Her doubt is valid. After starting two kitchen fires at her and Mallory’s house in college, I was banned from touching any appliances that weren’t the fridge or water filter. I may not have inherited the cooking gene, but Mom has the best peach cobbler recipe and isn’t afraid of me starting a little fire.
I laugh. “I’ve changed a lot since college.”
“Yeah. I know.” Hurt simmers beneath her composed tone. She must hear it too because she clears her throat. “Thank you, Cade.”
Kenneth, my saving grace, claps and begins serving dessert. Over everyone’s heads, he gives me a look.I’m here for you,it says. I hold my hands in a heart above my head. For the rest of the evening, he doesn’t leave my side.
There are a lot of reasons to be happy, but being back with them is at the top of the list.
Chapter Seven
Did you know procrastinationkills forty people a year?
I’m kidding. There’s no definitive statistic, but I bet there’s been at least one death a year, and it isn’t going to be me. Which is why I’m sitting in my car twenty minutes before my first meeting with Cade.
When we stopped talking nearly two years ago, I assumed the worst thing that would happen would be walking down the aisle together when Mallory and Kenneth get married. I never thought I’d have to work with him and act like I didn’t know personal things about him. Like how he’s deathly afraid of caterpillars and butterflies. Or how his sister calls him C.C., even though it reminds him of his dad. Or how the stubble along his jaw felt against my neck, collarbones, and between my—
A robotic screech pulls me from memory lane. It’s ear splitting, but the assigned ringtone was chosen because the person calling me is likely to be crying when I answer.
“Morning, Holly,” I say. Grabbing the basket in my backseat, I start down the sidewalk.
Holly Trent, my adorably needy client, wails, “She didn’t know about the letters! All this time, he thought she was ignoring him. Isn’t thatheartbreaking? I’d cut ties with my mother if she cockblocked me like that.”
Ah. She watchedThe Notebook.
Holly’s pre-game routine is unique. She’s convinced that if she doesn’t cry before a game, she’ll be more vicious than usual. Even though I’m an agent who believes in stats and metrics, her theory has proven to be true. Earlier this season, she watchedThe Last Song,sure it would make her sob. It didn’t, and she ended up with a red card. Following that debacle, I sent her my list of the saddest movies I could think of. I’m twelve for twelve on Holly’s tears.
“You and your weird rituals. Remind me why I work with you?”
She tuts. “Because your office is full of dicks, literally and figuratively, but you listened.”
Holly was my first client, signed a week after I became a full-time agent. After tearing her ACL in a pickup basketball game, Holly went from high-profile star to forgotten. She lost her agent, interested teams, and potential endorsement opportunities. When she walked into Permian, healed and ready for a second chance, my colleagues passed on her.
I had no clue how my life would change when I stumbled into the normally empty restroom near my office and found Holly crying at the sink. After thirty minutes of talking to—and begging—Winston and Trevor, she was mine.
“Any fun plans for today?” she asks. I don’t know why she does this when she knows I’m working. I’malwaysworking.
Before I can answer, the hostess appears. “Welcome to Velvet Yolk. Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes. Shaylene Turner.”
The raven-haired woman glides around the podium and beckons me to follow.
“Velvet Yolk?” Holly groans. “I’m so jealous! I heard it takes weeks to get a reservation.Pleasetell me you’re on a date.”
She knows better. “I took you to The Marlowe when I signed you, which was fancy too.”
“Oh crap. I forgot you signed a new client.” Her laugh is bittersweet. “Love seeing you grow, but I miss being able to blow your phone up.”
“Miss it? You’ve never stopped.” Thanking the hostess, I take a seat at the table in the back corner and drag my finger along the buttery yellow tablecloth. It’s more secluded than I would like, but it’ll work. “Did you see my email about the podcast?”
Her lack of response makes me assume she’s scrolling through hundreds of unread emails. I organize it weekly, but it’s always full.
After a minute, she shrieks, “Holy shit.Women in Sportswants to talk to me?”
“Of course they do. You’re Holly freaking Trent.” My eyes flick over the menu. “They want an answer by next week.”
“My answer is yes! Duh! Best agent ever.” She exhales. “Have fun at brunch and tell me if the Velvet Eggs Benedict is good. I heard it’s life changing, but I feel like that word is overused nowadays.”
