“Girl.” Sam stands and rounds the desk, holding out her arms. She has to press my head into her ample bosom because I can’t force myself to move.
“I can’t compete with all that.” I mumble into her sweater.
“Well, her personality—” Sam starts, but I pull away.
“Her personality is more addictive than Reese’s Christmas Trees, are you kidding? She’s always smiling, she never panics with deadlines, she says kind things about everyone, even that guy in design with the handlebar moustache?—”
“Geez, you make it so difficult to help you feel better.” Sam’s face is still pinched into a grimace.
My body turns gelatinous, spreading over the chair like a suicidal starfish. “Her voice is like the silky narration from those sleep stories on YouTube.”
“I think some of them might actually be her . . .”
“Serious?”
Sam nods. “I heard Nina talking about it. I guess she used to do some modeling and commercial work.”
Of course she did. It absolutely tracks that Megan would excel at everything. That she chose this job because she loved it, not because she didn’t have better options.
I close my eyes, draw in a deep breath, and attempt to keep my chin from wobbling as all my dreamy romantic subplots with Garrett crash and burn. It’s not that I need it to work out with him, but I’m twenty-four and my dating history has been patchy at best. I spent the last two years complaining about howmen are the problem, but the proof is right in front of me. He’s putting effort in somewhere. Just not with me.
“You never know . . .” Sam drops my arms and walks back to her desk, rifling in her drawer for our emergency chocolate.
“You never know, what?” I groan.
Sam returns, forcing a square of Argentinian 75% dark into my mouth. “Maybe it’ll just be a fling.”
“A fling?” I suck on the chocolate for a moment, then give in and chomp.
“Yeah. Like you said, Garrett is a closer. He likes to sign the contract, then move on to the next thing.”
I did say that. She has a point. “But what if she’s the one who changes that? Keeps him interested forever?” Of anyone, Megan is capable of that. She’s like the sweet, innocent daughter of a business mogul in small-town romance novels. They always win over the CEOs, convincing them to leave their high-profile jobs to bake bread in a small shop in the mountains.
Sam shrugs, dropping to half-sit on the edge of her desk. “What if she’s not?”
I wet my lips. Okay. Not impossible. I can work with that.
My executive functioning comes back online with the influx of theobromine now in my system. “What was the board?”
“Hm?”
“You said he carried a board.”
Sam blinks. “Oh, yeah. I have no idea. I saw the fingers in the hair thing and—Alecia!”
I’m already halfway out the door. Sam follows me down the hall, bumping into my back as I pull to a halt at the admin desk.
“Hey, Nina.” I flash my most winning smile. It’s nothing like Megan’s.
She flicks her eyes up from her monitor. “Morning.”
I scan the desk, the wall, the— “Oh, wow! Is this new?”
The poster board sits propped against the wall on the thin strip of side counter we just passed.Paper and Pixel Pickleball Clubis written in gorgeous, loopy calligraphy across the top. Handwritten, not printed. Damn it, Megan is a goddess.
I force my eyes down to read the details. Fridays after work at the new club, The Court Collective, that opened a few blocks down on Eighteenth. Then I see the sign-up on the clipboard next to the pin-up. Garrett’s name is at the bottom of the list.
Hope bubbles in my chest. This whole thing might not be about Megan. Garrett loves pickleball. Ever since The Court Collective opened, he’s been bringing his bag to work. The first time I saw him emerging from the men’s restroom wearing a white T-shirt and shorts that hit him mid-thigh, I almost fainted.
