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“Thank you.”
Chantelle leaves us to get settled and I slide in next to Emery. Despite her worries, she looks gorgeous. Her blue hair is pulled back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck and a few strands fall out around her face. She’s wearing some makeup—enough to enhance her eyelashes and bring some pink to her cheeks. Something shimmery sparkles on her eyelids when she blinks.
“You’re staring at me,” she says, her hands going to her face. “Have I got something between my teeth?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No, you don’t. Do I need to get a drink into you before they arrive?”
Emery nods. “Yes, please. I swear, I’m not normally like this. I’ve done investor presentations and sat on panels at gaming events and...” She lets out a frustrated growl.
I signal to a passing waiter and order us both one of the restaurant’s signature cocktails. “Why is this different?”
“I don’t know. I’veneverstruggled with confidence before, but when my last game tanked and I couldn’t go online without getting ripped apart...” She sighs. “I feel like I got knocked over and I’m struggling to get back up.”
The vulnerability in her voice takes me by surprise. Emery isnota vulnerable person, at least not from what I’ve experienced to date. Maybe last night did change things, even if neither of us is willing to bring the subject up.
“Everybody stumbles in their career,” I tell her. “My first show was a disaster.”
She raises an eyebrow like she doesn’t quite believe me. “Really?”
“Uh, yeah. My mum gave me the opportunity to run a show by myself, and I included a few of my art pieces. I barely sold a thing and I had one client tell me that my painting looked like a cheap print from IKEA.”
Emery gasps. “No.”
“To my face,” I say, shaking my head. “He didn’t know it was my painting, so I can’t claim that he was trying to be cruel. But, yeah, it stung. I’d poured my heart and soul into that thing.”
“People are assholes.”
I shrug. “Art is subjective, and the artist who tries to please everyone ends up pleasing no one.”
Emery cocks her head, staring at me like she’s suddenly seeing a different person in front of her. I try to ignore the warm burn low in my belly, because being looked at like that would make any man feel like king of his domain.
“You know,” she says. “I think that’s what happened with my second launch. I was so worried about living up to the heights of the first one, I read every critical review and watched every video I could find where people were talking about it. Then I tried tofixthe problems people raised.”
“Were they actually problems, though?”
“Some of them, maybe. But largely, no. It’s just personal preferences and tastes. The first game was a hit. But instead of trying to do the same thing but better again, I was worried about pleasing all these reviewers.” She lets out a huff. “And that resulted in a game without a strong vision or voice.”
“See, you need to trust your instincts. Youknowwhat you’re doing,” I say.
“Thanks.” She bobs her head. “Did your second show go better than the first?”
My second show was the first one after my mother died and I’d made a promise to myself that if I didn’t make it profitable, then I’d pack up the whole thing and walk away. Nothing like setting concrete blocks on your back to see how one works under pressure.
“I sold every single painting,” I tell her. “Even my shitty IKEA print.”
“Good for you. I bet it looked nothing like an IKEA print.” She laughs and the sound is like champagne bubbles. “Hey, I was thinking, if we’re not out too late tonight, you could always come back to mine and play a round of the prototype with me.”
Emery’s dark eyes lock on to mine and something bright and electric zings through me. I’m breaking down her walls and getting a glimpse inside, a glimpse behind the spikes. For the first time in so many years, I couldn’t even pinpoint a date, I’ve got a fluttery feeling inside me. It’s so foreign at first I almost don’t recognise it.
Excitement. Anticipation.
How long has it been since I wasn’t running on autopilot? How long has it been since I was eager to know more about another person? How long has it been since I thought about something other than work?
This is work.
And yet, something inside me knows it isn’t.
“I’d love that,” I say, noticing that our guests are being led to the table. I reach for Emery’s hand and squeeze. “Ready to woo our clients?”
