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Chapter 1-Mia
If anyone asks, I'm not actually eating my feelings.
The pink-frosted cupcake staring back at me from my pristine oak desk is purely medicinal. This is a perfectly reasonable response to finding my ex-boyfriend's name at the top of yet another legal contract. Clearly, this is another failure at “setting boundaries” on my part.
"Just one more," I mutter, reaching for what has to be my fourth cupcake of the evening. The sugar hits my system like a shot of pure comfort, momentarily dulling the ache from seeing Cameron's familiar signature.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead, a fitting soundtrack to my sugar-fueled pity party. I shouldn't even be reviewing this contract. When we broke up three months ago, I gave him a list of excellent lawyers, all highly qualified professionals, who hadn't spent twelve years planning a future with him only to have him "need space" while literally taking up my entire couch.
"Miss Mason?"
I quickly swallow a mouthful of frosting as Linda appears in my doorway, her expression way too knowing. My secretary has appointed herself my personal fairy godmother since the breakup, a role that apparently includes an endless supply of eligible bachelors.
"Just wanted to remind you about dinner with my son tonight," she says brightly. "And before you comment, he's only lived in my basement for two years, but he's very responsible!"
I force what I hope is a polite smile. "Thanks, Linda, but I have to work late. These contracts won't review themselves."
She frowns, clearly disappointed. "Again? You know what they say about all work and no play...
"Makes me a successful lawyer?" I suggest aiming for light but probably landing somewhere around desperate.
"Makes you lonely," she gently corrects before returning to her desk.
I let out a long breath, turning back to Cameron's contract. My fingers hover over my phone as I debate whether to call him directly about the concerning clauses I've found or email his legal team. Three months of radio silence, and now I have to be the one to reach out. The universe has a twisted sense of humor.
My phone lights up with a text from Becca, my neighbor, and newest friend—one of the few good things to come out of moving to my new place post-breakup.
Becca: Pickleball this weekend? Me, Hector & his brother. You in?
I groan, the thought of being set up on yet another blind date or attempt by Becca and her fiancé. I'm halfway through typing my usual "thanks but no thanks" when I pause, staring at my reflection in the window. My strawberry blonde waves have lost their morning bounce, and my makeup has faded after twelve hours in the office. But it's my eyes that give me pause—they look tired, resigned. It's like they belong to someone who's been hiding behind legal briefs instead of actually living.
“Because that’s exactly what you’ve been doing.”
I shake the thought away, grabbing my phone to text Austin, my failed first date after the Cameron breakup, who turned into a surprisingly good friend. If anyone can make an awkward sporting event bearable, it's him.
Slipping off my sensible heels under my desk, I glance at the clock. 8:00 PM. Another thrilling Friday night at Harrison & Brooks. If this were a year ago, I’d be wrapped around Cameron right now…but that’s all just a distant memory.
The memory hits without warning—Cameron sprawled across my couch three months ago, his six-foot frame somehow taking up every inch of space as he casually shattered my world.
"I just need space," he'd said like he wasn't already occupying all of mine. At first, I thought he was joking.
He wasn't.
Two days later, he packed up my things, effectively rendering me homeless. He also provided a very detailed budget of my finances that showed I couldn’t afford our shared apartment on my own, but he could. Therefore, I would need to be the one to move out.
Becca's response pulls me back to the present. Her message is full of enough emojis and exclamation points to power a small city. At least someone's excited about my tentative step back into social life.
*Becca: Yay! Can’t wait! Wear something cute. 😉😝👏
Standing to gather my things, I smooth down my pencil skirt and square my shoulders. I'm twenty-seven, successful, and, according to Linda, in desperate need of a life outside these walls. Maybe it's time to stop hiding behind work and start living again.
My computer dings with a new email. Cameron's name in the subject line makes my stomach drop, but like the masochist I am, I open it anyway.
Hey Mia, it reads. Thanks for looking over that contract. I know things are weird between us, but I really appreciate you doing this. Maybe we could grab coffee sometime and talk?
My finger hovers over the delete button. Twelve years is a long time to just walk away from. But maybe that's exactly what I need to do. It didn’t seem that hard for him to toss in the towel after a dozen years, high school sweethearts and promise rings be damned, I guess.
