“She wanted to talk it out. Have a chat. She loves me, but she’s not in love with me,” he says, sketching air quotes.

I seethe. “That’s such a cop-out.”

“That’s not all.”

“What else?”

“She told me her sister is ill, and she doesn’t have enough money for the medical treatment, and that’s why she wanted to sell the firm.”

I scoff. “Lillian is ill? That’s a barking lie.”

“What if it’s true?”

I grip his shoulder. “Don’t believe her. She lied to you.”

He nods, his breath coming out shakily. “She tried to tell me it was the only way and couldn’t I look into my heart to help? And I said I would have helped her if we were together. She could have come to me for help.”

“What did she say?”

“She said she felt like she was always coming to me for help. That she needs to be able to do things on her own. That’s why she left.”

He winces, and I squeeze his shoulder again. “She’s messing with you, Erik. You know that, right? This all seems incredibly dodgy.”

“Does it?”

“Completely. Don’t let her manipulate you.”

His shoulders slump. “I don’t know how this went pear-shaped. I don’t know why I didn’t see it coming. I had literally no fucking clue she would take a knife from the butcher block and stab the serrated edge into me. And that’s how it feels now, Chris. That’s how it fucking feels.”

For a flash, I can hear Elise saying those same words. They sound precisely like how she must have felt when she learned of her husband’s transgression. And in this moment, my anger, fueled by the short straw that two people I care about were handed, intensifies. I hate that they were duped.

Erik’s voice breaks, but if tears were coming, he tamps them down, drawing a sharp and angry breath. “It’s not right that you and Elise are putting on this whole production for me.”

“I think I can manage pretending to like Elise a little bit,” I deadpan. If he only knew the half of it—that I’m pretending not to be completely mad about her.

“Yeah? It’s not so awful?”

“We’re faking it fine, thank you very much. Enough about me. I want to know how I can help you. Do you still love her?”

He moans and shakes his head, then nods. “Yes, no. Yes, no. I want to be over her.” He pushes out a strained laugh. “Can you get me a pill? Something, anything to make me not feel a thing for Jandy?”

I smile faintly. “If there were one, I’d get it. But in the meantime, want to go to the movies and see a stupid Will Ferrell comedy? Those always make you laugh.”

He smiles, as if he can’t help it. “Talladega Nights?” He places his hands together as if praying. “If there’s a goddess, then some theater will be showing Talladega Nights.”

“That theater is known as Netflix, I believe.”

But there’s also a theater in the second arrondissement where we find a Will Ferrell “retrospective” is underway, so I steal him from the office and take him to see Ricky Bobby tear up the racetrack.

If this isn’t fate looking out for us, I don’t know what it is.

When Friday arrives, Elise texts me to tell me she’ll be at the field a few minutes before the game starts.

I write back that I’ll see her when she arrives, and I’ll kick a goal for her. I finish my stretches and look around once more.

A woman calls out my name. But the voice isn’t the one I want to hear.

I look over to the edge of the field to see a tall woman with high cheekbones and dirty-blond hair.

“Christian, can we chat?”

It’s my brother’s wife.

29ELISE

My stomach flip-flops, and my hands are cold. I press the elevator button for the sixth floor, wishing I wasn’t so nervous.

But this chance feels so big.

The Luxe isn’t only a potential client. It’s a potential client who could vault me to the next level. This is the goal I’ve been reaching for.

As I wait, my phone dings and a new note from John Thompson pops up on the screen. My nerves twist higher as I open it.

Time to grab that drink? :)

I close it. I don’t want to be thinking of my competition when I walk into Nate Harper’s office at his request. I do my best to sweep John from my mind.

The elevator arrives, and I step inside, shutting off my phone as I head to Nate’s floor. The receptionist escorts me to his office and asks if I want anything.

“Water would be great.” My throat is a desert.

I glance around at his office, a handsome space with a leather couch, a black desk with only a framed photo of what looks to be Nate and his wife, and a manila folder on the wood surface. Pictures of his hotel properties from around the world adorn the walls, as well as another shot of the pretty blond woman with her arms around him under a sunset on the beach. They look happy—100 percent, genuinely happy. I can see it in their eyes.

Nate strides in with a glass of water and hands it to me. “Here you go, Elise,” he says with a smile.

I take a gulp and set down the glass, then shake his hand.

“Please take a seat,” he says, and nerves scale my body again as I sit.

He leans against the desk. “I met with a few agencies, and it came down to you and Thompson Group.”

My shoulders tense. Then, a horrid idea smashes into me. Should I have met with John Thompson after all? Would that have helped? Did I miss a chance again, even though all my instincts told me to stay the course? But meeting with the competition during the pitch phase isn’t wise. It’s not how it’s done.

“We will be outsourcing some of the media work to his shop,” Nate says, and I hold my breath. “He really knows some aspects well. But the bulk of the work is yours, and I’m pleased to offer Durand Media the contract to oversee the advertising campaign for our new European resort rollout.”

I float to the sky, a thousand stars twinkling brightly. “I’m so thrilled. I can’t wait to start.”