Page 3 of Dead Set on You
CHAPTER ONE(UNDOUBTEDLY) THE MOST IMPORTANT NIGHT
What I can’t fix with a ten-mile run, I fix with checklists and ABBA. Which is why fifteen minutes before the most important night of my career begins, I’m sitting in a private booth at the Aviary, one of Chicago’s finest dining venues and my go-to for client dinners. “The Winner Takes It All” plays on my AirPods while I mentally run through the “Pitch-Perfect” Checklist I prepared between my morning run and breakfast.
Three more items stand between me and winning the account that could lead to the promotion I’ve busted my marathon-toned tush for years to win. Three items and I cross the finish line.
1.Share new marketing numbers—during appetizers
2.Deliver final pitch—before dessert
3.Keep Rafael in line—all courses
Most account managers would be anxious about the client dinner itself—the final step in a months-long process of wooing the CEO of OhLaLove, an online dating platform. Instead, it’ssitting across from Rafael Vela that has me wanting torun, checklist, repeatbefore dinner is even ordered.
Five years of working with him have taught me that I should plan for all possible scenarios when it comes to Rafael. Including ones where he swaps out my carefully detailed pitch slides for inspirational Disney quotes or ones where he says we’re on the same team—friends, even—and then steals the account we spent a year prepping for. No warning, no explanation, no consequences.
It’s the reason item #3 is on the list tonight—and why it’s been at the top of all checklists for the last six months. Because when our boss insisted Rafael and I work together on winning the multimillion-dollar, multiyear account, I had no choice but tosuck it up, buttercupfor 182 of the longest days of my life (even if you count the years I lived out of a basement room with mice as roommates and a steady diet of ramen and canned tuna).
So, of course, I said yes to the opportunity. The alternative meant showing the boss I couldn’t handle a challenge, which wasn’t an option, not when she dangled a long-awaited-for promotion at the end of it … for both Rafael and me.
As lead account managers, it’s the two of us in line for director of marketing. Refusing to work with him would have been a lot like gift wrapping the promotion for Rafael. And he’s had enough handed to him. Accounts. Clients. Discounts to major sporting events.
Tonight, my future rides on winning OhLaLove’s business—and winning the business means keeping Rafael from messing things up for us. For me. Again.
I’ve made it six months working behind enemy lines, watching Rafael like he’s a human land mine, triple-checking shared files for signs of sabotage, and keepingmypitch notes password-protected. Every team meeting, every strategy session, I’ve been one suspicious eyebrow twitch away from hacking his Outlook—just to make sure history won’t repeat itself. I’ve spent more time prepping backup plans than actual plans.
So what’s another few hours?
Enough to make my syncope kick in, that’s what.
I imagine fainting into a bowl of boeuf bourguignon, and my stomach churns like a walrus on laxatives. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s made me faint during a client meeting (a long story that involves scissors and a supply closet), but I swore it was going to be the last.
Because I’m Evie Pope, and I’m in control.
One Mamma Mia.
Two Mamma Mia.
Taking several Rafael-expunging breaths, I straighten and smooth out my black Ted Baker dress, the one I chose specifically for tonight. It’s sleek, professional, and the perfect dash of feminine.Dress for the job you want, and I’ve been doing it since my first internship, when I’d use any savings I could scrape together to buy business wear from thrift stores. My first work dress is still hanging in my closet—a reminder thateventually, the effort pays off.Eventuallyis a dinner and three checklist items away.
It’s just the one item, really, and he’s late, even though his apartment is conveniently located across the street from the restaurant (my one mark against the Aviary).
Casting a quick glance toward the restaurant entrance, I reach for one of the three wineglasses and stare down into the burgundy liquid. I don’t usually drink before the client arrives, but the longer Rafael hangs out rent-free in my mind, the more I’m tempted to chug straight from the bottle.
Onesip.
I bring the glass to my lips as a low, familiar chuckle floats over the din of chatter and dinnerware. I pause and listen.
Rafael’s deep, husky voice is a discernible rumble from the rest. Annoyance flares, momentarily dousing my anxiousness. I don’t look. I don’t have to. No doubt he’s taking his time joking with the hostess, talking about the latest sports stats with thevalet, and getting Chef to share a secret recipe because Rafael also “dabbles in cooking.”
With a sigh, I set down the glass, pop out my AirPods, and shove them into my purse as Rafael appears across the restaurant.
Tall and broad, he’s impossible to miss as he saunters over, walking alongside the hostess, who’s staring at him like he’s dessert. Can’t really blame her—it’s part of the Vela effect. All of it is: the signature navy dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned arms, and dark slacks that hug his thighs. The way he runs a hand through his dark-chestnut waves as if to tame them and then casually tucks it back into his pocket. The scruff he sometimes sports is gone, and in its place is a jawline that demands attention. His dark bedroom eyes focus on the hostess as he stops and leans in to say something. She laughs, nudging him playfully, her hand lingering on his arm.
I roll my eyes the moment Rafael’s gaze shifts and snags on mine.
It’s too late to look away, and despite months—years—of conditioning myself not to care what Rafael Vela thinks, my cheeks heat at having been caught.
He smirks wickedly, his full lips pulling to one side, and his dimple—his weapon of mass destruction—makes an appearance. Melts my embarrassment into something else entirely.
