“Yeah. I want to hear your suggestions.”
She handed me a rinsed dish that was ready to load. Her fingers slid along mine, the soap making our hands and the dish slippery and slick. She almost dropped it, and I grabbed the dish with one hand and her wrist with the other.
“Good catch,” she panted, our eyes locked. We remained that way a moment before she reached for the faucet and switched off the water.
She considered my question a moment, then said, “Well, I’d start by sitting down with you and asking what’s working and what’s not.”
“Everything.”
She laughed. “Everything is working?” When I shook my head, she asked, “Nothing is working?”
I nodded, drying the crystal glass she’d handed me. But when she nearly dropped the next one, I said, “All right, switch,” and toweled off my hands before placing them on her hips and shifting her to the side. I lingered there a moment, the sight of her bare skin so tantalizing. Her shoulder begging to be kissed. It was so tempting, but I forced myself to let go.
“You can dry.” I handed her the towel.
“Okay.” Her cheeks were flushed, voice breathless. She shook her head. “Right.” She cleared her throat. “I hate that you feel that way. When I look at the Wolfe Group, I only see success. There’s always room for improvement, but I’d like to know why you feel nothing is working. Or more specifically, what is no longer serving you.”
I glanced outside to where Lea and Ian were laughing, drinking wine. I returned my attention to Sumner, her eyes so open, so gentle. Like a feather bed you could dive into.
“I’m…” Could I really admit this to her? Should I? After a week together, we were as close as we’d ever been. Maybe more so, the professional aspect providing additional depth and dimension to our interactions now that she was an adult. And the fact that she’d trusted me with her business idea made me more willing to share something in return.
“I’m fried,” I said, keeping my eyes focused on the sink. “I feel like I can barely keep up, and most days, I wonder why I’m still doing all this. I wonder what I’m trying to prove.”
She swallowed, and I would’ve killed to know what she was thinking. Had I admitted too much? Gone too far?
But when she spoke, I didn’t feel judged or pitied like I’d expected or, rather, feared. I felt understood. Or at least, I got the impression she genuinely wanted to understand me.
“In that case, I think we should start with one of the most basic—and important—questions. What does success mean to you?”
I opened my mouth, ready to answer, but she shook her head, placing her hand on my arm. “No. I want you to spend some time thinking on it. Not the answer you think you should give, but the one you really want to. I’ll send you an email with some prompts that might help you reframe this question and your answer.”
My initial reaction was to brush off the exercises, but I could see she believed they would help. And I was desperate enough to try. Especially if it gave me an excuse to spend more time with her.
“In the meantime,” she continued, giving my arm a squeeze before releasing me. “It may be useful to do a time audit.”
I groaned, but she wasn’t deterred.
“Now, hear me out,” she said and proceeded to explain her reasoning. By the time she’d finished, I was convinced. Though I certainly had questions.
“I already track some of my time at the office, but you want me to track my entire day in fifteen-minute increments?”
“Yes—work, personal, et cetera. Then we’ll get a feel for the areas that are dragging you down or ones where you’d rather spend more time. See—” She dried her hands on the towel and grabbed a journal from her bag. It was one I’d often see her pull out at meetings; she never went anywhere without it. “This is an example of one of mine.”
I scanned the entries, intrigued by this insight she’d given me into her life. I could see what time she woke up. When she ate lunch. How she’d spent her days—volunteering at a women’s shelter on weekends, drinks with friends.
“What’s this?” I asked, indicating an entry I’d seen several times before, marked “JJ.”
She attempted to snatch the journal from me, but I held it away, continuing to flip through the pages.
She reached around me to grab it, but I kept my back to her. “It’s nothing.”
Which only fanned the flames of my curiosity. “Really? I noticed itseveraltimes in your time audit. Must be important.”
“It’s…personal.”
“JJ,” I mused. “Could be a guy. Or a girl.” I watched her, gauging her reaction.
“If you must know,” she let out a puff of air. “It’smetime.”
