It’s been… efficient,” I say. “Which is usually a compliment.”
He smiles. “Usually?”
“Sometimes it’s code for ‘I didn’t let myself think too hard.’”
He considers that. “That tracks.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, the sound escaping a little too easily.
The cameras eat it up.
The first fifteen minutes pass exactly as planned. Charity talking points. Light anecdotes. Safe laughter. We both know when to glance toward the cameras, when to ignore them. It’s almost comforting, how smoothly it goes.
At one point, a server pauses a moment too long, clearly debating whether to ask for a photo. Colby meets his eyes and gives a small, polite nod that says not now. The server flushes and retreats.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
I notice the way he subtly shifts after, angles his shoulders, drops his gaze, redirecting the attention back to the table like it never belonged to him in the first place.
He shrugs. “Occupational hazard.”
“Still,” I say. “I appreciate it.”
“Anytime.”
The cameras finally peel away after the appetizers, PR giving a subtle signal from across the room. The air shifts immediately, like a held breath released.
I exhale without realizing I’d been holding it.