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LACEY: So, am I a 'youngin' now? Just because you’re a little bit older than me?
LACEY: And comparing it to crack? You know that implies you're familiar with actual crack, which you're not
LACEY: Or are you? Is this the secret CEO stress management method? ??
ME: Haha, no Lacey, just kidding about the crack. And yeah, you're part of 'the youngins'. I'm a decade older, so you're definitely the young buck here.
LACEY: Age is just a number, right? You're only as old as you feel
ME: Wise words from someone hooked on enough sugar to knock out a horse.
LACEY: Don't knock it till you try it
LACEY: The sugar, I mean. Not the knocking out ??
LACEY: But honestly, I'm glad you liked the latte. It's good to see you loosening up. You should do it more.
LACEY: Maybe eventually I'll get you onto iced coffees instead of the whiskey you stash everywhere.
ME: Let's not rush things. I'm set in my ways, remember?
LACEY: Maybe it's time for some new habits. Life's too short.
I set the phone down, sighing. Lacey's right; life is short. A hard lesson I learned with my wife years ago.
I take a deep breath. If I were anyone else, taking life less seriously might work.
But leading an entire ecosystem of jobs, contracts, and stakes, being nonchalant isn't just unwise; it's a risk I can't afford.
The future of the entire Seattle Storms organization rests on my shoulders. Any mistake could be catastrophic.
As for vanilla lattes...
I push the cup away, opting to stick to what I know.
Simple and straightforward.
I wrap my hands around my whiskey glass, leaning back with a long sigh, taking another swig. Ignoring the sharp alcohol bite, I refocus on work, pen in hand.
Chapter Eight
LACEY
I'm jolted awake by the soft click of the door, my eyes flickering open. It takes a few seconds before I remember I'm on Aidan's couch.
The sun has long set, casting shadows over the living room.
I sit up and stretch, letting out a groan as my sore muscles protest. I check my phone; it's 9:30.
Squinting against the room's solitary light, I see Aidan shuffling in, looking every bit the weary executive.
His brown eyes are heavy with dark circles, his usually perfect hair a messy mop. He glances at me, then at the TV, both still on.
"Sorry," I say, reaching for the remote.
"Nah, it's fine. Leave it," he murmurs. "Didn't mean to wake you." He stops, jacket over his arm. "Grace still up?"
I smother a yawn, my brain snapping back to life. "Nope, finally out. Hair moisturized. Pink bonnet on. But you know, she might still want that goodnight kiss. Stealth mode if you don't want a bedtime redo," I warn.