“Don’t.” I blink several times, willing myself not to shed another tear for a man who clearly thought of me as just a space filler for the last decade plus.
Instead of replying, I shut down my computer and grab my bag. The yoga class I attempted last week may have ended with me falling on another student, but at least I was trying something new. Baby steps.
In the elevator, I confirm plans with Austin for pickleball. My first attempt at dating since Cameron may not have led to romance, but it gave me something better: a friend who doesn't look at me with pity when I order dessert first.
The night air hits my face as I exit the building, carrying with it a hint of possibility. For the first time in weeks, I feel something other than numb. Maybe Linda's right, all work and no play isn't the answer. Maybe it's time to let go of what I thought my life would be and embrace the uncertainty of what could be.
I give the cab driver my new address, not the one I shared with Cameron for five years. As city lights blur past my window, I make a silent promise to myself: no more hiding behind work. No more letting fear of the unknown hold me back.
It's time to take a risk.
I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the back seat of the vehicle, reminding myself that there’s so much more to life than what I’ve let mine become. When I reach home, I change into comfortable clothes and curl up on my couch—the couch I bought with my money for my new place. Yet another little thing I remind myself to celebrate. Austin's response to my pickleball invitation makes me smile.
*Austin: Using me to avoid awkward social situations again? I'm in.
Setting my alarm for tomorrow, I realize I'm actually looking forward to the weekend. Maybe that's what moving forward looks like: small moments of anticipation replacing the constant ache of what used to be.
As I drift off to sleep, I think about how life has a way of surprising you. Six months ago, I thought my world was ending. Now? Now I'm realizing it might just be beginning.
***
The next morning brings a flurry of activity at the office. I'm buried in case files, my shoes kicked off beneath my desk, and my hair already falling out of my clip when a familiar voice drifts down the hallway, making my heart stutter.
"Actually, I needed to discuss the contract."
I freeze at the familiar sound of Cameron’s voice, a million thoughts racing through my head on how I should handle this.
"Miss Mason," Linda announces unnecessarily, given that Cameron's six-foot frame now fills my doorway. "Mr. Reynolds is here to see you."
I force myself to look up, keeping my expression neutral despite the way my stomach flips. He looks good, he always does, but different somehow. My brow furrows as I scan his new appearance. His usually clean-cut appearance has been replaced with what I can only describe as a hipster-chic transformation. Complete with... is that a man bun?
"Cameron," I manage, proud of how steady my voice sounds despite wanting to blurt out, what in the hell are you doing here, and what is with the getup? "I was going to email you about the contract, but as you can see," I gesture to the mismanaged pile of files on my desk just as several slip slowly off the corner, falling into a scattered mess onto the floor.
"I thought it would be better to discuss in person." He steps into my office, skirting around the pile of papers on the floor with zero attempt to help pick them up, and I catch a whiff of... sage?
"Plus, Jasmine thought it would be good for us to have some closure."
"Jasmine?" I freeze.
Is he seriously here to tell me he’s already moved on with someone else?
"My life coach," he explains, settling into the chair across from my desk like he belongs there. "She's been helping me navigate my spiritual journey."
I blink, trying to process this new version of the man I spent twelve years with. The Cameron I knew wouldn't be caught dead with a life coach, let alone discussing spiritual journeys. That Cameron wore Brooks Brothers suits and mocked my monthly horoscope subscription, calling anything that didn’t come from a finance bro “woo-woo bullshit.”
"Right," I manage. "Well, about the contract—"
"First, we should cleanse the energy in here." He reaches into his messenger bag. "The negative vibrations are really intense."
Before I can protest, my ex-boyfriend—former captain of his college football team and self-proclaimed king of corporate finance—begins waving sage around my office like some kind of Wall Street shaman.
"Cameron," I try again, coughing through a pungent wave of smoke, "I really think we should focus on the concerning clauses—"
"See?" He sighs deeply, still waving his sage bundle. "This is exactly what Jasmine warned me about. You're still so focused on the material plane."
My mouth falls open, and I’m seconds away from calling him out on this new character he’s unlocked when a knock at my door saves me from having to respond. Linda pokes her head in, then immediately starts coughing from the sage smoke with a grimace.
"Miss Mason," she manages between coughs, "your ten o'clock is here."
