Page 4 of That Moment
“So are you,” he says, and it should help, but it doesn’t. “I’m sorry,” he says again.
He reaches for the check, neither of us saying anything else. There is nothing left to negotiate. When he stands, I stand too, and he ushers us out of the restaurant.
At the curb, he shoves his hands into his pockets. “You’ll be okay?”
“I always am.” I smile, bumping his shoulder playfully to let him know that there’s no bad feeling between us.
He hesitates, then steps in and kisses my cheek one last time. “Goodbye, Adrienne. I do hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I hold my posture until he’s gone. Then, I exhale slowly, as if I do it wrong, the whole city will watch me fall apart while I wait for my ride-share to pull up. I laugh once, drop the earrings into my bag, and remind myself that Iwillbe fine, I'm always fine. But then that thought… the one that’s been circling my brain for a while now, the one that I keep avoiding, comes creeping back in.
Maybe I'm the problem. Maybe all the years of lying to myself about what I really want have taken their toll.
But before I can spiral down that path too far, my ride pulls up.
The drive home is quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you narrate your own life just to fill it. The low hum of talk radio isn’t enough to drown out the thoughts circling my brain.
At least you won’t have to pretend to care about batting averages anymore or figure out how to be Mrs. Outfielder, forever clapping politely from the wives’ section.
The jokes come easy, but the ache, not so much. Because underneath the sarcasm is the truth I can’t shake: no matter how polished I look on paper, no matter how perfect my resume or my lipstick, love keeps slipping through my fingers.
If there’s one thing I know, though, it’s that no longer am I letting momentum choose for me. If I say yes to anything this year, it will be because it’s right.
My phone buzzes in my clutch. I flip it open, reaching inside to check my screen, half-expecting Keegan’s name. Maybe he's had a change of heart, but no. Instead, one missed call glows up at me.
Scotty. I laugh, startled, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth.
Of course, he’s calling me right now.
It’s like the man has a sixth sense. Like he knows I just walked away from yet another breakup that he’ll have to help nurse me through over beer and sarcastic, sexually charged innuendos. It’s our game, a kind of fucked up one that we continue to play over the years, both too scared of actual commitment or admitting that maybe there is something more between us than just charged hormones.
“God, you must have a radar for single Slades,” I mutter, shaking my head. Years of circling, of flirting too long, of joking about things neither of us ever let happen.
But my chest hums with that same underlying question that I refuse to entertain. Because Keegan was right, I deserve someone who can give me more, and I know damn well that isn’t Scotty Bescher.
Chapter 1
Adrienne
Present Day…
Numbers should be my love language. Clauses too. I am fluent in indemnification. I can negotiate an escrow in my sleep. Normally, the neat stacks on my glass desk are soothing the way a lined arena is soothing before a barrel race.
Today, the letters blur.
I blink at a paragraph I wrote and approved two days ago, and all I see is the way grease glints on a forearm when sunlight hits it. All I hear is a voice, low as an engine at idle, teasing me.
You are not a teenager. You are Chief Legal Counsel. Focus, Adrienne.
I sit up straighter, as if posture can scare away a fantasy of Scotty. I turn around to look at the several framed prints of my family lining my office walls. Every time I struggle to regain focus at work, I remind myself of who I’m measuring up to. It’s like a legacy of greatness for me to aspire to.
But my favorite picture sits on my desk. I turn back around and grab the frame. It’s Dad roping with Uncle Drake at the annual Slade Charity Rodeo and four-year-old me on his shoulders, holding up the trophy, determined that someday it would be me out there racing.
If there’s one thing I have always excelled at, besides kicking most of my male cousins’ asses in barrel racing, it’s having my shit together. Nobody was surprised when I got accepted into Northwestern and graduated Summa cum laude and then went on to graduate from Harvard Law Magna cum laude.
Just like nobody was surprised when I came back home and hit the ground running when it came to taking over Aunt Celeste’s position as Chief Legal Counsel at Slade. Just like nobody is surprised that at twenty-nine, I’ve let my career consume me to the point that the only semblance of a romantic relationship I have is my ongoing flirt-fest with Scotty.
But inside, it feels like I’m building a house of cards that is barely standing. I flip to the marketing addendum and reread Midas Distributing’s latest dodge. They green-lit “campfire energy” back in March, and now they’re pretending it’s a usage restriction. Fine. I draft a cure notice under Section 7.2—forty-eight hours to reinstate the approved copy, or we proceed to remedies. “Looping PR with a fallback line (“smoky caramel finish”) if they blink,” I say aloud as I type. My finger hovers over send while I debate calling Ken at Midas to give him a piece of mind when a soft knock interrupts my thoughts.
