Page 69 of The CEO's Sweetheart Deal
OSCAR
“Alice, where’s your passport?” I call into the other room. “It’s not in the satchel.”
“Right here… wait, no, hang on. It was right here…”
I hear her rifling through the bedroom drawers like a raccoon in a recycling bin, and I bite back a laugh as I shove a charger into my duffel bag and grab her sun hat off the kitchen table.
“We’re going to be late,” I call out.
“No we’re not,” she yells back. “Your own jet can’t leave without you.”
True. But I’ve still never been late to anything in my life — until I got with her.
All morning, we’ve been racing around the house like lunatics, flinging clothes into bags and checking items off the world's most chaotic packing list. Somewhere between her kimono coverup and my favorite sunglasses, we’ve lost both track of time and any semblance of cool.
This is how most of our life is now. Half madness, half magic. A year in, and I’m still not used to how good it feels to be in the middle of it.
She finally appears at the bedroom door, her hair in a rushed braid, phone charger in one hand, her passport triumphantly held in the other.
“Found it!” she grins. “Did you pack your toothbrush?”
“I packed three,” I tell her as she vanishes down the hallway. “You always forget yours, and I’m not sharing again.”
“That was one time!”
“And it was traumatizing!”
She appears again in the doorway, a shoe in one hand, a curling iron in the other, her hair already frizzing slightly from running around. I take a second to just look at her — this whirlwind of a woman I somehow convinced to build a life with me. Even though we’ve been going strong since we officially got together, I still can’t believe I get to call her mine.
“Do you have your sleep mask?” I ask her.
“Yes.”
“Sanity?” I grin.
She grins right back at me. “Barely.”
We laugh together, and I kiss her on the forehead before heading to grab her tote bag. The house still smells like the sandalwood incense she insists on burning when she’s packing - “for focus”, ironically – and I’m kind of sad to leave now that this place actually feels like a home, but I’m also excited for our anniversary trip… as well as other things.
One year ago, I almost lost her. Now she’s stashing her shoes next to mine in the hallway closet and leaving half-eaten protein bars in my car. We live together in my lakefront house now — our lakefront house, really — and it’s amazing how a space changes when love lives in it. There are plants in places I never noticed were empty. Warm light. Laughter in the kitchen. Talks about getting a dog or two.
We tumble out the front door in a tangle of duffel bags and airport snacks, me holding her suitcase and her carrying an iced coffee she’ll no doubt forget in the car.
“This is so us,” she says as we climb into the car. “Always early for work meetings, but somehow late for our own damn vacation.”
“I blame the incense ritual.”
“I blame your sock-counting obsession.”
As I start the engine, we’re both grinning. My hand finds hers between the seats and squeezes once. Simple. Certain.
The drive to the private airfield isn’t long. Outside, the trees blur past, spring in full bloom, the lake just visible behind us through the rearview mirror. Inside, my thoughts drift.
Rooted Pantry is thriving. The San Diego facility — what we’re calling our southern baby — is exceeding projections. We have a strong, compassionate leadership team. We’re sourcing from farms I used to only dream about partnering with. Alice’s influence is everywhere, from the new mentorship program she created to the subtle changes in how we manage staff wellness.
We’re working less and living more. And for the first time in my career, I’m not panicked about it. I’m proud.
Because Alice taught me how to breathe again. She made me want to breathe again. Gave me something to live for rather than something to work for.
