He takes a sip. “Said I’d either be devoured or delusional. Still waiting to find out which.”
There’s something in the way he says that—like the sting hasn’t dulled, like part of him still wonders if his father was right.
I open my mouth to ask more, but he beats me to it.
“He’s retired now,” Nolan offers. “Lives in a community upstate.”
“Is your mom there too?”
“No, my mom died when I was seven.” The words fall clean, practiced—but they land hard.
“Oh—”
“I don’t remember her, not really. A few stories. Some secondhand memories. She liked lilacs. Played solitaire. That’s all I’ve got.”
I study him for a long moment. “I’m sorry, Nolan.”
Eyes glued to his glass, he shrugs. “Don’t be. It’s a gap. One you don’t know is missing until someone else points it out.”
It hits something deep in me, and I don’t push. I know better than to ask for things someone isn’t ready to give.
Still, I find myself softening toward him in a way that isn’t strategy or rivalry or lust. It’s just human. And I realize Nolan Rhodes and I have more in common than I thought.
“And now you’re the guy everyone wants in the room,” I say. “So, looks like you figured life out.”
“Some days I believe that.” His brow furrows. “Others…not so much.”
The conversation continues. It flows easily. He asks how I got started in marketing. I tell him about marching into The Laurel Group at twenty-three with more ego than experience.
“Laurel and my mom were roommates in college,” I admit. “That opened the door. But I had to kick it down.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he says, voice quiet.
“I had one shot,” I continue. “So I handed her a single sheet of paper. No resume. Just six words: Stop chasing trends. Start dictating them.”
Nolan huffs out a laugh. “You’ve got guts, Adams, I’ll give you that.”
“Damn right, I do.”
We sip. We flirt. We edge closer without even realizing it. And then we stop talking about work.
Instead, we drift toward relationships—or the minefield where they used to be.
He asks why I’m single. I lie and say I’ve been busy.
I ask the same, and he says nothing, lifts his glass and drinks.
We keep going. Stories. Jokes. He tells me about the worst first date of his life. It involved a bearded dragon named Princess and a girl who tried to hand-feed him sushi.
I nearly choke on my wine.
“Okay, that’s unhinged,” I wheeze. “But I’ll raise you. Once, I went on a date with a guy who brought his mom. As in, she satwith us.Ordered the steak. Critiqued my posture. Told me I have ‘fertile eyes.’”
Nolan coughs, covers his mouth with a hand to keep from spewing his drink. “Fertile eyes?”
I nod solemnly. “And then she asked if I’d ever considered natural childbirth. During appetizers.”
He stares at me, torn between horror and fascination.
