His thumb grazes my jaw like it has a right to be there, and I hate how much it feels like it does. “Why do you want this partnership so badly, Liv?”
The better question is why do I like it so much when he calls me Liv?
“It doesn’t seem like they respect you the way you deserve to be respected.”
And that’s the bucket of ice water I needed dumped over my head to pull me out of whatever trance I was falling in. “My reason hasn’t changed, Logan. I want to be partner. I deserve it.”
“But why?” His voice softens, and he drops his hand. “It seems to me like you’re doing all the work and they’re taking all the credit. Couldn’t you leave them and take your clients with you?”
“No. I have a noncompete. I couldn’t touch any of my clients for a year. And then I’d still have to pay the firm a percentage of my commissions.” I don’t tell him how much I’ve thought about it. Or about the research I’ve done into setting up shop on my own as a sports crisis manager, not an agent.
There is no noncompete for that.
His thumb skims my lower lip like it did this morning, and the temperature in the room spikes. “Just saying I think you’re too good for them, Olive.” He stands and scoops Maggie up in his arms. “Hell, you’re too good for me too. So, you obviously don’t know what’s good for you. Come on.” He holds his hand out for me. “Let’s get you fed before you have to go.”
I let Logan pull me to my feet, ignoring the shift beneath them.
Distance.
Maybe a little distance will do us good because I’m not sure when it happened, but I think I hate my husband just a little bit less today.
OLIVIA
So . . . Did you get it?
Hello? Livvy! Did you get the promotion?
Are you the newest partner?
Olivia St. James, you better answer me.
Oh shit. Are you still in Chicago?
Liv, seriously, answer me.
It’s way past one.
The wedding is in three hours.
Where the hell are you?
My fucking flight just landed.
On my way home now.
See you soon.
Dude. You better not be late.
But seriously... Are you a partner or not?
Not.
—Text from Serena to Olivia
The driver stops the car, and I don’t bother waiting for him to get out. Grabbing my carryon and purse, I throw a thank-you to the man who’s managed to make me carsick in the short drive from the airport to the ranch and breathe a sigh of relief that at least I made it in one piece.
“Livvy,” Pops calls out, as the car pulls away and I suck in a deep lungful of air. It smells different here. Like apples and rain, and after my shitty day, maybe a little like home. Something I’ll overanalyze later. Funny, I seem to be thinking that a lot lately. “You’re gonna break your neck in those heels, darlin’.” He reaches out with an infectious grin, his old Nobles ball cap molded to his head and fraying at the edge of the bill shadowing his face from the sun but doing nothing to hide the determination in his eyes. “Give me your bag.”
