Suzanne Beecher

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Suzanne Beecher
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FIVE YEARS BEFORE

The night of my thirteenth birthday, I wrote the first of now fifty- two items on my bucket list. Today, I planned on crossing off #17: Get my first big job by 22, which came right before Buy my first apartment by 25 and somewhere after Kiss someone who makes my knees weak (still pending).

Most people my age were still figuring themselves out, but I didn't have that kind of luxury. I had lists that needed checking and timelines to stick to, and nothing—not love, natural disasters or other catastrophic events—was going to stop me. But delays? Those were harder to avoid. For instance, the blizzard currently rolling through Chicago.

It's why I was twelve minutes late to my first day at my "first big job"—half frozen and wholly mortified. This wasn't how I'd imagined my first day as a marketing assistant in one of Chicago's top marketing firms, working for the best in the business. I wasn't entirely sure they hadn't made a mistake hiring me to begin with. I hadn't gone to a fancy school or been mentored by anyone with a corner office. I'd just . . . worked. Hard. Relentlessly. Like my life depended on it.

And today, it did.

This is it, I reminded myself as I shuffled across the lobby of Lakeview Towers. Despite the snowstorm, the building bustled with people—my kind of people. People with dreams and aspirations, who didn't let a few snowflakes get in the way.

I deserve to be here.

I repeated the phrase the entire forty-seven seconds it took for an elevator to arrive, and then once more as I filed into the elevator after a group of people, most wrapped up in parkas and scarves. Me, though? I teetered on high heels and wore a Calvin Klein dress I'd gotten at Ross Dress for Less because not even snowmageddon was enough to keep me from making an impression. But it had been enough to make me late.

Stomach churning, I practiced my apology speech the entire way up to the thirty-eighth floor, and by the time I arrived at the entrance to Media Lab's lobby, I was convinced I had a fighting chance. Maybe. I just needed to get in the same room as my new boss.

Briefly, I stalled outside the glass doors, my reflection frowning back at me. The brisk wind had tousled my light-brown hair, which I'd carefully styled that morning, and my olive eyes were bright against my newly wind-chapped cheeks. My tote—heavy with my snow boots and the three library books I was absolutely going to return tonight because I couldn't afford late fees-made my body curve awkwardly to one side. I was serving unprepared assistant as opposed to boss bitch.

I'd have to change that.

I sucked in a deep breath, straightened my posture, and marched inside, shaking off my nerves like I hadn't just spent the last hour in a spiral of doom. Fake it until you make it.

I approached a shiny receptionist desk with a shiny assistant tucked behind a shiny computer.

"Good morning! I'm here for Dana Casper. I'm Ev—"

"She's with her nine o'clock." The curly-haired assistant—

iPhone dangling in her manicured hand—didn't even glance up. "You can wait there." She gestured to the sitting area in the lobby, her eyes never leaving her very important scrolling.

I blinked.

"Um . . . but can you tell her that I'm here? It's my first day, and of course I didn't mean to be late. I left an entire two hours early, but I forgot my—"

Liv Houston, per her nameplate, continued to scroll. I could have been invisible for all she cared.

I clamped my lips together, my pulse pounding with indecision.

I figured I had two choices: wait in the lobby to get fired or do something about it, like I'd always done. And if there was one thing I knew, it was that life loved throwing punches. I'd been dodging and countering them since birth, and I wasn't backing down now, not when my job hung in the balance.

I was Evie flipping Pope. I was going to—

"Evie?"

The male voice startled me so hard I yipped, snapping my head over my shoulder and clutching my twenty-pound tote to my chest.

"What in—" I stalled, and gawked.

A beautiful man stood—or rather, towered—a few feet away, looking the way you'd expect an executive at Media Lab to look, like they'd been plucked from the average masses because their DNA was superior in all ways: brains, bone structure, and boardroom swagger.

And him? He could have spawned them.

Dark hair, warm brown eyes, and sun-kissed skin that had no business existing in the terrible Chicago winter. A baby-blue dress shirt stretched over lean, toned muscles, broad enough to wrap me snuggly against his chest and strong enough to hoist me up against a desk and 'oh God, no'.

Heat flared up my chest, my neck, my face as my thoughts derailed into no-go territory because sure, I had my lists, but damn if I wasn't lonely.

"You 'are' Evie?" He smiled politely as I stared like an idiot. "Ah, yes," I managed, voice too high-pitched. "Evie Pope." I prayed for a quick death.

