It's only Thursday, but my brain is fried, I’m actively avoiding returning three calls, and I’ve flagged two emails as “URGENT” that are just going to have to wait until tomorrow.
I toss my bag onto the counter and check my phone for the third time since I walked through the door. Nothing. No missed calls. No new emails. No“We’re so excited to work with you!”subject line lighting up my inbox. Each day that passes makes it seem less and less likely that I’ll get good news from W&R Mercantile, but, as Becca keeps reminding me, it hasn’t even been a full workweek yet.
Maybe they’re busy. Maybe they’re still reviewing. Maybe they’ve ghosted us and decided to go with a firm that has an actual Nashville presence and doesn’t have a project lead who requires a pep talk every time she has to meet someone new.
I know we don’t need this client, but I want it.
I want it for what it means—for what it would prove. That I’m good at my job. That all the time and money invested in my education and career weren’t a waste. That I’m leveraging all the opportunities I’ve been afforded.
I groan and shove my phone face down on the counter.
Staying out with everyone last night was a bad idea. I can barely function as a normal human when I have eight-plus hours of sleep. It’s a shitshow when I get less.
In the quiet that follows, I feel it again—the weight of yesterday. The weight ofhim.
Jaxon.
He sat at that dinner table like he’d always belonged there. Teasing Jameson. Laughing at Bryn. Arguing with Kelsey and Carter like they were his friends rather than his employees, which, I guess, they are.
And me?
I couldn’t stop watching him.
He blended so easily with my people. With my life. And I hadn’t realized—until he was sitting there grinning with a beer in his hand and my knee tucked against his under the table—just how dangerous that was.
Because when he leaves—andhe will—it’s going to hurt more than I ever thought possible.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts, and I jump up as Jaxon walks in. He holds a six-pack of Belgian-style wheat ale in one hand and a pizza box in the other.
“I come bearing carbs,” he says, his usual grin stretching across his face.
Because why wouldn’t it be his usual grin? Nothing has changed.
I drop onto one of the stools. “Thank goodness. Though I’m not sure I need carbs before whatever we have in store for spice coaching today.”
He sets everything down on the island, kicking off his shoes like he’s done it a hundred times before. Like it’s normal.
“Carb-loading is essential for peak athletic performance,” he jokes.
We sit side by side at the island, eating our pizza and sipping on beer. I try not to notice how close he is. Or how he smells clean and masculine, like he just took a shower with something called “scent of clean male.”
‘So,” he says, biting into his third slice of pizza, “have you heard back from the Nashville client?”
I give a small, tight shake of my head. “No word yet, and I’ve checked my email more times than I’m proud of.”
“They’d be idiots not to hire you.”
“How would you know? I could be terrible at my job.”
He nudges my shoulder. “You’re amazing at everything. You always have been. I have no doubt you’re fantastic at your job as well.”
I smile, but it feels forced. “Thanks.”
He casually slips his crust onto my plate before grabbing another piece. “If they do say yes…would you go?”
The full crust I just shoved in my mouth—why waste the best part of the pizza?—gets caught in my throat as I attempt to answer.
“To Nashville?” I ask after a long swig of the cool beer helps ease the choking.
