“Cole, this is exactly what we needed,” the client had gushed through the screen. “Your approach completely transformed our reach. Brilliant work.”
Ivy sat beside me, watching the praise flow my way. The client kept saying “your campaign,” “your strategy,” directing everything at me. I could have, noshouldhave, corrected them. Should have said “our work” instead of nodding along. But Reece had told me earlier I needed “more visibility as a leader” if I wanted to advance. It felt like my moment. And itwasmy idea.
So I took all the credit.
The way she looked at me when the call ended—not angry, just unsurprised, as though she’d expected it. We haven’t worked together since.
“Any questions about the evaluation criteria?” Cam asks, yanking me back to reality.
“Good to go,” Ivy responds and I nod along.
“Hell yes,” Reece grins, rubbing his hands together. “Now show me Dare4Change’s next campaign director. Let’s not just move the needle, let’s keep it there.”
“Remember superstars.” Cam’s gaze flicks between us. “Best campaign execution wins, and please—” she presses her hands together, “—no drama. I promised the hotel that we are a group of calm, boring professionals. Don’t make me a liar.”
Reece snickers, and Cam smacks his chest in response. He snatches her hand, yanking her into a kiss that has her squealing against his lips.
“Bye!” they chorus with cheesy grins.
Their faces disappear.
Ivy goes into drill sergeant mode, rattling off logistics. “Okay, timeline’s locked for Blaze’s entrance, B-roll scheduled infifteen-minute increments, backup shots categorized by lighting conditions.”
Her fingers dance across the iPad, planning his arrival as if we’re filming a blockbuster movie, not a celebrity strolling through a lobby.
“I’ve mapped every deliverable,” she finishes.
“Except,” I say. “You didn’t leave room for it.”
She lifts her eyes. “Room for what?”
“For when something better happens.”
“We don’t wing it.”
“Who said anything about winging it? I call it adapting.”
“This weekend will run according to plan.”
“Whose plan?”
“The one that works. Mine.”
Her eyes narrow. That assumption, the one where she built the spreadsheet so she gets to call the shots, lights a fire in my chest.
“We’re both being evaluated, Ivy. I don’t take orders from you.”
Her words crack the air like a starting pistol.
“Listen, Hartwell—”
She inches closer. So close, I can see the moment register.
My arm. Still around her.
Her gaze tracks the line of my forearm, tracing something she doesn’t quite understand. Stops at my hand. My fingers are spread wide over her waist, curved around the warm, firm swell of her hip like they belong there.
Why am I not letting go?
