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“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly. “I just had a quick question about the Ridgeway Wines brief.” I take a breath as he smiles, begging my cheeks not to go pink. “I wasn’t sure whether you wanted us to stick with the mood board you sent last week or pivot to something more lifestyle focused? The client’s last e-mail was a little vague.”
“Good question,” he says, leaning back and swivelling in his chair. The fabric of his shirt stretches just slightly over his chest in a way that is completely unfair.
“I believe they’re leaning more lifestyle now,” he says. “Something looser, more aspirational. Sorry, I should have sent a follow-up note after the call.”
“No worries,” I say. “Just wanted to check before I went too far down the wrong path.”
A pause lingers. Not necessarily an awkward one – just quiet. He gives me a small, thoughtful smile.
“Good thing you checked,” he says. “I like that about you. You don’t just guess – you ask.”
My brain trips over itself.
Somehow, I manage a smile. “Well… I like to be sure.”
“You’re doing a great job.” His eyes flicker, just for a second, like he’s let his guard down.
I need to hang up. End the call. Escape before I say something embarrassing.
“Thanks. Well, that’s it then, I guess. Thanks again,” I say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile as I scramble for the ‘Leave Call’ button like it’s an ejector seat.
“Anytime,” he says, still smiling as the call ends and the screen goes back to white.
I slump in my chair and let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.
I am insomuch trouble.
Chapter 6
OCTOBER 2023
It’s a crisp October evening, the kind where the golden light lingers just long enough to kiss the tops of the buildings before the air turns brisk and sharp. I can feel the season in my bones – pumpkin spice lattes, autumn leaves, cosy vibes, and that electric hum of the upcoming holiday season that just makes everything feel a little more possible, a little more romantic.
As I’m getting ready for the evening ahead in our tiny shared bathroom, nerves flutter low in my gut like those pesky butterflies you always hear about.
I know Marcus is going to be there tonight, because it’s his event. A wine tasting paired with an art gallery opening – upscale, polished, full of people who speak in quiet hushed voices about brushstrokes and lighting.
I’d spent way too much time and definitely too much money on finding the right dress for the occasion, settling on a tight black bodycon number that hugs my figure just right, the short skirt showing off my legs, which I accent with black ankle boots and a soft lilac cardigan that softens the whole look from ‘nightclub sexy’ to ‘art gallery chic’.
The gallery turns out to be a converted industrial warehouse with exposed brick walls and polished concrete floors. The room is divided by strategically placed white partitions displaying vibrant modern artwork, creating intimate pockets within the open space. Pendant lightshang from the high ceilings, casting warm pools of light onto certain areas while diffusing a soft glow to the rest of the room. The murmur of conversation mingles with soft jazz playing through hidden speakers.
I adjust the strap of my purse on my shoulder, smoothing down the front of my little black dress.
Across the room, Marcus stands talking to a group of prospective clients, his hands gesturing with animated expression as he explains something that has them all leaning in to catch every word. I force myself to look away, focusing instead on getting some B-roll footage of the backs of people’s heads admiring the art.
“Have you got some decent shots of the wine being served?” Angela asks, appearing beside me in her standard ‘going out’ outfit of black jeans and a brightly coloured top underneath her black leather jacket. Today’s colour choice is neon pink, which she’s matched to a pair of heels the same vibrant shade. Her long braids are pulled back, the soft light catching her cheekbones, making her look like she belongs among the artwork.
“I think so,” I say, swiping back through the clips on my phone. “Just need a few more of people actually drinking it. The client said she wants to emphasise the ‘shared experience’ aspect. Can’t really get ‘shared experience’ if no one is sharing it, can I?”
Carter joins us, looking sharp in charcoal grey slacks and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He hands each of us a glass of the featured wine – a crisp Sauvignon Blanc that the boutique winery we’re representing tonight is known for.
“Come on, let’s take a break,” he says.
I accept the glass, slipping my phone into my purse as I take a small sip.
“Thanks. Have you met the owner? Is she happy with the event so far?”
“She’s over the moon,” he says. “I was over there when the art critic from the Chronicle came over and started peppering her with questions. I’ll tell you what, thank God Marcus was there. He handled it fucking brilliantly, somehow managing to deflect every question and take the pressure off her. I mean, she could have handled it, but he was brilliant.”