I nibble my bottom lip and return his wave, praying that I’ll bump—without actual physical bumping—into him again.
CHAPTER
FOUR
I SPEND THE ENTIRE WEEKEND NURSING MY WOUNDS, DEBATING whether or not to text Gabe (I decide against it), and watching all of the TV shows that are forbidden at home. Weirdly exhausted and bruised, I startle out of my Advil PM—induced coma at six on Monday morning. Watford is standing over me, breathing loudly, instead of hogging the whole bed and shoving his giant paws against my back.
He gives a soft woof of warning.
“What is it, Watty?” I whisper. It’s not that I expect him to answer, but I swear he understands the tone of my voice. “Did you hear something?”
He doesn’t move, and a strand of drool stretches closer to my nose, so I push him away as I try to figure out what woke us up.
My cell phone screen is glowing, meaning it must have been ringing. I’ve got a missed call from Aunt Em. She’s supposed to be in London until tomorrow. My heart races to an even higher rate. I can’t imagine her calling me this early without it being an emergency.
She picks up on the first ring. “Thank goodness. No one is answering their phones.” There’s beeping and shuffling in the background.
“Em?”
“Yes. Sorry. I’m just leaving O’Hare. I know it’s early, but you’d think one of my employees would be awake by now. I’ve already sent an email, but I need to make sure that it’s handled immediately.”
I legitimately have no idea what she’s talking about. “What email? What’s handled?”
“We’ve got a client issue, and I need someone to pick up a breakfast catering order.”
She’s calling about a catering order? At six o’clock in the morning? “Okay.”
My aunt knows me well enough to hear the question in my voice. “I’ve got Scott Van Baxter coming in at seven for a planning meeting. He’s got a problem client who made a mess this weekend, and I’m working on a plan to turn that around. It’ll be tight to get there from the airport, but I need to make sure breakfast is set up in the Lakeside conference room.”
I’ve only been interning for like five minutes, but everyone knows Scott Van Baxter is the biggest agent in the business. Working with him is a huge deal, so I understand Emma’s concern.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks, Mads. I knew I could count on you.” There’s a smile in her voice. “The order will be in my name at Allium, the restaurant on the Delaware side of the building.”
“Got it.”
“See you in an hour.”
I’m already moving before I hang up. I need to prove Aunt Emma right about the internship and so much more. Last Thanksgiving, I heard her whisper-arguing with my mom about me trying to get into the University of North Carolina. She was pissed that my parents didn’t want me to apply to her alma mater and wanted an explanation. My mom said UNC was suited for people who were naturally good at school, not people who study for three hours every night to get good grades in high school. Emma told her that I had grit and determination and they should support me. Then Cube walked in and I’m not sure how the conversation ended, but since then Aunt Em has been on Team Maddie—convincing my parents to let me intern for her company, sneaking me money for extra ACT prep courses.
I want her to know I’m worth that investment. I can be responsible and helpful and not a walking disaster.
On the bus to work, I text my brother Max and give him the breakdown of my weekend, including the crash. He sends me every laughing emoji, some GIFs of people walking into walls, and a link to a song called “Dumb Ways to Die.” If it had been anyone else, I’d probably be pissed, but Max doesn’t pity me. He laughs, and he’s loyal. He’s exactly the brother I need.
My heart pinches, and I realize (not for the first time) that I’m really going to miss him next year.
I make it to the restaurant just before seven, but it takes the waiter five minutes to find Emma’s order and five more to show me every box of breakfast goods. I know this is part of his job and that I shouldn’t be frustrated, but there’s a clock in my head that’s ticking louder with every second that passes. Is Emma back already? Are the clients already there?
The walk back to the office takes too long. The elevator moves too slow. And when it opens onto Velocity’s lobby, the front desk is unmanned. The giant white catering bags cut into my arms as I rush toward the conference room. Leaning close to the smoked glass door, I hear the low buzz of voices.
I’m late.
I lever the handle down slowly, turn to the side, and slide through the narrow door frame. From the corner of my eye, I see Aunt Em sitting on the window side of the table—the blinds have been lowered and closed tight—and across from her is a man who looks like he might play linebacker for the Bears. Partially hidden by his bulk is another body, slumped in the chair, arms folded, hoodie pulled up.
Problem client for sure.
Magazines and newspapers litter the table between them (probably more tabloids I’ll have to comb through later) and a slim charcoal folder with the Velocity logo is open in front of Em.
“The simplest way to solve this problem is for him to lie low for the next month, stay focused on his on-field play, and be advised—”
“This ain’t his first offense,” the agent interrupts with a surprisingly heavy Southern accent. “Heck, this isn’t his fifth offense. He can’t just lie low and hope people forget. We’ve gotta turn this around. Management isn’t happy. Sponsors aren’t interested. We need a Hail Mary. If we don’t get this worked out, I don’t know that anyone in the whole flippin’ world is gonna want him either.”
“Oh please,” says a disgruntled, gravelly voice. “Someone will want me. I can go to Eredivisie if I have to.”
I pretend not to listen as I set the first bag on the floor next to my feet and the second on the top of the sideboard. There’s way too much food for this little space.
“That’s not the point,” the agent says. “You’re too valuable for some backwater Dutch city. You’re worth too much for MLS.”
“It all comes back to your cut of my paycheck, doesn’t it?”
Cringing a little at the venom in the client’s voice, I slide the water jug and a stack of Velocity-branded plastic cups to the side so I can make more room for the coffee and pastries.
“You signed with me ’cause you knew I was the best. ’Cause you wanted the best!” A fist thumps against the table. I jump at the noise, and my elbow bumps the cups, sending them cascading off the edge and clinking into the metal blinds with more noise than I could have imagined possible.
I peek over my shoulder, hoping that my little disaster has gone unnoticed.
It hasn’t. All three heads have turned toward me.
“Sorry,” I whisper, but I freeze before I reach for the cups.
Em’s face is blank. The agent’s face is red. But it’s the third face—with dark, slightly curly hair peeking out from the edge of his hoodie, lips parted in surprise, and hazel eyes rimmed with thick black lashes—that has me stuck in a demi-plié.