Page 23 of The Game Plan (Game On #3)

Fiona

Returning to work sucks. The realization slaps me across the face hard enough to make me come to a halt. I actively hate walking

into this office. I shouldn’t. It’s a beautiful space—a light and airy loft, all brilliant white. White to relax the eye and

let us show sample colors in their purest state.

There’s an energy here, as if each person is so grateful to be part of this place that they exude anticipation. Every person

but me, apparently. My steps shuffle with clear reluctance, a pit of ugly feeling lodged low in my belly.

No one seems particularly surprised to see me. I get a few sympathetic nods in my direction as I head to my desk.

“Brilliant,” I mutter under my breath. I can handle a lot, but being pitied burns me.

My desk sits in front of a massive Palladian window that starts at the floor and rises over ten feet above me. Outside, traffic

is a flowing river, people darting to and fro. I want to be out there with them.

I’m turning my computer on when Elena appears. Honestly, for someone who’s caused me so much grief, she ought to look the part. I don’t know, maybe have black-and-white hair and long, red nails or something. It would feel so much better if she was also in hot pursuit of a Dalmatian puppy coat.

But she looks... normal. Dark blond hair, snub features, medium height. She looks like the girl who’ll be your best pal—the

happy, if not slightly ditzy, sidekick.

It’s a good disguise.

I’m tempted to ask her if she’s Keyser Soze. But I doubt she’d get the reference.

Elena once told a group of us that the only time she was willing to watch a movie was if a date took her to one, and then

she’d be moving on—because no way would she continue to see a man who thought a movie date was acceptable.

Then again, not a week later, when Felix had mentioned his deep lust for all things Loki, Elena had waxed on about The Avengers

and who was the hottest.

I lost points for picking The Hulk. They can look at me as though I’m crazy all they want; when Bruce Banner loses control

and fucking roars? My nipples go tight.

For some reason this makes me think of Dex. And I do not want to think about him when Elena is perched on my desk. He’s my

happy place. She is not.

“What can I do for you, Elena?”

It doesn’t escape me that she’s tilting her head to catch a glimpse of my computer screen. I don’t know what she expects to

find there since I do most of my work on sketch pads.

She gives me a bright smile. The same easy, friendly smile that messes with my head and has me wondering if I’m making more

of her than I should.

“Just getting in?”

Considering my bag is on my desk and I’m carrying a takeout coffee cup? “Yep. Just getting in.”

I don’t miss the implication that she’s been here for a while. I still can’t decide if she plays dumb or really is. It’s hard to tell.

“Look, Fiona...” She places her warm, slightly moist hand on top of mine. “I know things have been strained between us

lately. And I’m really sorry for it.”

Some of the stiffness eases out of my shoulders. But she keeps talking.

“I know it’s hard for you when we have such similar tastes, yet Felix keeps choosing me. I’d be upset too.”

Right. There’s the Elena I know. My eyes narrow as she leans closer. “Maybe we can work together.”

I stand abruptly. “We already do.”

“You know what I mean, silly. Maybe we can collaborate on a project.”

My smile is so forced it hurts. I press my lips together hard. When I manage to talk, it’s through my teeth. “If we collaborate

any further, we’re going to have to share a brain.”

She frowns as she follows me to the conference room for our morning meeting.

Tom, Alice and Nathan are already sitting around the spotless glass table. I don’t know how it manages to escape basic handprints

and smudges, but it does, as if it dare not defy the exacting expectations of our boss.

Felix glides in a moment later, tiny espresso cup in his hand, gold Prada sunglasses perched on his nose. “Someone please

tell me whose idea it was to paint this entire office white. It’s fucking blinding.”

“It was your idea,” Nathan deadpans. “Hangover, oh, fearless leader?”

Lucky for Nathan, he’s one of Felix’s best designers. And he knows it. Felix glares but does not reply.

With exaggerated care, Felix sets down his cup and sits back in his chair, folding one thin leg over the other.

Dressed like an Italian film star from the 1950s, his ink-black hair immaculately combed and glossy, he could be from another era.

Through the gray tint of his glasses, his dark gaze finds mine.

“Well, hello, Fiona. I didn’t expect you back so soon. ”

“Oh, you know, San Francisco can’t compare with New York City.”

Weak. So fucking weak.

His expression says much the same, and I fight not to cringe. Thankfully, he moves on. “Now then, where are we with the Meyer

project?”

Nathan sits back, looking bored. “Ms. Meyer decided she wanted her bedroom candy-apple red. The entire room.”

“Then let her haul her ass down to The Home Depot and paint it herself.” Felix sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “What

did you tell her?”

“That a glossy red powder room would have more impact, and all her friends would be able to see it.”

A sniff tells us Felix is pleased. His head turns my way. Or Elena’s. I can’t be sure because she’s hovering at my side as

usual. “Mrs. Peyton has decided that the cerulean blue silk drapes remind her of her first husband, Clyde. As she divorced

him after finding him riding his hot little PA, Jonathan, that ‘simply won’t do.’?”

“Go, Clyde,” Nathan murmurs with a cheeky click of his tongue.

Felix’s nose wrinkles. “Having seen Clyde, my sympathies go to Jonathan. Elena, what would you suggest?”

“About Clyde and Jonathan?” she squeaks.

I manage to hold in a wince.

Felix simply sniffs, this one annoyed. “About the drapery.”

A test. Felix loves to pop these little questions on us. Elena’s mouth opens, her gaze darting around the table as if one

of us will mime the answer and save her.

