Jesus, that would’ve beenonehell of an icebreaker.
“Here we go. Welcome.” Finally, I swing the door open, stepping back to give her plenty of space as she steps inside.
Then she freezes in the middle of the room.
“Uh…where would you like me?” she asks, her voice soft, like she’s already regretting this whole thing.
And that’s when it hits me—I wasn’t supposed to be showing her into the office. I was supposed to use the restroom, then rush back to clear the place before our appointment. Ten minutes, max.
But that was before the damn men’s room run-in.
“Sorry, yeah, let me just…” I mutter, scrambling to clear the chairs in front of my desk, shoving papers, samples, and motivational self-help books out of the way like I can pretend this isn’t the most awkward thing to happen since—well, since she walked in on me washing my hands downstairs.
When she remains standing, I follow her line of vision to her website portfolio gallery up on my computer screen.
“Okay, so we’re just going to pretend that’s not there. It’s for my research.” I chuckle, hoping she appreciates the levity. Especially since it’s at my expense. But nope. Nothing but the steely façade. “Please, have a seat.”
She hesitates, eyeing the chair like she’s trying to pick which one is least likely to ruin her precious cashmere. Finally, she sits on the edge of the left one, as if she might need to make a run for it.
I take a few seconds to unload the junk in my arms onto the file cabinet in the back corner, but as I go to settle behind my desk, something else occurs to me.
Why the hell amIso jittery?
Yeah, it’s been a while since Ebony and I last spoke, and we didn’t exactly part on the best terms, but we’ve known each other forever. We met when she was sixteen; I was eighteen. I was her high school history tutor. Her college tour guide. Even afterthatnight, we maintained loose ties.
We were friends, first and foremost.
This whole awkward exchange? Feels like we’re doing too much.
I skip my chair entirely, plopping down beside Ebony with a grin that I hope comes off as casual. “So…how’ve you been?” I say, keeping my tone light, conversational.
Tight spaces make for creative solutions, right?
If we can just talk for a few minutes before we dive into the work, maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe we can get back to being Ebony and Linc?
But the way she looks just past me—her eyes wide, mouth hanging open like I’ve just asked her to bend over the desk and go at it right here—yeah, maybe I miscalculated.
“What?” I laugh, playing it off. “I’m just asking how life’s been treating you. Are you excited to get back to planning events? What’s new with you?”
She’s silent for a moment, like she’s still processing—or rethinking—this meeting, then clears her throat.
“All right, so, Madison Manor in September…” she starts, her voice clipped, all business as she dives into venue logistics for the wedding. In a single fluid movement, she pulls a sleek silver iPad from her purse, her fingers gliding over the screen as she swipes through tabs with methodical efficiency.
I watch her, only half listening, noting her intense expression as she skips my conversation starter and opens a checklist. The heading jumps out at me:WINSTON LIVINGSTON.
“Wait, you don’t want to chat for a few minutes? Reconnect?”Remove the stiflingformality?
“I want to discuss this wedding we’ve been hired to ensure goes off without a hitch in three months.” Her response is so matter-of-fact. So definitive.
She doesn’t even look at me when she says this.
And just like that, a light bulb goes off in my head, flickering to life with a sudden jolt of recognition.
This Ebony? The former Zion & Zara debutante, now the poised, polished anchorman’s ex-wife with her sensible, elegant wardrobe and ice-cold smile? This Ebony, who doesn’t laugh anymore, doesn’t crack jokes? Who’s all business, all the time? She’s not encouraging this interaction. She doesn’t want to relax and build rapport with humor and shared experiences. Honestly, I don’t know if that’s a relief or a damn shame.
This Ebony, I don’t know her anymore. And she doesn’twantto know me. Hell,shedoesn’t knowthatEbony anymore.
“You’re serious?” The words slip out of me, unbound, and she almost meets my stare.Almost.
