“Well. It’s a tagline, not foreplay. But out of these offerings.” He taps his finger on the paper. “It’s the best of a mediocre bunch.” He’s voicing every tangled half-thought I’ve been able to form about these options but in a more succinct way. Maybe I need to hire him to do all my A-B decision making for this project. It feels like I’m too close to it.
“What’s next?” He takes another forkful of potatoes and washes it down with a mouthful of margarita.
When I don’t answer, he looks up. “What?”
“What are you even doing here?” Why do I sound like I’m asking myself that? “Aren’t you supposed to be back in Wisconsin?”
He shrugs like it’s no big deal, but the subtle shift in the depths of his eyes gives me a glimpse into a fragility that’s quickly replaced by that signature smirk. “I was too tired to drive home last night. Plus, I didn’t accomplish what I came here for. Big bro fronted for a hotel for the night.”
There’s one stark difference between us. We both live in the shadows of greater men, and while I do everything in my power to stand on my own feet, fund my own enterprises, Xavier seems perfectly content to spend his brother’s money.
“Family pact,” he offers as though guessing my thoughts. “We always said whoever made it big first would help out the rest of us until we got where we were going too.”
In theory, it’s a great idea. “Doesn’t that just open the door to the rest of you fucking around at his expense?”
Xavier snorts. “You clearly don’t know my family. We’re workhorses, we hate owing anyone anything. For the first twoyears of Roman being in the NHL I kept a ledger with every red cent he gave me.”
My brows twitch. “What happened in year three?”
He lifts his glass to Claudia and gives her the sign for ‘two,’ before he answers. “Roman found the ledger. Burned it in the firepit in the yard. Told me and my siblings not to keep score.”
No one in my family burns ledgers. We weaponize them. I drain the rest of my water before finishing the end of my second beer in preparation for my upcoming margarita.
Assuming, that is, the second one he’s getting is for me, and he’s not planning on double fisting it. Could go either way.
“He’s right, you know. There’s nothing I wouldn’t give to my siblings and vice versa.”
He nods. “Still grinds my gears sometimes. But he insists I need to finish school, get a good degree, in case something happens and I can’t play pro hockey. Always scheming for worst-case-scenario is Roman.”
Claudia brings our drinks, lingering for a moment or two before picking up the empty dishes and retreating back to the busy kitchen. It’s a Saturday night, the place is packed to the rafters—it wasn’t quiet before, but a byproduct of dating Claudia was that Guac ‘n Roll was placed even more on the ‘local places to be’ map.
And yet, the swirl of background noise, the sizzling of skillets, the clinking of silverware and ceramics all blend into nothing. Xavier commands every ounce of my attention, like he’s the only one here.
He’s wearing a simple black shirt and jeans but looks like he walked straight off a runway in New York and into this restaurant. He slides back in the chair, oozing stress-free vibes. When he jerks his chin at the papers in front of me, the light catches his eyes. “What else do you need help with?”
“Color palettes. Slate and Steel, or copper and charcoal.”
He looks at the colors before looking at me. “I mean…” He swallows. “Slate and steel is clean, masculine, matches your ice prince rep.” His eyes flare with something. “But it feels like a piece of you you’re trying to move forward from. Copper and charcoal are warmer, richer, indulgent. Riskier.”
I avoid his penetrating stare. “I’m not sure I’m ready to take risks. Even in something as low risk as a color palette. I feel like I should stay… controlled.”
He puts the glass to his mouth, sipping on the best margarita in the state. “Would it really be so bad if you lost a little control?”
Yes. Because losing control feels too much like losing myself. And somehow, it feels like I already am. It’s nothing. I’m stress-testing the rebrand on someone outside the company, nothing more. And isn’t that enough control to give up for one day?
From the way his eyes spear me, I’m going to guess not.
If I pretend this is about logos and not the way his eyes heat when he says my name, maybe I can still pass for platonic. It’s just an opinion. One person’s. I don’t have to take it if I don’t agree.
Maybe that’s why I can’t pick. The man I was would choose black and silver. The man I might become can’t stop thinking about copper.
I’m a tough guy, composed, intimidating. But something about the way he stares, not at me butintome, makes me fight the urge to shift in my seat. Instead, I reach for my drink.
We fall into a comfortable silence while I draft an email to my design team telling them we’re back to square one with the rebrand. He watches me, like he’s fascinated to observe a person sip a margarita and send an email, like it’s not the dullest thing he’s done all day. What has he done all day? What’s he going to do after we’re done with dinner?
My heartrate picks up. What do I want him to do after I’m done with dinner?
“The company I’m merging with?”
