I’m wearing one of the nicest work dresses I own and pretending I belong here.
Across from me, one of the league executives is talking through distribution goals for the first rollout of the NFL line while Grayson sits at the head of the table looking maddeninglycomposed, like he didn’t kiss me yesterday and then tell me he wanted to keep things professional.
He’s in a dark brown suit today, which is making my life significantly harder.
His watch flashes when he reaches for his glass. His jaw ticks when he thinks. His voice drops into that smooth, controlled register when he’s answering questions, and every time he says something smart — which is annoyingly often — I have to work twice as hard to keep my face neutral.
I have spent the past forty minutes hyper-aware of every single time his knee brushes mine before moving away again like neither of us is touching a live wire.
“Carly?”
I blink and look toward the man to my left.
Shit. “Sorry?”
He smiles politely. “I was asking whether the women’s concept work can scale across all team variants without losing cohesion.”
Right. My actual job. The one I should be focusing on instead of the shape of Grayson’s hands around a wine glass.
“Yes,” I say, sitting a little straighter. “Absolutely. The key is building a strong base system first and customizing outward from that instead of reinventing each collection from scratch. The silhouettes and performance logic need to stay consistent even if the color stories and team details shift. We’ll obviously have to take into account some of the more egregious color decisions from teams, but we can make it as long as we have a strong backup that we can reuse for things like that. I’m working on it.”
That gets nods around the table.
Good. I still know how to be employable.
I talk them through a few more design points, grateful when the conversation turns practical enough for my brain to click into work mode for a minute. Fabric weights, trim variation, fan appeal versus wearability, margin-friendly upgrades that still feel premium— this part, at least, I know.
I know design. I know how to sell a concept. I know how to act like I belong in rooms that demand that of me.
What I apparently donotknow is how to sit diagonal from a man who kissed me and then went ice-cold, without becoming pathologically aware of my own mouth.
By the time the server clears our plates, I need a break before I say something weird or spontaneously burst into flames. I murmur something about the restroom and push back from the table.No one questions it, but I feel Grayson’s eyes track me for a second before he answers another question.
The hallway leading there is quieter than the dining room, lined with framed black-and-white photos of old Boulder and lit by little brass sconces that make the lighting feel warmer than this place feels.
I exhale as I walk.One full breath, then another.
I’m fine,I tell myself.I am an adult woman, a competent designer, and a nanny, somehow. I can survive one lunch without visibly unraveling because Grayson Sparkks briefly forgot about boundaries.
I reach the turn near the restrooms — and stop so abruptly I almost twist my ankle in my heels.
Aaron.
For one awful second, my brain refuses to process him as real.
He’s standing near the host stand in a white button-down and green sport coat, blonde hair slicked back like he’s trying very hard to look like a responsible adult man instead of the same guy who cheated on me and then made it sound like I was inconveniencing him by existing in the space we shared.
And next to him is Sarah.
Same shiny black hair, same too-white smile, same polished, smugly-pretty energy I clocked the first time I saw them together after the breakup, back when I was still stupid enough to think maybe it had only just started.
But based on the ring on her left hand, it clearly hadn’tjust started.
My stomach drops so hard it feels like I missed a stair.
They’re engaged.
Of course the man who looked at engagement rings with me while apparently picturing someone else has managed to speed-run a whole relationship milestone with the woman he swore I shouldn’t worry about.
