CHAPTER 1
NAOMI
Naomi Piccolo adds ‘skipping lunch’ to the running list of poor life choices she’s made today. After a cramped flight to Hartford, she is ninety percent hunger, ten percent stress, and one hundred percent regretting her choice of footwear.
The lobby of the Marriott smells faintly of lemon cleaner and stale coffee, which only makes her stomach growl louder. She shifts on her too-high heels while waiting at the front desk, trying not to chew her lip to bits. She’s meant to be behaving like a composed, highly qualified marketing consultant, not a feral raccoon.
Beside her, Mila looks criminally put together, as usual. Blonde hair sleek, blazer crisp, smile ready to charm. Naomi loves her work best friend, but right now she wants to rip her head off.
“Naomi,” Mila says, sliding her side-eye. “What’s up with you?”
“I’m fine,” Naomi mutters, tapping her nails against the counter like she’s Morse-codingfeed me.
“You don’t sound fine.”
Naomi exhales through her nose. “Maybe because I’m starving.There was no vegan food on the plane, and—” she presses a hand to her forehead, “I forgot the bag at home.”
Mila gasps. “Not the snack bag.”
“Yes. The snack bag.” Naomi hunches over in misery. “It’s somewhere in my kitchen right now, laughing at me.”
The desk attendant clears his throat, handing them each a keycard, and Naomi doesn’t miss how his gaze lingers—appreciative, starstruck—on Mila. Always Mila. Men look at her like that, with open admiration, borderline leering. Naomi? She might as well be the coat check girl. Too small, too sharp, too much. She knows it shouldn’t bother her, but on an empty stomach, every insecurity has teeth.
Mila, oblivious or simply used to it, leans in with her signature warm smile. “Is there somewhere nearby we can eat vegan?”
The young man straightens, clearly pleased to have her attention. “There’s a place called Spice World. Vegan bakery and café. Head down Columbus and turn right on Arch Street, about ten minutes from here. They close soon, though.”
“Spice World,” Naomi repeats. She snatches up the keycard and jams it in her purse.
Sweet, sweet salvation.
Mila tilts her head, amused. “You okay to run over there by yourself? I’d go with you, but I need to prep for tomorrow.”
“Go and prep.” She waves her off. “I’ll join you after I get something to eat.”
Naomi can’t stop the little spark of excitement underneath the hanger. She’s traveling. For work. For a new client. Not just any client either—the Hartford Whalers, a pro hockey team. Mila landed the account and, miracle of miracles, asked Naomi to come along. Naomi, who usually gets left behind in the Toronto office, grinding through the spreadsheets of campaign metrics while Mila does all the fun, flashy travel.
Mila squeezes her arm. “Don’t trip.”
Which is exactly what Naomi is in danger of as she bolts out the door, teetering down the Hartford sidewalk like a baby deer. Why,why, had she thought four-inch heels were necessary for the flight from Toronto to Hartford?
Her stomach is practically eating itself as she speed-walks past office buildings and shuttered shops, clutching her purse. Work looms large on the edges of her mind.
Tomorrow will be her first time coordinating a major event. Technically it’s Mila’s event—but this is Naomi’s chance to prove she’s more than a reliable sidekick. If she pulls it off, she might get the chance to lead one of these herself. No pressure or anything.
She blows out a breath, trying to dispel the nerves fizzing from her head down to her toes. This is exactly what she wants—traveling for work, getting her hands dirty on real projects. And doing it alongside Mila, who actually believes in her, pushes her, and doesn’t treat her like a pint-sized intern who needs bubble wrap? Dream scenario.
But imposter syndrome has a way of crawling into her subconscious, whispering lies in her ear. That she’s tagging along. That any minute now someone’s going to realize she’s not qualified. That she’s too loud, too messy to be in front of clients.
No one’s said any of that, of course. Mila keeps handing her more responsibility, trusts her with real tasks, and Naomi’s nailed every single one. Still, the doubt lingers, sharp-edged and stupid. What if she doesn’t measure up?
And right now? She can’t measure up to anything if she passes out on the sidewalk.
“Spice World,” she mutters, spotting the café sign down the block. “Please be open.”
The bell above the door jingles as Naomi hurls herself inside.
Victory tastes of linoleum floors and faint curry spices in the air.
