“W&R Mercantile is too important of a client,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “You should’ve taken it. I am not the right person for this.”
“Breathe,” she says calmly. Too calmly, if you ask me. “You’ve got this. Seriously. You know this proposal and this company far better than I do.”
“I always know the proposal and the company better than you do. But you know people better than I do.”
“Iz, you have one of the highest emotional IQs of anyone I know.”
“I understand what other people are feeling, but I’m too awkward to be able to do anything with that information.”
It’s a curse I’ve been fighting my entire life. I, for unknown reasons,ampretty good at reading people. I know when they’re mad. I know when they’re upset or nervous about something.I pick up on people’s tells without thinking about it and make fairly accurate predictions about what they’re feeling.
What Idon’t knowis what to do with that information.
“You don’t have to do anything with the information. Just be yourself. Our clients enjoy working with you. Plus, you know landing W&R Mercantile would be a huge expansion opportunity for us, and you’re competitive as hell. It’s game time. You’ve got this.”
Knowing I am the only option at this point anyway, I let it go, and we get back to double-checking numbers and the final strategy we’re going with.
When I hang up, I double-check my outfit in the mirror, making sure the wide-legged black trousers and white V-neck blouse are appropriately tucked, and I don’t have any hair stuck to my butt.
I slide my feet into a pair of black flats, wishing I’d opted for my black Nikes instead. Unfortunately, I’m not sure if tennis shoes with dress clothes is viewed as favorably here as it is in Colorado.
When I walk downstairs and into the kitchen, I’m surprised to find Jaxon sitting at his huge island alone.
“I thought you were recording your song today,” I say. We spent a few hours in his studio yesterday setting everything up for his team to record the single he’s been working on for the Lupus Foundation. Apparently, his label decided he should, in fact, be the one to record it, and from the snippets I heard as he was tweaking things on his huge control board, the song is going to be amazing.
It’s so good, in fact, that I’m worried he might not need me anymore, which is a problem since I still need him. And more than that, I’m not ready for our time together to end.
“I thought I’d drive you to your meeting today,” Jaxon says, taking a sip of his coffee.
“You…are? Don’t you need to be in the studio?”
“We recorded for a few hours this morning. We didn’t quite get it perfect yet, but I told them to take a break so I can take you in.”
I assumed Jaxon was the late-nights, late-mornings kind of musician, but since it’s just past nine right now, he must’ve had the team up and going early by anyone’s standards.
“That’s nice of you. But I can catch a ride with whoever is available. I know you have more important things to do.”
Jaxon shrugs like it’s not a problem, even though I know it is. Being here has reminded me just how big a deal Jax is.
“Harry left you an omelet in the oven.”
Jaxon’s chef made all three of our meals for us yesterday, and as someone who is not a fan of cooking for myself, I’m still trying to figure out how I can afford a personal chef on my normal-person salary. I proposed to him last night when he delivered a fresh brownie with ice cream for dessert, but he said his wife wouldn’t be too happy if he accepted.
I walk to the other side of the island and pull a foil-covered plate out of the large oven before sitting next to Jaxon. He pours me a cup of coffee from one of the fancy press-type coffee makers.
“You don’t have to take me in today, Jax,” I say around bites of the fanciest French omelet I’ve ever had. “I already feel bad for monopolizing your time yesterday.”
Though not too bad. It was fun to play around on his fancy guitars and equipment in the studio with him. I almost cried I was laughing so hard when he started making up a love song about our high school math teacher who’d hated Jaxon.
After lunch, we’d hung out by the pool—Jaxon swimming laps, me reading on a lounge chair. Three weeks until the wedding, and I’ve almost lost my golf tan lines. Even if Jax assured me it’s very trendy these days to look like you’re wearing a white short-sleeved shirt under your dress. Finally, I’d given in to hispleading and jumped in the pool to play catch with him with a pool football he found somewhere. Harry arrived and told us he’d have dinner ready in forty-five minutes, so we’d headed in to shower and change.
After we ate, Jaxon suggested we try out his shower again, but I just couldn’t muster the energy.
Instead, we holed up in his movie room, sitting together in the middle of the loveseat as we watchedWedding Crashers, one of our go-to movies when we were in high school. We’d talked for hours, our legs and shoulders pressing together like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything.
It was easy and fun.
I woke up in the guest room this morning, confused about where I was and why I was alone before realizing I must’ve fallen asleep watching the movie, and Jax carried me to bed.
