"Or." Emmy stared at the ceiling. "Cecelia fires me and I move back in with my parents and my dad spends the rest of my life explaining the respiratory dangers of despair."
"That's catastrophizing." Harper emerged with two mugs, setting one on the side table. "What did Cecelia actually say when she called you?"
Emmy winced. The phone call had come last night, while she was still in her car in the club parking lot, mascara smudged, dignity in shambles. Cecelia's voice had been ice:We'll discuss this Monday. In person.
"Nothing good. She said we'd 'discuss it Monday.' Which is Cecelia-speak for 'prepare your belongings in a small cardboard box.'"
"Or it's Cecelia-speak for 'I'm too busy doing damage control to deal with you right now.'" Harper curled up on the opposite end of the couch. "You don't know she's going to fire you."
"I humiliated the company. On video. In front of the entire Boston donor class."
"Youattemptedgolf. At a charity event. Because a client peer-pressured you into it." Harper's voice sharpened. "And speaking of—what the hell was Tyce Duke thinking? He's the one who handed you the club. He's the one who told you to swing."
Emmy didn't answer. She'd been thinking about that too—replaying the moment when Tyce had pressed the driver into her hands, when he'd leaned close and murmureddon't be boring, Woodhouse, when she'd felt the weight of the cameras and the crowd and hadn't known how to say no without making it worse.
She'd also been thinking about Grant.
The look on his face when the ball went wide. The way he'd found her afterward, behind the clubhouse, away from the cameras. The way he'd saidhe set you uplike it was a fact, not an opinion.
And then she'd said things. Harsh things. Things about not being a little girl, about not needing his protection, about not being West's baby sister?—
A knock at the door.
"Stay." Harper was already moving. "You're not ready to face delivery people."
Emmy heard the door open, a murmured exchange, then Harper's footsteps returning. She was carrying a vase of flowers—elegant but not ostentatious. White roses and pale green hydrangeas, an arrangement that cost exorbitant money but didn't announce it.
”Delivery," Harper said, setting the vase on the kitchen counter. "There's a card."
Emmy's stomach flipped. She crossed to the counter, pulled the small envelope from its plastic holder.
The card was cream-colored, heavy stock. The handwriting was bold and slightly uneven—like someone who signed autographs for a living but rarely wrote anything longer than his own name.
You're right. I'm sorry. — G
Emmy stared at the words. Read them again.
"Those are nice," Harper said carefully.
"They're from Grant."
"Ah."
Emmy set the card down and picked up her phone, hands moving before her brain weighed in.
Emmy
Thank you for the flowers. You didn't have to.
The response came immediately.
Grant Knight
Yeah, I did.
Three words. No elaboration. She didn't know what to do with that, so she set the phone down and looked at the flowers instead.
"Emmy." Harper's voice cut through. "Where'd you go?"
