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“Are you ready to work, knucklehead?” he asks.

“Timing’s bad, Ter.”

“It’s the only time we’ve had Hollywood knocking down doors, which means it’s the best time,” he says.

“What about the Bachelor King. They wanted me,” I remind him.

“They didn’t. I was trying to make you feel better because I have a heart of gold. The job was always a toss-up between Nathan Wolf and that guy who has the royal family’s panties in a game of Twister.”

“So, you’re a liar and an asshole,” I say.

“I am who I am, kid.” He sighs. “So, I’m begging you. Let your agent do his job. Let me make your dreams happen. My grandkid needs braces.”

“What do you have?” I relent, my shoulders dropping. I place a hand against the wall and lean.

It’s not that I don’t want jobs. I do. I just can’t see filling my time with anything or anyone but Sophia right now. Plus, there’s the small issue of finishing out the events and filming in Hawaii. Thinking about one more thing would throw off this delicate balance.

Across from me, Casey sinks into her seat. She’s on her phone, scrolling and acting like she isn’t hanging on every word. Matt sits on the arm of the couch, watching me with rapt attention.

Terry plows on. “We can book a cooking segment on Hannah’s Homemade, Cornelia’s Garden, The Late Show, The Morning Show, The Variety Show, literally any show. You want to play Captain Salami in the next comic-book movie? They want you. Every food and wine festival from Paris, France, to Paris, Georgia, is offering you headline space. There’s a publishing deal for two cookbooks, one with an elderly billionaire rapper and the other with a grandma convict turned domestic goddess. Several Michelin-star chefs want to cross-market, and the list goes on. But those aren’t even the best part!”

“I’m listening,” I say, though not completely. I stare out the window, cursing myself for picking up the call.

“Several investors are circling your restaurant proposal,” he says.

My gaze snaps to Casey. She’s filming my reaction on her phone. Matt fist-pumps the air. Apparently, he can hear every word.

It’s clear, Casey’s already heard Terry’s spiel. She lives for this stuff. You know, the meeting your client’s long-term goals kind of stuff. AKA, making me a superstar with her as the mastermind who guided me. She might be more invested than I am.

Even Matt seems more invested. He’s dancing around the room, twerking chairs and then a large potted plant, which he knocks over. When dirt spills across the floor, he drops to all fours like he’s saving a victim of an assault.

I clench my eyes shut.

Terry’s right. Who the heck am I?

I should be thrilled. I should be air-humping inanimate objects too. Instead, I’m cautious. I turn away and focus on a blank wall.

“Who are they?” I ask.

“The question is, who aren’t they.” Terry slaps his desk.

Several groups want to invest in my restaurant concept?

I pace again while clawing at my hair. I don’t know where to look. I only pause when I see my own reflection. I’m a mess from minimal sleep, too much work, and not enough Sophia.

There’s never enough Sophia.

Meanwhile, this could be it. My dream could happen.

“Kid?” Terry asks warily.

I stop in my tracks, hearing a hesitating rumble on the line. I can tell by the pitch of his voice there’s more. The catch is still coming.

“But?” I ask.

Terry clears his throat. I imagine him leaning back in his chair when something squeaks, and then he tugs off his oversize wire-frame glasses and rubs his eyes. My bullish agent is at a loss for words. Must be his heart of gold, or at least, fool’s gold.

“They all want you with the bride—the shows, the cookbooks, the restaurant.”