"Thank you, Linda." I stand quickly. "I’m sorry, Cameron, but we'll need to continue this another time. And if you could, please schedule it beforehand instead of just dropping in. Linda can assist you with that." I say, attempting to remain calm and not sound too petulant.
He nods sagely…pun absolutely intended, tucking the smoking bundle back into his bag. "I understand. Mercury is in retrograde anyway, so it's probably not the best time for contract negotiations."
I resist the urge to point out that six months ago, the only retrograde he cared about was his stock portfolio's performance.
"I'll email you my concerns about the contract," I say firmly, already plotting my escape.
"We should get dinner sometime," he suggests, lingering in my doorway. "Jasmine thinks it would be good for both our chakras."
"I'll check my schedule," I lie, already knowing I'll do no such thing.
His shoulders drop with an exaggerated smile and he reaches both of his hands out, taking mine in his. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again, Mia,” he smiles, and for a brief second, I see a flash of the old Cameron—the man that stole my heart back when we were just young teenagers. “It will be so good for both of us to let go of the negative so that we can prepare our astral plane for the future.”
And the moment is gone.
“Right, okay,” I pull back my hands, still trying to make sense of this new version of Cameron. “Linda will get you scheduled,” I say a little louder, looking desperately past him where Linda catches my gaze and jumps out of her chair.
“Yes, let’s look at her calendar together, Mr. Reynolds,” she says, gesturing for him to follow her over to her desk.
“Namaste,” he bows toward me before turning to face Linda. “If you don’t mind, let’s make sure it’s in line with Mercury’s orbital path.”
I shut my office door, leaning against it for a brief second as I try to gather myself before my next meeting. Then, I clean up the mess on the floor and grab a bottle of perfume from my purse to try and hide the heavy incense smell that still lingers.
“Linda, go ahead and send in my next client,” I say over the intercom.
As soon as my meeting has concluded, I reach for my emergency chocolate bar, the one hidden behind my contract law reference books for situations exactly like this. As I unwrap it, my phone buzzes with a text from Becca.
*Becca: Still on for pickleball tomorrow?
I pause with the candy halfway to my mouth, my brain trying to convince me that I definitely have an excuse to cancel now after this morning’s incident. I take a bite of the fancy Swiss chocolate, letting it slowly melt on my tongue.
“What else am I going to do?” I mutter, taking another bite of the chocolate and then another until the king-sized candy bar is completely gone. “Sit at home and eat more chocolate and hate yourself,” I answer my question, sitting back in my chair with a very unmistakable belly ache from too much sugar.
I glance at the sage smoke still lingering in my office and make a decision. It's time to stop letting Cameron's ghost haunt my present. And who knows, maybe a game of pickleball with new people is exactly what I need.
*Me: Definitely still in.
The rest of my day passes in a blur of client meetings and legal briefs. By the time I pack up to leave, the sage smell has mostly dissipated, though my confusion about Cameron's transformation lingers like the remnants of his man bun.
“What the hell?” I laugh to myself, picturing him standing at my door from earlier with his oversized linen tunic and hemp choker.
Maybe he’s just hitting his midlife crises earlier.
I shrug on my coat, slipping off my too-high heels that I refuse to admit are probably damaging my feet and putting on my walking shoes. I shut the light off in my office and close the door, the rest of the staff pretty much already gone from the firm, besides the first year interns that are putting in their bitch work like the rest of us had to.
“Goodnight,” I smile to a group of three huddled around a copymaker that smells like it’s been running since 8 am this morning, probably because it has. “Watch out for paper cuts.”
“Night, Miss Carter,” they say in unison, barely even looking up from their sleep-deprived gaze that’s focused on collating briefs.
At home, I peel back the plastic layer of my frozen tv dinner, poking at the rubbery chicken Marsala. It’s not the best thing I’ve ever eaten, but it’s better than downing another pack of cupcakes and wallowing in a sugar coma on the couch.
“Pickleball,” I say, stabbing the last bite and shoving it into my mouth. I toss the tray into the garbage and retreat to my bedroom to hunt down an outfit for tomorrow.
I spend an embarrassing amount of time digging through my closet for something appropriate to wear for pickleball.
Do people dress up for pickleball? Is it like tennis, where there's some unspoken athleisure dress code I should know about?
