Page 49 of I Think They Love You

Denz sucks in a shaky breath. “What can I do?”

He’s messed up before. He’s also found quick solutions. But this isn’t replacing a cake with dozens of cupcakes. It’s not forgetting a memory stick with the slideshow of the happy couple’s dead grandparents for an anniversary dinner. He doesn’t have a way out of this.

Eric folds his arms. “You could tell your d—”

“Not happening.”

Getting his dad involved effectively proves Denzisn’tready for the CEO position.

Eric exhales, thinking. “How about someone as connected as your dad? Someone who’s been in close contact with every client on his behalf?”

Denz doesn’t like where this is going. “Not her,” he says.

“She’s your best chance.”

“There has to be a better option.”

“Love that positive energy,” Eric deadpans. “Like it or not, she’s all you got.”

Denz swallows a scream. Fucking fuckity fuck of all the fucks ever given. Is this really how his dream dies? Over one stupid Post-it?

He drops his head into his hands, defeated. “Promise me,whoever inherits this office next, you won’t let them hang one of those silly ‘Keep Calm and Party On’ neon signs on the wall.”

Eric snorts. “Quit being dramatic.”

Denz comes prepared. He’s ordered a slice of raspberry truffle cheesecake from his favorite Michelin-star restaurant. Slipped on a cashmere sweater over his button-up. Meditated for five minutes to get rid of any bad energy. Put on a brave face even though he’s close to shitting his boxers.

He’s ready when Auntie Cheryl emerges from her office, Jimmy Choo clutch bag in hand, swiftly strutting toward the elevators.

He jogs to catch up. “Auntie!”

“I’m done for the day, nephew,” she says, heels clicking on the floor. “Run your new Insta-Snap-Tok idea or whatever by your dad.”

“No, it’s about—”

“Not interested.”

“But—”

“Goodbye, Denzel!”

“I have cheesecake,” he gets out before her finger can hit the down button. “Raspberry swirl and truffle sauce. Your favorite.”

Cheryl’s shoulders lower as she rotates around. She scrutinizes the paper bag in his hand, then his face. “What did youdo?”

“Nothing,” he answers.

“Quit the games,” she says, jaw tight. “It’s been a long day, these shoes are cute butpainful,and I’m going to be late.”

Denz takes her in. Her braids are woven into an elegant bun. Vintage pearl earrings complementing her understated makeup. A forest-green pencil dress under her wrap coat.

“Meeting with a client?”

“Date night with my husband,” she replies sharply. “Your Uncle O got us tickets for the opening ofChicago. We’re having dinner at Garden and Wine first.”

Denz nods, impressed. Orlando is the art director for the FoxTheatre. It’s not that Tevin is incapable of planning romantic nights out. But between his studio commitments and traveling to support all his Billboard-topping artists, he rarely has time for anything above a minimal-effort gesture. Cheryl never complains.

“Spill,” she sighs, annoyed, “or go away.”

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