Page 12 of Red, White, and You

"It’s called running a business." She brushes a strand of hair out of her face, leaving a tiny smudge of frosting on her cheek that she doesn’t seem to notice.

"Some of us can't retire at thirty-four and spend our days doing endorsement deals."

There’s no real bite in her tone, but the comment still lands harder than she knows. She’s not wrong. Most days, my life feels like a brand campaign on autopilot.

"Actually," I say, leaning against her car, "I’ve been thinking about that."

"About what?"

"About what comes next. After Hart Health."

She pauses, hand on the driver’s side door. "You're leaving the company?"

"Eventually. I don’t want to do commercials and endorsements forever." I glance down, suddenly self-conscious. "It seemed like a good fit when they offered. Steady, easy. But the longer I do it, the more hollow it feels."

"Why not? It’s good money, right?"

I can’t tell if she’s teasing or testing me, but either way, I’m honest. "It is good money. But it’s not meaningful. It’s… a performance." I drag a hand through my hair, frustrationknotting my voice. "Today was the first time in months I felt like I was actuallylivingmy life, not just selling someone else’s version of it. I envy you. Your job matters."

Gigi studies me, and again I get that uncanny feeling she sees through all the carefully stacked layers. The charm. The calm. The company lines.

She shrugs, quiet. "I’m not saving the world or anything, but when Mrs. Wilkinson comes in for her Tuesday muffin, or when that little girl today got her cupcake… I don’t know. It feels like I’m making someone’s day a little better. And that’s enough for me."

It’s more than enough. It’s everything. And she has it—this deep connection to people that her parents want to dismantle.

And I’m supposed to help them.

But now I’m standing here with this woman, this incredible woman, and every second I spend with her makes it harder to remember why I ever said yes to her parents in the first place.

"If your parents saw you in action today, I think they’d be proud," I say quietly.

Gigi’s laugh is sharp and bitter. "My parents think I’m wasting my potential making glorified junk food."

"Then they’re idiots."

The words come out too fast, too blunt, but I don’t take them back.

"Phoenix—"

"No, I mean it." I stand up straighter, my voice steady. "I’ve worked with your parents. They’re smart—brilliant, even—but they don’t see what you’ve built here. This connection you have with people, thisjoyyou give them? You can’t replicate that in a boardroom."

She’s staring at me now. And I realize I’ve stepped closer without meaning to. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in hergreen eyes. Close enough to count the tiny freckles dusting her nose.

"You really think that?" she asks softly.

"I think," I say, my voice rough, "that anyone who can’t see how incredible you are doesn’t deserve five minutes of your time."

The air sparks between us, heavy and charged.

She looks up at me, her lips parting. Her breath catches. For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then I lean in—just slightly. She doesn’t pull away.

A car backfires somewhere nearby, loud and jarring, and the spell breaks like a popped balloon.

Gigi steps back, cheeks flushed. "I should go," she says quickly. "Long day tomorrow."

"Right. Of course." I jam my hands into my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "Thanks for letting me help today."

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