"Get it together, Mia," I mutter, finally pulling out a lavender workout set I bought months ago but never wore—back when I thought exercise might help me process the breakup. Yet another failed attempt that never actually manifested into anything. I hold spandex set up against my body, It's cute, practical, and plus, makes my ass look amazing. Perfect for whatever tomorrow brings. I smile at myself in the mirror, the pastel color bringing some much needed life into my eyes.
But a second later, that smile fades when my phone buzzes with another text from Cameron.
*Cameron: Mia, hope the sage brought you some peace today. Jasmine says Mercury retrograde ends next week. It's a better time to discuss the contract, so it was meant to be. It didn’t work out today. Namaste 🙏
I stare at the message, caught between laughing and crying. This man, who used to roll his eyes at my zodiac app, is now making business decisions based on planetary alignment.
“Or maybe it was because you barged into my office unannounced without an appointment like you still have the right to unfettered access to me,” I mutter.
Instead of responding, I delete the message and curl up in bed, setting my alarm for tomorrow. For the first time in months, I'm actually looking forward to the weekend. That's what moving forward looks like, I remind myself, choosing pickleball over pity parties, taking risks instead of playing it safe.
My phone lights up one last time.
*Austin: I just watched a YouTube tutorial on pickleball. We're definitely going to embarrass ourselves tomorrow. Can't wait.
I smile, typing back.
*Me: At least we'll go down together.
As I drift off to sleep, I think about how different my life looks from what I imagined at fifteen when Cameron first asked me to be his girlfriend. No ring on my finger, no house in the suburbs, no carefully planned future stretching out before me.
Instead, I have an apartment that's all mine, a career I love, even if it sometimes feels like it’s taking over my life, and friends who show up exactly when I need them.
It's not the happy ending I always imagined, but maybe it's not supposed to be an ending at all. Maybe it's finally the beginning.
***
“Oh,” I turn around in my lavender short set, checking my reflection one last time before I head out, “maybe it accentuates my ass a little too much.”
I try desperately to tug it down lower but it’s no use. Either the junk food I’ve been using to soothe my broken heart has gone straight to my ass or this outfit shrank a size since I bought it.
“Shit,” I mutter anxiously, glancing through my closet for something else but it’s no use; this is the only cute set I have since my workout regimen over the last ten years has been relying on my young metabolism and sex with Cameron—both of which seem to have made a dramatic exit in the last six months.
“Whatever,” I say in defeat before rushing out the front door.
Austin spots me first, jogging over with his trademark easy grin. "Ready to dominate? And by dominate, I mean not completely humiliate ourselves?"
"I watched three TikTok tutorials last night," I admit, adjusting my ponytail for the tenth time. "I think that makes me practically a pro."
“Damn,” he whistles, stepping back to dramatically look me up and down, “if you had worn that on our first date, it would have definitely ended differently.”
“Stop it,” I playfully smack him, “I’m already super self-conscious in this; it fit much looser just a few months back, I swear.”
“I’m kidding,” he laughs, “but maybe I should buy one for Taylor.” He says about his business partner, the same one he’s secretly in love with—his confession to me on our first date after I burst into tears at the table, telling him all about how I wasn’t over my ex yet.
“Seriously, is it too much?”
“You look great; stop worrying about it. Everyone’s over there.” He laughs, leading me toward the courts where Becca and Hector are already warming up.
And that's when I see him.
Time does that slow-motion thing they always talk about in movies.
“Oh my god.” I squeak.
He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and the kind of smile that makes you forget essential functions like breathing or forming coherent sentences. The morning sun catches the slight silver at his temples and something flutters in my stomach that has nothing to do with pre-game nerves.
"That's Miguel," Austin explains, following my gaze. "Hector's brother. He's actually a lawyer, too. In fact, we just hired him for the firm."
"Oh?" I aim for casual, but my voice comes out slightly higher than normal like I'm back in ninth-grade speech class, and I’m trying to act calm, but I’m two seconds away from passing out.
Miguel looks up then, catching my eye. His smile shifts from polite to something warmer, and I swear the temperature on the court rises ten degrees. A single drop of boob sweat trickles down my stomach, and I’m suddenly very aware that any amount of moisture is going to show through this material in a second.
“Pleasure,” Miguel says, his hand coming toward me in a welcome gesture.
