She’d barely said a word, just went pink when he gestured down the table and gave her the credit.
But she’d been wearing her own work — one of the sample tennis sets from the athleisure capsule, skirt hitting mid-thigh over opaque tights, fitted zip-up with striped cuffs.
It made half the room sit up a little straighter.
Her sketches had that same quiet confidence. It was all bold, unfussy shapes, movement built into the seams.
While the board murmured approval and moved on to margins and projections, I’d found myself watching her instead of the numbers, tracking the way she smoothed a hand down the front of that jacket like she still couldn’t quite believe she’d been the one to design it.
That night, after Penelope was asleep, I’d pulled out the packet she’d handed out and looked at it again. And again. Somewhere between the third and fourth time I flipped through those pages, I realized I was done pretending we could keep her buried under a mediocre line lead.
Sparkks Sports is about to step into a different league. We need designs that actually deserve to stand on the field.
I just haven’t had time to tell Carly that yet.
My ears pop as the elevator rises from the parking level to the ground floor.
It slows, then dings.
I step forward as the doors slide open?—
Something slams into my chest hard enough to rock me back a step.
“Shit—” I grunt, grabbing the door frame on instinct as hot liquid splashes across my shirt, my tie, my coat. The coffee cup she’s holding folds, the lid popping off.
“I-I’msosorry?—”
I look down.
There’s a brown stain blooming across the front of my shirt, seeping into the cotton.
But more importantly,it's Carly Drake.
She’s stumbling back from me, eyes wide, mouth parted, both hands still clutching the cup like she can catch the spill after the fact.
For a split second, all I can do is stare at her in her trousers that are definitely from last year’s yoga line, her black top tight, her zip-up the same one from the meeting. Her brunette hair falls around her shoulders in waves, her makeup light, her cheeks bright pink, and she looks just as attractive as she did last week.
It shouldn’t affect me.
It does.
Then the slow burn of hot coffee seeps through to my skin, and my brain kicks back on.
“It’s fine,” I say, moving sideways from the puddle that formed beneath me. “You alright?”
“Yes. No. Maybe? I don’t—I’m fine.” She steps back quickly, cheeks flaming, grabbing for a stack of tissues from the little cart by the elevator. “You’re not fine. I ruined your shirt. And your coat. And your entire morning. I am so, so,sosorry, Mr. Sparkks.”
The last part comes out small, like she’s just realized who I am.
Around us, life moves as normal. The receptionist glances over, then looks away in that practiced“I saw nothing”way. Someone in a Sparkks puffer jacket detours around the coffee spill.
“It’s fine,” I say again, looking down at the spreading stain. The fabric sticks unpleasantly to my skin. “Accidents happen.”
A strangled noise escapes her, halfway between a laugh and a whimper. She dabs at my coat with shaking hands. “I’ll pay for dry cleaning. Or a new jacket if this doesn’t come out. Or I’ll?—”
“Carly.” I say her name evenly.
She freezes. Her eyes flick up to mine. “You know my name?"
