The Game Plan
Page 39

A test. Felix loves to pop these little questions on us. Elena’s mouth opens, her gaze darting around the table as if one of us will mime the answer and save her.
As tests go, it isn’t a difficult one. The rest of Mrs. Peyton’s living room color scheme is set: deep, glossy mink-colored walls, low-slung ebony furniture covered in gold mohair, and dusky blue satin.
The silence stretches as Elena starts sputtering. “Um, well…”
Felix sighs and turns to me. “Fiona? Thoughts?”
My mind turns as I tap my pen on my sketch pad. This is my chance to gain ground and remind Felix what I can do. “I’m thinking of that Jonathan Alder chain-link print you fell in love with. The gold and cream—”
“Cream one,” Elena cuts in. She has her phone out and is frantically tapping on it as she beams at Felix. “Fiona and I were talking about it this morning, if you can believe it. I was saying how timeless that pattern was.”
My mouth is stuck open. Frozen in shock. Inside my head, I scream at myself to snap out of it, say something. She’s already holding up her phone. “If you like that idea, I’ve got a supplier on thirty-first who has it in stock.”
The air leaves my lungs in a whoosh, and I turn back to Felix, who is smiling.
“I do love that fabric,” he says, swiveling his chair back and forth. “And it would work well…” He sits up. “Great work, Elena.”
Across from me, Alice lifts a brow, her gaze hard. Because I’m still sitting here like a boob. Only, what am I supposed to say? This is real life. Shouting, “You lying hag!” will only result in me looking like a bitter nut.
My back teeth meet as I turn my chair and stare at Elena. She doesn’t flinch and gives me a big smile. Mine grows as well, so hard my cheeks hurt. “You know, it occurs to me that the master is also cerulean blue. Surely Mrs. Peyton will object to the color in her bedroom too.”
“Chances are,” Felix agrees from the head of the table.
I keep my stare on Little Miss Steal It. “What do you suggest for that, Elena? Or have I forgotten one of the many conversations we had this morning?”
She flushes. “Well…I…we could...” She nibbles on her bottom lip.
“That’s all right,” Felix says. “I’m sure you can work it out with Fiona. Bring me a color scheme after lunch.” And as if he hadn’t just metaphorically punched me in the gut, he stands. “Now I’m going to lie down. Unless the office is on fire, I do not want to be disturbed.”
At my desk, I allow myself a moment to slump over, press my forehead against the cold glass surface. So coming back to work early was a bust. But I’ve got time. Or I could just walk out. I picture it, how good it would feel. And then… What? What would I do?
Thankfully, my cell ringing distracts me. My voice is muffled when I answer because I don’t pick up my head. “Hello?”
“Fi, darling girl, how are you?”
My mother. Her cultured, crisp English voice is both soothing and annoying. Soothing because it’s mom, the woman who held me when I cried, tucked me into bed every night until I was fourteen. Annoying because she is never frazzled. She is perfect. Oh, I know she has her failings, but to me, she’ll always be stunning and cool, not a blond hair ever out of place.
“Hey, mum. I’m fine.”
“You sound like you’re face down in bed.”
Close enough. I sit up and smooth my hair back from my face. “Bad connection. I’m at work.”
“Lovely. I’ve been meaning to tell you how proud I am of you for landing that position. I couldn’t be happier, Fiona.”
Right. A ragged breath gets caught in my chest. “Thanks.”
“And you know, if you keep at it, soon you’ll have your own design firm.”
She’s being encouraging. But I know her enough to hear the slightly desperate tone under it all: Please, Fiona, keep at it. Don’t quit this time.
I heard the same tone every time I changed my major. Every time I asked to learn an instrument or join a dance class. I can’t even blame her, because I quit all of those classes and camps, usually just a few days into them.
Grimacing, I turn my chair away from the open office space and face the window.
My mom keeps chattering. “And how were Ivy and Gray? And my little poppet?”
“All fine and well. Leo is getting bigger.” And louder.
“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” Mom had been there for the birth and instantly became a doting grandmum—as she insists on being called. “I tell you, he has my eyes.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Mom, his eyes are blue.”
Hers are green like mine.
“All babies’ eyes are blue. His will turn. And they look like mine.”
Anyone can see that Leo has Gray’s eyes. Down to the exact shade of blue. But I don’t argue. “How’s the business?” I ask instead. My mom owns a chain of bakeries. Ivy was supposed to go into partnership with her but chose to be an agent like our dad instead.
I don’t know who was more shocked by that—Mom, Dad, or me. Ivy hated how Dad’s business pulled him away from our family almost as much as I did. Yet here we are, Ivy as an agent and, hell, me falling for a football player.
As my mom talks about her shops, the image of Dex’s grin—so rare but so gorgeous, framed by his lush, dark beard—pops into my mind. My palms tingle with the need to run over it, to smooth over the massive swell of his hard, hot chest.