“Nice to meet you too,” I practically croak when my hand touches his. His handshake is firm, his skin soft, and his fingers thick.
“This is my future brother-in-law,” Becca says, looping her arm around Miguel’s shoulders, “and you’ve already met Hector.”
“Hey,” Hector waves with a smile, but Becca is already turning to point out Taylor, the stunning blonde with mile-long legs, walking toward us.
“And this is my bestie Taylor, our real-life Barbie, as I like to refer to her,” she giggles, high-fiving her best friend.
I steal a quick glance at Austin, who has a flash of red on his cheeks when Taylor approaches. This makes me giggle, taking my mind off how insanely gorgeous Miguel is and the fact that I can feel his gaze on me.
“Nice to meet you. I—I need to run to the restroom really quick,” Taylor says before quickly turning on her toe and practically sprinting toward the clubhouse.
“Still haven’t told her how you feel about her yet, huh?” I half-whisper to Austin.
“Something like that,” he laughs, rubbing the back of his head nervously.
After our quick introductions, we split into teams—Austin and I against Becca and Hector, while Miguel offered to referee with Taylor. On the sidelines, I try not to notice how good he looks in his navy athletic shorts and gray T-shirt or how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. I fail spectacularly at both.
"So," Miguel says during a water break, moving to stand next to me. "Austin mentioned you're at Harrison & Brooks?"
"Three years now," I nod, trying to focus on his words rather than how he towers over my 5'6" frame in a way that makes me want to wear heels to pickleball.
“That’s a great firm. I’ve recommended a few clients that way, actually. What’s your focus?”
"Corporate law, mostly. You?"
"Did family law before turning to focus on corporate the last several years?" he replies.
“Austin mentioned you recently signed on at he and Taylor’s financial firm. Switching to finance law now for fun, or are you just an overachiever?”
Am I flirting?
“I guess you could say that,” he laughs, “But it was in search of a much-needed better work-life balance." There's something in his tone, a hint of a story there, but before I can ask—
"Heads up!" Austin's voice rings out.
I turn just in time to see the pickleball hurtling toward my face, but not in time to fuck. Then everything goes black for a moment. Because, of course, this is how I meet an attractive man with a sports injury and probable concussion. At least I wore waterproof mascara.
“Owe!” My hand flies up instinctively to cup my eye as tears begin to stream down my face.
When my vision clears, I'm looking up into concerned brown eyes. Miguel's hands are steadying my shoulders, and he's closer than anyone has been in months. Close enough that I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and expensive that makes my head spin in a way that has nothing to do with the pickleball impact.
"Are you okay?" he asks softly, one hand moving to cradle the back of my head. The gentle touch sends sparks down my spine that definitely aren't concussion-related. “You took that ball straight to the face.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” I attempt to crack a joke to lighten the mood, but I immediately regret it. Instead of flirty and cute it comes out crass.
"I'm..." The words die in my throat as he cups my face, tilting it gently to examine the injury. His hands are warm and surprisingly soft for someone so athletic, and I find myself fighting the urge to lean into his touch. He's close enough that I can smell his cologne mixing with the fresh scent of his shower gel, and it's making my head spin in a way that definitely isn't from the impact.
"Follow my finger," he instructs softly, and I obey, though my focus keeps drifting to his mouth. His lips are full and slightly curved with concern, and I suddenly wonder how they would feel against mine. The thought sends heat racing through me, settling low in my belly.
When our eyes meet, the air between us shifts. His thumb brushes just below my eye, a touch that feels more like a caress than a medical check, and my pulse kicks into overdrive. For a moment, we're frozen in this bubble of tension, his dark eyes locked on mine, his hand still cradling my face.
I swear he sways slightly closer, and my breath catches in anticipation. But then shouting breaks through our moment, shattering the spell.
"You hit her in the face!" Taylor exclaims.
"Because you distracted me!" Austin shoots back.
"Oh please, you're just mad because I was winning!"
“Maybe it’s because you won’t stop waving your ass in my face in that tight little skirt that has no business being on a pickleball court!”
“I’m not so sure whatever is going on between them involves us.” He smiles, brushing a chunk of my hair out of my face. Their bickering fades into background noise as Miguel helps me sit up, his hand still warm on my back. "Follow my finger," he instructs gently. "Any dizziness?"
