Harper laughs again. “Honey, he asked you to a speakeasy bar with velvet booths. There is no non-date outfit for that.”
I open my closet anyway.
Immediately the panic returns full-force.
“Oh God,” I whisper. “What am I going to wear?”
Harper sighs dramatically. “That’s what I’m here for. Put me on FaceTime. Let’s ruin some men’s nights.”
I laugh helplessly and hit the video button.
“Well,” I say, holding up two dresses in despair, “It’s not a date if I pay…right?”
Harper chuckles.
“Elena. My love. You’re adorable. But yes…you have a date.”
And my heartbeat kicks into a new gear.
Just then, my phone buzzes again.
Colt: It’s a…hang.
Friday comes.
I am a corporate work professional.
I’m competent and unflappable.
That’s the version of me I am determined to inhabit today.
Unfortunately, that version of me seems to have called in sick.
I’m ten minutes into my morning, staring at a spreadsheet that keeps dissolving into a blur of gold lighting, velvet booths, and Colt Evans in a soft sweater looking at me across a cocktail table.
Get it together, Elena.
I straighten in my chair, smoothing down the front of my blouse. A blouse I absolutely did not pick because it transitions well into nighttime outfits. Didn’t even think about it.
A knock on my open office door pulls me back to reality.
“Morning, Elena.”
It’s Greg, my boss.
He’s in his fifties and friendly; the human embodiment of a Patagonia vest.
“Oh—morning!” I stand automatically.
He waves me back down and steps inside with a cup of coffee. “I just wanted to check in. You’ve really been on your game this week. Numbers look good. Team feedback is glowing.”
My eyebrows lift. “Really?”
“Absolutely.” He sips his beverage. “If you keep this up, that promotion we talked about? It’s looking more and more likely.”
A spark of pride shoots through me. A real, solid, grown-woman thrill.
“Thank you, Greg. I appreciate that.”
