Rafi? Why does that name sound so…
Oh my sunshiny days!
This is Rafi, the creative director from Z3 Group.
I click on my email app with the excitement of a six-year-old opening presents on Christmas morning. Suddenly, my perfectly adequate wi-fi speed is not fast enough.Open. Open. Open.When it finally loads, I click on the unopened message, Z3’s big beautiful logo staring back at me.
Paige,
I was happy to see your name among the applicants for the copywriting position at Z3. After our conversation last winter, I truly believe you would be a great addition to our team. I’ve looked at your updated portfolio and was really impressed with the work you’ve done during your internship. I loved the headline on your poster for the detergent project. Nicely done!
I’d love to see how you work with our team. What I would like to do is have you freelance for ten hours a week with us for a period of a month or so. We can structure it around your current work schedule. Just let me know which hours work best for you and when a good start date would be. And if all goes well, we can make it permanent.
Cheers,
Rafi Batra
Z3 Group Creative Director
I scream aloud in my car like a tween at their first pop concert. Then I scream for real when three knocks sound on my driver’s-side window. I turn to see Jazzy from HR.
“Are you okay?” she asks through the glass.
I try to put down the window, but my brain’s in party mode and I end up pushing the button that opens the back window instead. I give up and just smile through the glass and call, “Yep, I’m so good,” while giving her a double thumbs-up.
She looks at me skeptically. “Okay, have a good one.”
When Jazzy disappears down the row of cars, I pump my fists and squeal once more.Z3 Group wants me!I’m itching to call Jordan and tell him everything, but then I remember—I’m still mad at him.
I pull into the McGregor’s parking lot at the usual Tuesday-night hour. All day, I contemplated not coming tonight andbreaking a six-month streak. And when I walk through the parking lot toward the store entrance, I am reminded why.
Jordan sits waiting on his car’s bumper with his arms folded across his chest. One look at his downturned mouth and scrunched forehead tells me he’s a man wracked with guilt.
I know exactly when he sees me coming because he lets out a long breath before jogging over, closing the distance between us. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
I try to hold onto my frustration from Saturday, but all hopes of holding a grudge dissipate when his golden-brown gaze settles on me.This.This is precisely why I have avoided him for the past three days. Trying to stay mad at Jordan when he’s looking at me with big, repentant eyes is like swearing off sugar just before someone hands you a chocolate lava cake. Resistance is futile—you might as well give in.
“I’m so sorry, Paige.” Jordan’s voice sounds gravelly, like he’s lost a few nights of quality sleep.
I nod. “I know.”
“I will do anything to make it up to you.”
I take a moment to consider this offer. “Okay, I’ll schedule you a manicure at the Sit N’ Polish.”
The last time he went to the salon with his mom and me, the ladies roped him into doing a “man”icure. And when they asked him if he wanted a clear coat, he said yes, thinking that meant he wanted nothing on his nails. He walked away with a glossy coat of fingernail polish, and neither Colton nor Miles ever let him live it down.
Jordan clears his throat. “I’d doalmostanything to make it up to you.”
I laugh, and he joins in. I want to close my eyes and soak in the moment. If there were any negative feelings remaining in my heart, the sound of Jordan laughing washes the slate clean.
And just like that, things seem back to normal.
Five minutes later, Jordan and I have settled into our synchronized shopping routine. We quickly stock up on produce and start moving through the breakfast aisle.
Jordan scans the selection of syrups. “Since when is there a buttery version of syrup? I feel deprived.”
“Syrup and butter have been together since the day they first met on a stack of pancakes.”