“No,” I say softly, my focus solely on the way his chocolate-brown eyes bore into mine.
“Any other damage besides your eye?” He places his fingers gently beneath my chin, tipping my head from side to side as he scans my face.
"Just my pride," I manage, trying to ignore how my skin tingles where he's touching me. "Guess those TikTok tutorials didn't cover ducking."
He chuckles, and the sound does something funny to my insides. "Maybe we should get some ice on that. Don’t want you having to step into court with a black eye come Monday morning.”
Before I can respond, I hear Becca gasp so loud it echoes around us. I’m convinced Beyoncé must have just stepped onto the court, but when I look up, Austin grabs Taylor and kisses her, apparently deciding that was the best way to end their argument. Everyone's attention shifts to their sudden display of affection, giving me a moment to catch my breath.
"Well," Miguel says, steadily helping me to my feet. His hand settles against my lower back, and I want to swoon again, only deliberately this time. "That's one way to resolve a dispute."
"It was definitely not covered in law school; otherwise, I would have been using that trick a long time ago." I agree, then immediately want to kick myself. Way to go, Mia. Lead with the legal humor. It's very sexy.
But he laughs anyway, his eyes crinkling in that way that makes my stomach flip. "Listen, you should really put some ice on that. Let me—"
"Mia!" Becca calls out, finally breaking away from where Austin and Taylor are still locked in each other’s embrace. "Oh my god, are you okay? We should get you home."
And just like that, the moment is ruined. Miguel steps back, and I immediately miss his steadying presence. Who knew getting hit in the face with a pickleball could be both the most embarrassing and most electric moment of my year?
Ugh, maybe I should spend more time with my b.o.b and reestablish some intimacy in my life so I’m not ready to pounce on a total stranger for merely helping me through a crisis.
“I’m fine, I promise,” I insist, not ready to end the pickleball date…even if I didn’t get to actually play.
“I am SO sorry about all of this. Are you okay?” Taylor says with genuine concern on her face as she approaches me. “I did not know he was going to kiss me—”
“It’s okay,” I laugh, knowing how confused she must be that Austin just kissed the ever-loving hell out of her in front of me—a woman she knows he’s gone on a date with. “I’m sure he told you we were just friends, and you didn’t believe him?”
“Wait.” Her brow furrows, “but you dated—”
“One date.” I clarify. “We really are just friends. I’m going to leave it at that because I think it will make sense someday, but I’m not sure if it will right now. But you’re not stepping on my toes by kissing him, I promise.” I’m sure I’ve only confused her even further; it’s evident by the look on her face, but it’s not my place to tell her how Austin feels about her. I know he’ll eventually pull his head out of his ass and explain it all to her—or at least; I hope he does before he completely ruins everything.
“Okaaaay,” she says slowly before turning to Miguel. “Miguel, that was super unprofessional of us—”
He holds his hands up and shakes his head as if to say don’t worry about it, no explanation needed. “Last time I checked, this isn’t the office and it’s the weekend. As far as I’m concerned, you’re both my friends right now, not my bosses.”
She nods politely before grabbing her purse and water bottle from the sidelines and practically sprinting toward the parking lot.
“Taylor. Taylor, wait!” Austin shouts after her, tossing his racket to the side and following after her.
“I think it’s safe to say the game is probably over now.”
“I think that’s probably accurate,” Miguel says as we both watch Austin and Taylor disappear through the cars.
“You want to head into the clubhouse and get that ice?” He thumbs over his shoulder, “maybe a Bloody Mary to take the sting away?”
“Thanks,” I smile apologetically, “but I should probably get home, get some Advil in me.”
“Yeah,” he shakes his head, “you’re right. I’m sorry, that was stupid.”
“No, I—I would have said yes.” My cheeks flush with warmth. “It really was great meeting you and thanks again for the first aid.” I gesture toward my now swollen eye. I’m scared to look at myself in the mirror, knowing full well the embarrassment I’ll feel will be diabolical.
“Hey, we’ll give you a ride home.” Becca steps up next to me, “I’ve got some arnica cream at my place; when we get back, I’ll bring it over.”
“Thank you,” I smile sheepishly, my eyes glancing back toward Miguel for a brief second.
“Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You didn’t; we were just saying goodbye.” I turn back toward Miguel, “Anyway, as I said, thanks again for the assistance; it will not be unappreciated.”
