Page 102 of Six Month Wife
“Yes, they are. I'm so glad you enjoyed it.”
“I underestimated you,” Thatcher says, not quite smiling. “That doesn’t happen often.”
My eyebrows lift. High praise, considering she walked in here looking like she was ready to audit my soul.
“You’ve built something nice here.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound cool, like my stomach didn’t do a full cartwheel. “I’m glad you made a stop to see us. Come anytime, and we will take care of you.”
She surveys Citrine like a luxury appraiser, taking in the lighting, the product displays, and the calm. I brace myself for whatever truth bomb is coming next.
“I’m not here to invest,” she says. Just like that. Her voice is flat, and there's no sugarcoating it.
“Got it,” I say quickly, even though there's a tiny flicker of disappointment in my chest. It’s fine. She already told me that, I’m not sure why she had to make a trip here to tell me again. I didn’t expect her to say it like she was reading my last rites.
“That’s a compliment, in case you missed it,” she adds, and my ears perk. “You don’t need my investment. You’ve already made it. And I’ve got a lead for you that will put you in the next stratosphere.”
I blink. “Oh, okay. Thank you.”
“I support women-founded brands. And while your products didn’t exactly resonate withme?—”
Again, you've made your point...
“—I think they’ll resonate with a hell of a lot of other people. I’d like to introduce you to a distributor. She specializes in getting brands like yours into big-box retailers.”
I stare at her. “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
No flourish or build-up. Just a bomb of potential dropped casually into my lap.
She continues, “You’ve got drive and vision. Your branding’s still a little rough around the edges, but your formulas are good. Better than good. Whatever lemongrass oil your massage therapist used back there is so pungent and wonderful, I almost didn't need the massage. Bravo.”
For a second, I forget how to talk.
“I don’t even know what to say,” I finally manage.
“Say yes. Then get ready to work. Because if you think this was hard, the next part’s going to knock you off your feet. In the best way, I mean.”
A laugh escapes me, and I sound a little unhinged to myself. “I’m game. I judge my success by how tired I am.”
She studies me for a long moment, then extends her hand. “Well, we are set. Laura, my assistant, will be in touch.”
I shake it, firm and steady. “I’ll be sure to overperform again. I like to be underestimated.”
She almost smiles. “Then you'll do fine.”
When the door shuts behind her, I don’t move right away.
Last week, I was seriously considering scraping Citrine off my resume and pretending this was a quarter-life fever dream, and packing up and moving back to LA.
Now, I have a shot.
I look around Citrine, my weird little oasis of chaos and citrus and organically produced moisturizer, and let myself bask in it, in my accomplishment.
I walk back to my office while April and Cassie clean up the rooms. I'm going to be here a while, making sure we are on top of this.
I stare down at my planner, pages crammed with deadlines, meetings, shipments, and a to-do list that never seems to shrink.
