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Despite my best attempts,Amber stays firmly on my mind for the rest of the weekend. I wonder what she’s up to as I’m sitting on my beanbag Sunday morning going through my inbox and triple checking my spreadsheets. I tell myself that old lie, that I’m helping future me out by coming in on a weekend, but that’s even starting to sound like nothing more than a weak excuse to me now too.
I leave the front door unlocked for Amber when I get in on Monday. This might be one of our last days working in the club alone. Amber has scheduled the contractors to start coming in and working from next week. Soon this building will be filled with painters, decorators, carpet fitters, and more. The list is seemingly endless, and it’s beyond impressive that Amber’s managed to wrangle it all together in just over a week. There are so many moving parts, even I feel overwhelmed with each confirmation email that comes in, but Amber takes it in stride and soon enough every task is accounted for.
Knowing this should fill me with joy. We’re inching closer and closer to the launch date and the fact that the club will soon start to resemble Amber’s concepts should make me excited. And it does…for a while. But that excitement is miniscule compared to the knot of anxiety growing beside it.
So much can go wrong from here.
Everythingcan go wrong. And it’ll all be on me.
Concepts are one thing, but what happens if it doesn’t translate to real life?
You’re going to need to trust me on that.
Amber’s voice echoes in my mind.
Trust me on that.
I want to trust her. I truly do. Logically I know she’s phenomenal at what she does. There’s an entiretestimonialspage on theZensi Designswebsite filled with Amber’s praises specifically, and I’ve seen firsthand just how quick, resourceful, and dedicated to the job she is. But it’s funny how quickly anxiety can eat away at logic. Soon enough, the only thing I can think about is that if this all goes wrong, it’s not on Amber’s head. It’s on mine.
It’s me who’ll have to step back into the New York office and hear everyone whispering about how they knew I wasn’t up for the task. How they can’t believe I got the job in the first place. How my uncle must have pulled some strings for me.
It’s not Amber who’ll have to face my uncle and the rest of the board.
No. Just me.
“Should I be worried?”
I jump. Amber is standing in the entrance to the office. She looks concerned. I realise that my fingers are wrapped around my tie, tugging it tightly away from my neck.
It’s an irritating reflex I’ve developed over the years. When I’m anxious or nervous or worried about something, I start to feel like I can’t breathe. Like I’m only seconds away from choking on all my fears. So I tug on my tie as a way to ground me, to remind me that I’m not actually choking, that the fears are in my head.
I drop my hand and smooth out my tie. “Not at all.”
She nods, looking decidedly unconvinced, and steps into the office. I must look as surprised as I feel because she laughs as she strides across the room and drops into her empty beanbag with a flourish.
She bounces on it a few times and then leans back with a small, satisfied smile. “This is pretty comfy.” She crosses one leg over the other and my throat goes dry.
Her skirt is short enough that it would probably make someone from HR run off to double check the employee handbook. It’s only an inch or two longer than the one she was wearing on Saturday night, and she looks just as good in it. I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to lean over and run a finger down one of her long legs so I can feel for myself if they’re as soft as they look.
She glances over at me. “Lost for words, Hawthorne?”
The way my face heats up, you’d think I was sitting directly under the sun. Am I really that easy to read? She’s been in here for all of thirty seconds and I’ve spent twenty-nine of them unashamedly ogling her. I open my mouth to apologise — seems like I’m doing that a lot lately — but she continues on.
“I know, I know. I’m back up here. Go on.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Get it over with.”
I frown. “Get what over with?”
“The gloating?” She shoots me a look that’s halfway between teasing and genuine. “You win. I’m back in the office. Aren’t you going to do a little victory dance or something?”
I huff out a relieved laugh. Maybe I’m not as easy to read as I thought. “I don’t gloat, Amber.”
She gives me a look that tells me she doesn’t believe that at all.
“But it’s good to have you back up here,” I tell her earnestly. The space already feels brighter with her in it. “What made you change your mind?”
Visions of Saturday evening — us in a dark corner, her thumb swiping over my lip, her hips swaying as she walked away — flash in my mind. Is she remembering it too? Or was it barely a blip in her memory? Something as inconsequential as washing the dishes?
She shrugs and the mask of indifference she’s wearing slips for a brief moment. Just long enough for me to register that maybe,maybe, she’s thinking about it too. “My back was starting to hurt.”