“Of course,” he takes a step closer, “it’s the least I could do.” We’re both standing there, staring at each other for a few seconds when he opens his mouth to say something else, but Becca’s voice interrupts us again. “Hey, why don’t I—”
“We should really get going; that eye looks worse by the second.” Becca gestures toward my face.
“Right, nice meeting you—again. Feel better.” He says as we start walking toward Becca’s car.
“Okay,” I say with a wave before turning and walking away.
When we make it to the car, Hector is already waiting for us. I pause momentarily to asses my eye in the reflection. It’s not as bad as I expected, but it’ll take more than just a dab of concealer to cover it. I thought for sure I’d look like Slot from The Goonies.
“This is why I run because running would never betray me with a ball flying a hundred miles an hour directly into my face in front of one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen in my life! This is the last time I’m ever letting you talk me into a group exercise activity. ” I hiss once we’re out of earshot of anyone else.
“Ohhh so you think Miguel is hot?”
“So not the point.”
“It was actually the entire point; why do you think I invited you?” She giggles, sliding into the back seat with me as Hector puts the car in drive. “Did you hear that, Hector? She thinks he’s fiiiiiiine?”
“Of course she does,” Hector laughs, “I don’t think Miguel has met a single woman who didn’t have that same opinion.”
“Hector always jokes that Miguel got the looks; he got the brains.”
“Because being a lawyer is for stupid people?” I joke, knowing damn well that Hector has put his blood sweat and tears into his career as an ER physician. Between the two of them, they have enough good looks and brains to give any movie star or athlete a run for their money.
“Babe, swing through the drive through at Starbucks, it’s the least we can do since we almost blinded our new neighbor and now insulted her intelligence.”
***
I'm pacing my apartment, phone in hand, while Becca lounges on my couch like she's settling in for coffee and a show. The show being my complete inability to compose a simple text message.
"Just text him," she says, flipping through a magazine with infuriating casualness. "You obviously had chemistry. It was palpable."
"I can't just text him," I protest, making another lap around my coffee table. "I need a reason. Something professional. Dignified. Something that doesn't scream 'Hi, remember me? The girl who face-planted into a pickleball in front of you?'"
She looks at me like I’m making things harder than the need to be—most likely because that’s exactly what I’m doing.
“After the effort you went through to get his number, now you’re going to chicken out?”
It wasn’t exactly a planned out thought when I asked Austin for Miguel’s number. It was planned for me to drop off a box of fresh donuts yesterday and ask about him how things went with Taylor after the game. A little matchmaking idea Becca and I came up with on our way home from the pickleball courts yesterday.
“I’m rusty. I was with the same guy for twelve years. They didn’t even have texting back when I was newly on the dating scene.”
“That’s because you guys started dating when you were fifteen—back then our only mode of communication was passing notes in study hall. Oh by the way,” she giggles, “Taylor didn’t suspect a thing yesterday when I went over to her place. I can confirm thought that she is also so in love with him it’s not even funny and she was DYING to talk about that kiss.”
While I can’t wait to hear more about Austin and Taylor’s gossip, I’m on the brink of a mental breakdown trying to figure out how to sound casual, cool, mysterious and sexy and professional…and interesting in one single text.
“Help me!” I say almost desperately.
"Okay okay,” she moans, tossing the magazine onto the table and sitting up. “How about… 'Hey, thanks for making sure I didn't have a concussion when my ex-date hit me in the face with a pickleball'?"
“Wait—does he know that Austin and I went out once?”
She shrugs, “actually, I’m not sure.”
I groan, flopping down beside her. "Okay, how about this?" I hold up my phone, displaying my latest attempt:
Draft 1: Hey, it was great meeting you today! Would love to grab coffee sometime! Let me know what day/time works best for you!
"Too eager," Becca declares, not even looking up from her magazine. "Next."
“You’re right, way too many exclamation points.” I deleted the message and try again. “How about this?”
Draft 2: Thanks for the medical assistance. Maybe I could buy you a coffee as thanks?
"Too formal. Are you asking him out or submitting a medical reimbursement claim?"
“I’m NOT asking him out, I’m trying to sound casual with a touch of professional like maybe I need to pick his brain about a legal matter!” I say excitedly about my new approach. I type out what I think is the perfect subtle text. “Okay, last one.”