"Rafael Vela, but most people call me Raf." His grin stretched and curved, and—'oh Mamma Mia'—a dimple said hello as his hand reached for mine, engulfed it, warmed it, made me fixate on it.

"Hi, Raf," I said, still gripping his hand and knowing very much I needed to let go. My social skills were playing a game of hide-and- seek, and someone needed to find them.

Release! I commanded my fingers to disengage from his, to allow the blood to recirculate before I killed him, before I even had a chance to know who he was, what he did, and did he do it well?

Face flushing, I dropped my hand from his with an abrupt jerk, only to send my bag tumbling to the ground, half of its contents clattering and sliding across the marble floor.

And that's all I needed to snap out of it.

The cold must have iced my brain, because I was failing on the most important day of my life, and I couldn't afford failure. I'd be kicked out of my basement apartment if I failed. I'd have to continue working double shifts at Pauline's. I'd have to . . .

Nope. I needed to get my shit together.

Shaking off my fantasy-adjacent stupor, I sank to the ground, mumbling an apology as I reached for Jane Eyre, which had slid up against Raf's shoe.

He crouched beside me. "It happens all the time," Rafael said, picking up the book—part of bucket list item #16 ('read the classics')—and handing it to me.

"People making fools of themselves?" I asked, taking the book, careful to keep our fingers from touching again and making me stupid. I tried not to dwell on his nearness or his scent as I stuffed the book into the bag, atop my boots, not bothering to organize things'.'

"Yep. Special magnets in the floor. To get shit to fall and break the proverbial ice." He knocked on the marble floor, face serious.

Oh God. He was attractive 'and' funny. I was possibly in trouble.

"Hmmm. I'm afraid I only came prepared for icebreaker questions." I kept my features serious too. "My dream superpower. Most petrifying memory. That kind of stuff."

His lips twitched as he held out Anna Karenina. "We have that too. A list of a hundred icebreaker questions we go through, right after the tour."

"I didn't know about a tour." I tried to recall the numerous emails I'd received, printed, and highlighted to ensure I hadn't missed a detail.

"Standard first-day procedure. Tour. Meet and greets. Soulbaring icebreakers," Rafael added, reaching for my planner. It was open to this week's spread: color coded, overly ambitious, and ripe for the reading. I snatched it before he could get a closer look and shoved it into the bag.

"Carl's out today on account of the storm," he continued, unfazed. "So the role of tour guide falls to me. I apologize in advance for not knowing nearly as much as Carl about the history of the building or its intricate plumbing system. I've only been here six months, but I promise—cross my heart and hope to die—that I'll try my best to make it bearable."

I blinked, unsure I'd heard him correctly—the part about being a recent employee and the part about . . . "Cross your heart?"

"I have nieces. You get sworn to secrecy. Often. May as well call me Homeland Security." Rafael winked conspiratorially.

"Some drawbacks, though. The nail polish. That shit doesn't come off." He waggled long, tanned fingers, and while my lady bits urged me to fixate on the veins snaking up along his arms and disappearing beneath his shirt sleeve, I forced my eyes to the purple sparkles glimmering on his neatly trimmed nails. "Comes with the territory."

"World's best uncle?" I hoisted the tote onto my shoulder, and we stood at the same time, his back to Liv the Assistant, who scanned Rafael's backside like a Instagram feed.

"World's only uncle," he offered, those hands reaching toward me.

My breath hitched, stuttered, and came to a full halt. "May I?" Rafael gestured to the bag.

I stalled long enough to mentally shake myself, ready to say no, to tell him that I had it. But the mental shake shook out another thought—a new, shiny, impossible thought. What Evie did I want to be at Media Lab (if I didn't get fired)? The Evie who made lists and plans and tried to keep life as controlled as possible because there was always another shoe that would drop?

Or Evie 2.0? Who was going to live a little. Who was going to make friends. And maybe, possibly, open up and accept help without thinking it was going to bite her in the ass.

"Yeah, sure, that would be great," I finally said, allowing myself to smile as I let him take the bag.

Rafael lifted it onto his shoulder as if it weighed nothing. And maybe it was my imagination, but something about handing him the bag made me feel a little lighter on the inside too. Because for the first time in a long time, maybe—just maybe-my fate was changing.

I added ten new items to my bucket list that night.

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.

(continued on Tuesday)

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