Page 14 of The CEO's Sweetheart Deal
"I'm sure you're about to tell me."
"I think you've got a thing for him," she says. "And that's going to make working together… complicated."
My head snaps up from the email I'd been pretending to read. "I do not have a?—"
The words die in my throat as I catch movement in my peripheral vision. Oscar stands in the doorway, hand poised as if about to knock on the open door, his expression unreadable.
How long has he been standing there? How much did he hear?
“I…” I try to say something to him, but the words don’t come.
“You look busy.” He gives me a terse nod. “I’ll come back later.”
“Oh, uh…”
But he’s already gone, and Sydney is staring at me with wide eyes. “Shit,” she breathes. “I’m sorry.”
“Shit indeed.” I drop my head into my hands. “Do you have a hole I can crawl into? I have some dying to do.”
Oscar doesn’t come back for whatever it was he originally wanted, but the afternoon crawls by in a series of increasingly excruciating encounters. I spot him in the hallway outside the conference room, deep in conversation with Cole and two other members of his legal team. He glances up, catches my eye, and I find myself suddenly fascinated by the potted fern beside me.
During the product development meeting, he sits directly across from me, asking insightful questions about our practices. I keep my answers clipped and professional, focusing on a point just above his left eyebrow to avoid actual eye contact.
By five o'clock, I'm jumping at shadows, convinced that every footstep outside my office is him coming to confront me about Sydney's embarrassing insinuation.
Gradually, the office empties. Marketing leaves first, then sales, then the accounting team. I stay glued to my desk, reviewing reports that can’t wait until tomorrow. The morning’s embarrassing encounter has made me slow, and there’s still plenty that needs to get done.
"You're still here."
I jump at the sound of his voice, knocking over my empty coffee mug. It rolls across my desk, threatening to fall before I catch it with fumbling hands.
Oscar leans against my office doorframe, looking unfairly good for someone who's been in meetings all day. He's discarded his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves to reveal tanned forearms, and loosened his tie. A lock of black hair falls across his forehead, giving him a rumpled, approachable look. He looks like someone just professionally styled him for the sole purpose of walking into my office and making me lose my senses.
"Someone has to make sure this place doesn't fall apart during the transition," I say.
If my tone bothers him, he doesn't show it. Instead, he takes a step into my office, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. "Mind if I join you? I'd like to go over these distribution numbers.”
The moment stretches, taut with possibility, before I break it by gesturing to the chair across from me. "Be my guest. It's your company now, after all."
We work in silence for a while, spreadsheets and projections on the monitors between us. Despite everything, there's a comfortable familiarity to the routine. It reminds me of late nights in college, hunched over business plans in my cramped apartment, dreaming of changing the world together. Back then, we were fueled by ambition and cheap coffee, our friendship strengthening with each challenge we overcame.
I steal glances at him when he isn't looking, noting how kind the years have been to him. The lanky college boy has filled out, grown more confident, more powerful. But beneath the designer clothes and carefully cultivated image, I catch glimpses of the person I once knew — the way he absent-mindedly taps his pen when concentrating, the slight twist of his lips when something doesn't add up.
"These projections for the SoCa market seem optimistic," he says, breaking the silence and pointing at a number on the screen.
"They're based on our pilot program last quarter. We outperformed expectations by seventeen percent."
"Impressive. What was the key factor?"
"Localized marketing. We partnered with community gardens, hosted cooking classes featuring our products."
Oscar nods, genuinely interested. "Not just slapping the product on shelves and hoping for the best."
"Exactly. Rooted Pantry has always been about connection — to food sources, to communities, to each other."
"That's what drew me to the company," he admits. "You've built something authentic here, Alice."
The compliment catches me off guard. "Thanks," I mumble, suddenly very interested in straightening a stack of papers. "It wasn't just me, though. The whole team?—"
