His brow lifts. “You sure? Because you definitely have the look of someone who’s about two seconds away from testing the structural integrity of our windows.”
Despite myself, a laugh slips out. I shake my head and take a sip of my tea. “Just a conversation with my mom. I’m used to it.”
He nods slowly, stepping farther into the room. “She sounds…tough.”
“That’s one word for it,” I murmur, tracing my thumb around the rim of my mug. “She’s determined I fly to Bluewater in two weeks for a political gala thing. My dad’s the mayor of Bluewater. He’s getting some leadership in public service award.”
Jesse whistles low. “Fancy.”
“You have no idea,” I say, managing a weak smile. “It’s all crystal chandeliers and champagne towers and people in black tie pretending to like each other even though they’ll all trash each other on the drive home. I’ve been to probably a hundred of these events over the years and I always hate them. I would rather be literally anywhere else.”
Jesse studies me for a beat, his gaze steady in a way that makes me feel far too seen. “So don’t go.”
“That’s not exactly up to me.”
“Sure, it is.” He shrugs one shoulder. “You’re an adult. You don’t owe anyone a weekend of fake smiles.”
I look at him, a little startled by the ease with which he says it. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It’s not,” he admits, leaning against the edge of the table across from me. “But sometimes doing what’s right for you means pissing a few people off.”
The corner of my mouth lifts, despite the heaviness in my chest. “I’ll quote you on that when my mother blows a gasket.”
He grins faintly, that boyish flicker of humor sliding back into his eyes. “Happy to take the blame.”
We fall quiet. The air between us stretches, warm and charged. For a second, it’s almost peaceful — like the world’s stopped moving just long enough for me to catch my breath.
Then he clears his throat and straightens. “Come on,” he says lightly, nodding toward the door. “Becca’s waiting to go over the updated copy for the spring campaign. We should probably get back before she sends out a search party.”
“Right.” I grab my phone, tucking it into my back pocket as I stand, following him down the hall. The tension of the call with my mom still lingers, but now it’s mixed with something else entirely.
By the time we make it back to the shared workspace, Becca is already spreading mock-ups across the table. Marco and Tasha are there too, along with another woman I don’t recognize.
She’s stunning: dark blonde hair pulled into a sleek knot at the nape of her neck, a fitted cream sweater tucked neatly into tailored black pants, small gold hoops that catch the light as she looks over at me. There’s something effortlessly beautiful about her. She strikes me as the kind of woman who could walk into any room and command it without saying a word.
“Madeline,” Jesse says, motioning toward the woman. “This is Landyn Sinclair. She heads up PR and brand strategy. She joined a few months ago.”
Landyn stands, offering a warm, genuine smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Madeline.”
“Likewise,” I say, returning the smile.
“We’re just going over some of the spring campaign’s visuals,” she says, turning toward the table. “Ford wants to see these tomorrow. Should we start?”
“Sure,” Jesse says, clapping his hands. “Let’s jump in.”
The meeting begins in a whirl of conversation. We walk through layouts and color palletes and come up with a schedule for the week ahead. I jot a few notes as Jesse talks through the tagline. It’s catchy, but something about it feels…off.
“Thoughts?” he asks the team, leaning back like he’s waiting for a round of applause from the room.
“Strong concept,” Becca says as Marco nods in agreement. “Visually clean.”
I glance at the board again, biting the inside of my cheek. Becca’s right—it’s clean, but maybe that’s exactly the problem—it’s too polished. It’s the kind of campaign that looks perfect on paper but doesn’t make anyone feel anything. It doesn’t give the consumer a reason to stop scrolling and actually care. As the rest of the team breaks off into a discussion on ad placement, I pick up a blue sticky note and jot down my thoughts.Doesn’t feel authentic to Cove’s voice. Too polished. Where’s the real connection?I barely finish pressing the corner down on my folder before Jesse notices and leans in to read it.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks quietly, an edge to his voice. “’Not authentic to Cove’s voice?’ Considering I helped build Cove’s voice, I’m curious what part of it doesn’t feel authentic.”
“I just think it feels more corporate than personal. Cove’s whole appeal is the West Coast lifestyle — real people, real connection. This feels like a break from that.”
His jaw flexes. “It’s an ad campaign, not a memoir.”
