Page 21 of One Last Shot

“So tell me what’s going on with you.” The redirection works and as she launches into more of an update than I got the other day at lunch, I’m relieved to not have to talk about Aleksandr, to not explain our connection, and most importantly, to not admit how much his niece Stella has already stolen my cold, frozen heart.

* * *

“You wouldn’t believe the gossip going around in the office,” Morgan says. Over the video call, I can see she’s in my private office and I’m sure she’s got my soundproof door shut, so no one else in the very open loft-style office space we rent in downtown Park City will hear her. I only have three employees, but we’re a tight-knit group.

“Really? What about?”

“You.” Morgan pushes her blue light filtering glasses up her cute turned up nose. Her blond hair is in a ponytail with a three braids running from the front of her head to the elastic, and I’m reminded there’s almost nothing cute like that I can do with my curly hair.

“And why are people gossiping about me?” I ask in that voice I’ve perfected, theI couldn’t care less, but you might as well tell me anywayone that hides how desperately I always want to know what people are saying about me. Not because I like being the subject of gossip, but because knowledge is power and without it, you can’t control the narrative. And if there’s anything I want, it’s to be in control of my own life—make my own damn decisions, influence the way people think and talk about me, define success on my own terms. I need complete autonomy over my triumphs and failures.

“Because you were supposed to be on a plane back here yesterday and instead, you called a virtual meeting to tell us about a new event we’re planning for arguably the hottest and most successful hockey player in the NHL. How’d you pull that one off?”

“You think Alex is hot?” I ask, trying not to stumble over the Americanized name.

“Duh,” Morgan says, rolling her eyes, and I’m reminded how our six-year age gap feels like more sometimes. She’s my friend Lauren’s cousin who needed a job out of college, right as I was looking for an assistant. She was organized and flexible and willing to relocate, so I hired her. And she’s been a great assistant. But she’s so much younger at twenty-four than I was then, and sometimes it makes me wish I’d been that carefree.You were never carefree, I remind myself,not even before the accident, before everything else that happened to you.

“But ...” I say, and realize I have nothing, no argument to invoke. Sasha’s not hot in the traditional sense. He’s too big, too raw. His flat, smooth forehead is just the right size between his black hair and thick, nearly straight eyebrows. The bridge of his nose is wide and flat, except for the small bump where he broke it when he was fifteen. He has a perfectly square jaw with a cleft in his chin that you can’t see through the short beard he sports now, and a neck wrapped in thick, corded muscle that leads to the rest of his powerful body. “I guess I just don’t see him that way,” I tell Morgan.Lies.“I’ve known him since we were kids. Grew up with him, actually.”

“Are you serious?” she squeals. “That’s so cool.”

“Not really. Anyway, I was already here, so extending the trip a few days to try to nail down a location for the party just makes sense.” I glance up at the coffee shop I’ve made into my office today. I stopped here for breakfast, stayed for a midmorning coffee, and just finished lunch before my call with Morgan. “Were you able to make those calls I asked about yesterday?”

“Yes,” she says, and shares her screen with me so she can walk me through her detailed notes on the various location possibilities for each type of space I’m looking into: rooftop patios where we can bring in real furniture, empty lofts that can be totally redecorated, or outdoor garden spaces. Anyone can throw a party at a hotel, restaurant, or bar, but I’m looking to do something unique—something worthy of my name being attached to it. People don’t pay me obscene amounts of money to throw lame events that any event planner could arrange.

We decide on four locations that make sense for me to try to see while I’m here. “I’ve got until 6 p.m. tonight, any time tomorrow, or I could even do Saturday morning before I leave.”

My phone vibrates as a text comes in, and I glance down on the table to see Aleksandr’s name. I snatch it up so quickly I almost drop it.

“What is that look?” Morgan asks, her voice taking on a singsong quality like she’s caught me in the act of something I shouldn’t be doing.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, casually glancing back at my computer screen.

“Sure you do. Your face just got all dreamy, and you never look like that at work.”

Dreamy—pfft. It’s Aleksandr, not some guy I’m going to sleep with.

“Give me a sec, I need to respond to this.”

“Sure,” she says, and sits back in my office chair while I read Aleksandr’s message.

Aleksandr: I just finished practice and was thinking about dinner tonight. How the hell are we going to explain who you are to Colette’s sister?

Petra: We could just say that I’m a childhood friend who’s in town for the week.

Aleksandr: You make it sound so simple. How do we explain why you’re at a family dinner?

Petra: Tell the truth. Stella invited me and I couldn’t say no to Her Royal Cuteness.

Aleksandr: You don’t think they’ll suspect that there’s more to that story?

Petra: Not unless you or Stella tell them there is.

Aleksandr: Okay. I’ll talk to Stella about that. Thanks. I’ll see you at 6:30.

Petra: See you then.

“So you’re definitely coming home Saturday?” Morgan asks when I set my phone down and glance back up at the video call on my laptop.

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