Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
“But she won’t talk to me!” It comes out dangerously close to a whine.
“She has exams,” Zoe repeats, but there’s something in her voice—a protective edge that makes me think there’s more to Darcy’s radio silence than academic pressure. “Maybe it’s not all about you.”
The espresso machine hisses, filling the momentary silence.
Zoe pulls her cup from the machine and takes a careful sip. “She doesn’t even have her phone right now.”
“Wait—why?”
Zoe reaches into her back pocket and shows me a phone with a familiar orange case on it. “Because I took it, at her request.” She meets my gaze directly. “She was having trouble concentrating.”
I drop my head. Okay, that must be my fault. If I hadn’t tried to get her to discuss our relationship, she wouldn’t be freaking out over team gossip. Not that I didn’t put the fear of God into my teammates, one by one. “For every inappropriate comment about Darcy that I hear, you will owe five hundred push-ups and a C-note for charity.” That shut them up fast.
“About this meeting,” Merritt says, sipping his drink. “You should go but just don’t sign anything until after you see Darcy. Make all the right noises but keep your options open.”
“That’s the right call,” DeLuca says, sitting up. Then he clutches his heart. “Aww, baby’s first big sponsorship! Aren’t we proud, fam?”
“So proud!” Merritt says with a smirk.
He can laugh all he wants, but he’s got several juicy sponsorships—
including one with a luxury watchmaker. They did an over-styled photo shoot of him with his shirt unbuttoned. And DeLuca has a lucrative deal with an airline, which is kind of dumb since he flies mostly on the team jet with the rest of us.
The doorbell chimes, and Chase perks up. “That’ll be Marnie.”
We all migrate toward the front door as Chase opens it to reveal our personal chef, arms laden with insulated bags.
“You’re all here waiting for me?” Marnie asks, wide-eyed. “I should raise my prices.”
“No!” we all chorus in unison.
“Kidding!” She laughs. “Merritt—double order of guacamole for you and Zoe. And Eric—I made those mini tacos you requested. They’re on top.”
“Mini tacos, huh?” Zoe asks from the kitchen. “Interesting. Are those for Darcy?”
“Of course they are.” I wouldn’t even pretend otherwise. There’d be no point. “Zoe, would you see that she gets these?” I open the cooler bag and pull out the container.
“Sure. Good choice,” she says, taking it from me. “She can eat them one-handed.”
“One-handed,” I repeat slowly. “Which matters because…?”
Zoe almost winces. Or maybe I imagined it. “While she’s studying. For exams.”
Ah. Of course. I check the time. “I’d better roll, guys. What am I supposed to wear to my big sponsorship meeting, anyway?”
“Something expensive,” Merritt says. “Make him pay up.”
I’m meeting Mr. Randolph at Balthazar, which is practically a New York institution when it comes to power lunches. It’s all dark wood and gold mirrors. It’s the kind of place that whispers money in French. The servers glide between closely packed bistro chairs like they’re performing choreography. It’s exactly the sort of spot Darcy’s father would choose—impressive enough to make a statement, but not so flashy that it screams nouveau riche.
When I’m led to the table, though, I get an unwelcome surprise—
Mr. Randolph is seated beside Tessa, of all people.
“You’ve met my new assistant,” the man says with a laugh.
“Sure have.” I shake hands with a frozen grin on my face. “How’ve you both been?”
“Can’t complain,” Tessa simpers, giving me a catlike smile.
Suddenly, the next hour feels long. I seat myself and glance at the menu, trying to get my head in the game. “Are you seeing Darcy before you leave town?” I can’t help but ask. This is supposed to be a high stakes lunch, but all I really want is a crumb of news from her. I just want to hear that she’s okay.
“Uh, not on this visit.” Her father chuckles awkwardly. “We’re only here for the day.”
“Tonight, we fly out to Portugal for a scouting trip,” Tessa says.
“That sounds fun,” I manage.
“Sure is!” She eyes her menu, and when the waiter returns, she orders the escargots and a Bellini.
I order the salmon and decline a glass of wine. Even alcohol can’t make this lunch less awkward.
“So,” Mr. Randolph says as soon as the waiter departs. “Let’s get this part out of the way—here is your contract.” He pulls a folder out of his briefcase and passes it over the table to me.
The folder is made of smooth, weighty paper, with Wayfair Properties richly embossed across the front. I’ve been waiting so long for just the right sponsorship offer that I’m tempted to stroke the paper with my hand.
Instead, I nudge the cover open, giving myself a glimpse of the first page. And it’s right there in the middle, in bold text—a seven-figure number, paid out over the next four years, for various photo shoots and appearances.