As tests go, it isn’t a difficult one. The rest of Mrs. Peyton’s living room color scheme is set: deep, glossy mink-colored walls, low-slung ebony furniture covered in gold mohair, and dusky blue satin.

The silence stretches as Elena starts sputtering. “Um, well...”

Felix sighs and turns to me. “Fiona? Thoughts?”

My mind turns as I tap my pen on my sketch pad. This is my chance to gain ground and remind Felix what I can do. “I’m thinking

of that Jonathan Alder chain-link print you fell in love with. The gold and cream—”

“Cream one,” Elena cuts in. She has her phone out and is frantically tapping on it as she beams at Felix. “Fiona and I were

talking about it this morning, if you can believe it. I was saying how timeless that pattern was.”

My mouth is stuck open. Frozen in shock. Inside my head, I scream at myself to snap out of it, say something. She’s already

holding up her phone. “If you like that idea, I’ve got a supplier on thirty-first who has it in stock.”

The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh, and I turn back to Felix, who is smiling.

“I do love that fabric,” he says, swiveling his chair back and forth. “And it would work well...” He sits up. “Great work,

Elena.”

Across from me, Alice lifts a brow, her gaze hard. Because I’m still sitting here like a boob. Only, what am I supposed to

say? This is real life. Shouting, “You lying hag!” will only result in me looking like a bitter nut.

My back teeth meet as I turn my chair and stare at Elena. She doesn’t flinch and gives me a big smile. Mine grows as well,

so hard my cheeks hurt. “You know, it occurs to me that the master is also cerulean blue. Surely Mrs. Peyton will object to

the color in her bedroom too.”

“Chances are,” Felix agrees from the head of the table.

I keep my stare on Little Miss Steal It. “What do you suggest for that, Elena? Or have I forgotten one of the many conversations

we had this morning?”

She flushes. “Well... I... We could...” She nibbles on her bottom lip.

“That’s all right,” Felix says. “I’m sure you can work it out with Fiona. Bring me a color scheme after lunch.” And as if

he hadn’t just metaphorically punched me in the gut, he stands. “Now I’m going to lie down. Unless the office is on fire,

I do not want to be disturbed.”

At my desk, I allow myself a moment to slump over, press my forehead against the cold glass surface. Coming back to work early

was a bust. But I’ve got time. Or I could just walk out. I picture it, how good it would feel. And then... What? What would

I do?

Thankfully, my cell ringing distracts me. My voice is muffled when I answer because I don’t pick up my head. “Hello?”

“Fi, darling girl, how are you?”

My mother. Her cultured, crisp English voice is both soothing and annoying.

Soothing because it’s Mom, the woman who held me when I cried, tucked me into bed every night until I was fourteen. Annoying

because she is never frazzled. She is perfect. Oh, I know she has her failings, but to me, she’ll always be stunning and cool,

not a blond hair ever out of place.

“Hey, Mum. I’m fine.”

“You sound like you’re facedown in bed.”

Close enough. I sit up and smooth my hair back from my face. “Bad connection. I’m at work.”

“Lovely. I’ve been meaning to tell you how proud I am of you for landing that position. I couldn’t be happier, Fiona.”

Right. A ragged breath gets caught in my chest. “Thanks.”

“And you know, if you keep at it, soon you’ll have your own design firm.”

She’s being encouraging. But I know her enough to hear the slightly desperate tone under it all: Please, Fiona, keep at it. Don’t quit this time.

I heard the same tone every time I changed my major. Every time I asked to learn a new instrument or join a dance class. I

can’t even blame her, because I quit all of those classes and camps, usually just a few days into them.

Grimacing, I turn my chair away from the open office space and face the window.

My mom keeps chattering. “And how were Ivy and Gray? And my little poppet?”

“All fine and well. Leo is getting bigger.” And louder.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Mom had been there for the birth and instantly became a doting grand-mum—as she insists on being

called. “I tell you, he has my eyes.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Mom, his eyes are blue.” Hers are green like mine.

“Most newborn babies’ eyes are blue. His will turn. And they look like mine.”

Leo isn’t exactly a newborn anymore. And anyone can see that Leo has Gray’s eyes. Down to the exact shade of blue. But I don’t

argue.

“How’s the business?” I ask instead. My mom owns a chain of bakeries. Ivy was supposed to go into partnership with her but

chose to be an agent like our dad instead.

I don’t know who was more shocked by that—Mom, Dad or me. Ivy hated how Dad’s business pulled him away from our family almost

as much as I did. Yet, here we are, Ivy as an agent and, hell, me falling for a football player.

As my mom talks about her shops, the image of Dex’s grin—so rare but so gorgeous, framed by his lush, dark beard—pops into

my mind. My palms tingle with the need to run over it, to smooth over the massive swell of his hard, hot chest.

I swallow and focus on Mom. She’s telling me about a yeast delivery gone bad, her voice breathy with exasperation, and I blink

hard. I miss her. I miss Dex. I miss everyone.

I clutch my phone, feeling lost and abandoned, which is ridiculous. No one has left me behind. I’m here because it’s where I chose to be. This is life. Like some messed-up game of Boggle, it shakes us all up, and we land where we fall.

This isn’t even close to the first time I’ve felt this way. But usually, I’m able to distract myself with friends and parties

and laughter. Only I can’t find it in me to laugh anymore. And I wonder if this is the only way life can be. Because I want

some fucking control back.