"Why is adulting so hard," I whine into the empty room. It, of course, doesn’t answer.
The blanket lands in a heap on the floor as I stand up. Silence in this ginormous place usually feels oppressive, but today noise will fill it. I’m not my mom. I’m not a pet to be fed and fucked and left on a shelf.
Marching to the kitchen, I grab a fresh cup of coffee and set up a command center at the island. My laptop’s open, my phone’s out, and I’ve got a notebook and my favorite pen ready.
My bank account is still a crime scene, but my contact list might have some life left in it.
"Time to rise from the dead," I mutter, scrolling through the names.
Voicemail picks up the first three calls. The fourth, a florist I’ve worked with for years, answers but her tone is frosty. Ryder’s smear campaign did its job well. She mumbles something about "risks" before hanging up.
It doesn't stop me. The next number is already dialing.
Rejection is just a number. It indicates who believes the gossip and who cares about results. Call enough people and eventually someone has to say yes.
Right?
An hour later, when I’m starting to question whether I should give in to the failure and my newfound determination has almost run out, I hit pay dirt.
"Blair?" The voice belongs to Sarah Jenkins, the director of a small non-profit in Mulberry. We did a fundraiser together two years ago on a shoestring budget. "I heard you were out of commission."
"You heard wrong," I say, keeping my voice bright and steady. "I’m restructuring, but still very much here and in business. I heard you’re planning a holiday gala for the shelter and might need someone to get the word out."
"We are," Sarah sighs. "But our coordinator just quit. And honestly, with the rumors…"
"The rumors are nothing but lies told by a vindictive ex-boyfriend, unfortunately," I cut in. "I would never bring my personal life into this, but he’s left me no choice but to do damage control. You know my work, Sarah. You know I delivered on that fundraiser last year."
Silence stretches on the line.
"I can't pay your usual rate," she admits.
"Rates don't matter right now. The work does. I’ll do it for cost plus ten percent."
"You're serious?"
"Dead serious. Send me your goals for this. I’ll have a proposal for the campaign to you by tomorrow morning."
"Okay," Sarah says, the relief audible. "Okay, let's do it. Welcome back, Blair."
Disconnecting the call triggers an adrenaline spike. It’s not a million-dollar deal at the country club. It’s a charity dinner in a gymnasium. But it’s mine. I got it. I fought for it.
Logistics consume the next four hours. Calls go out. Negotiations happen. A mood board comes together, turninga gym into a winter wonderland and then the social media campaign to get eyes on it with the same theme.
My focus is so absolute that the garage door opening doesn't register.
The presence of another person only becomes obvious when a large, warm hand settles on the back of my neck.
"You look busy."
I jump, spinning on the barstool.
Gabriel stands there, looming over me. He’s ditched the suit jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal the thick cords of muscle in his forearms. I wipe a little drool from the corner of my mouth as he smirks at me like he knows exactly what’s going through my head as I eye fuck him. Fatigue lines his face, but his eyes are sharp, taking in every detail that is me.
"I am," I say, turning back to the screen but unable to suppress the smile tugging at my lips. "I got a client."
Gabriel moves closer, crowding me in that way he has—like gravity shifting. He steps between my spread knees, his thighs brushing against mine, trapping me against the marble counter.
"Tell me," he commands.
