"Looks good," I say, though I'm only half-focused. My mind is still on Sloane, on finding a way to talk to her.
"Tucker." Uncle Tim's voice sharpens. "Are you actually reading this, or are you just pretending?"
I force myself to concentrate on the contract terms. Tim walks me through the key points—salary structure, performance bonuses, injury clauses. It's important, I know it's important, but my attention keeps drifting.
"All right, what's going on?" Tim finally asks, leaning back in his chair. "You've been distracted since you walked in."
"Nothing. Just off-season stuff."
He gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me for a second. "Woman trouble?"
I don't answer, which is answer enough.
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Fair enough." He taps the folder. "Then let's wrap this up so you can go brood somewhere else."
A knock interrupts him. Donna pokes her head in.
"Tim, your three-thirty is here early."
"Send them to the small conference room. I'll be there in five."
"Actually," Donna says, "they requested to use the large room for accessibility. I thought you'd want to know."
"Of course. Give me five minutes."
Donna disappears, and Tim stands, gathering files. "Sorry,Tucker. This is a big meeting—potential new superstar hire. Do you feel satisfied?”
"Yeah, no problem." I'm already standing, grateful for the escape from my own distraction.
I follow Tim out of his office and toward the elevator. The main reception area has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and I'm admiring the view when I hear voices from the side hallway.
"...really appreciate you taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Stag."
That voice is familiar.
I turn just as Mel Ortega wheels into view, dressed in a sharp business suit, her resume folder balanced on her lap. She looks flustered and out of breath.
And right behind her, holding a briefcase and looking outraged, is Sloane.
Our eyes meet across the reception area.
She freezes. I freeze.
Uncle Tim, oblivious to the sudden tension, extends a hand toward Mel. "Ms. Ortega, wonderful to meet you in person. I've heard excellent things from Stellan."
Mel shakes his hand, but her attention is on me. Recognition flickers across her face—she knows exactly who I am from that awkward encounter at the café.
"This is my friend Sloane," Mel says carefully. "She offered to drive me since parking can be tricky."
"And since someone parked their car directly over the curb cut," Sloane adds, her voice tight with barely controlled anger. "We had to go around to the loading dock entrance. Which, by the way, required going through the service elevator."
Tim's expression shifts to concern. "I apologize. That's completely unacceptable. Donna, can you?—"
“It’s a McLaren blocking the accessible entrance," Sloane continues, her eyes finding mine for the first time. The accusation in them is unmistakable. “A silver McLaren.”