Draft 3: So about that work-life balance thing, any articles or resources you can point me toward to help a workaholic out?
I turn the phone to face her and she immediately shakes her head.
"Now you just sound desperate. And possibly like you're writing a LinkedIn message."
“Now who’s making it more difficult than it has to be?”
“I’m just saying, judging by the way he was looking at you yesterday, I think you’re over thinking it babe. At the end of the day you could send him ‘hi’ and I guarantee you he’d still reply back just as excited if you sent him a nude.”
“The way he was looking at me?”
“Oh please,” she rolls her eyes, “that man’s eyes were practically inside your colon.”
My mouth falls open with a laugh, that familiar heat rising up my neck to my cheeks. “To be fair, it was that damn outfit I wore. Didn’t realize I’d gained a little weight since I bought it and clearly it went to the right place.”
“Well trust me, that man likes what he was seeing. And not to make it too weird, he gets a very similar look on his face like Hector does right before he wriggles his eyebrows at me and says, “Quiero devorarte.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Basically translates to ‘I want to devour you.’” She says with a devious grin on her face.
I shouldn’t have asked.
Finally, I type out what I hope is a casual, professional message. “Okay, this is it, this is the message.”
*Me: Hey, would love to get your opinion on a legal matter. Coffee sometime this week?
"Send it," Becca encourages, finally putting down her magazine to watch the drama unfold.
My finger hovers over the button. "Maybe I should—"
But my thumb slips, hitting send just as autocorrect changes my message to: Hey, would love to get your onion on a legal mattress. Coffee sometime this week?
"Oh my god," I whisper in horror, staring at my phone like it's personally betrayed me.
"What? What happened?" Becca leans over to look at my screen. Her eyes widen. "Oh... oh no."
I quickly type.
Me: opinion *matter. Sorry, autocorrect! I'd like to discuss a professional, legal matter.
"Well," Becca says after a moment of silence, clearly fighting back laughter, "at least you can't say it wasn't memorable."
I bury my face in a throw pillow, wondering if it's possible to die from embarrassment. "This is why I should have stayed home with my legal briefs. Legal briefs don't have autocorrect. Legal briefs don't betray you with suggestive produce typos."
"No," Becca agrees, patting my shoulder sympathetically. "But they also don't have those brown eyes that can’t seem to get enough of you.”
I peek out from the pillow just as my phone buzzes with a response from Miguel. We both freeze, staring at it like it might explode.
"You read it," I tell Becca. "I can't look. If it's a restraining order, I don't want to know."
She picks up my phone, and a slow smile spreads across her face. "Well," she says, drawing out the moment because she's evil, "apparently he'd love to give you his onion on a legal mattress. Coffee this Saturday at 8?"
“Wait really?” I jump up and gram the phone from her, a smile spreading across my face when I read his response for myself.
*Miguel: I’m happy to discuss a professional, legal matter with you. Can I give you my onion on a mattress this Saturday around 8? 😉
Maybe it's the lingering effects of the pickleball to the face, or maybe it's just time, but suddenly I'm laughing—really laughing—for the first time in months. The kind of laugh that makes your sides hurt and your mascara run and your soul feel a little lighter.
And it feels good, really good. As much as I thought I would never get over losing Cameron, it feels good to be excited about something again…about someone.
I’m not sure if this is what moving forward looks like or maybe it’s just a rebound but either way, it’s a lot better than wallowing in the past. And hey, embarrassing yourself in front of attractive men, sending mortifying autocorrect messages, and learning to laugh about it instead of hiding behind legal briefs and emergency chocolate is a huge improvement as far as I’m concerned.
Chapter 2-Miguel
From the moment my eyes crack open, I know this morning is going to be a challenge. Felicity's princess dress, complete with enough glitter to supply a craft store, is already laid out on her tiny dresser. I spot it the second I peek into her room, where she's sitting up in bed with her wild curls sticking in every direction, waiting for me with a smile that could melt glaciers.
"Daddy! It's princess day!" She bounces on her bed, her brown eyes sparkling with the kind of enthusiasm only a four-year-old can muster at 6:30 in the morning.
I run a hand through my hair, feeling the exhaustion from last night's late contract review weighing on me. "Princess, remember we talked about saving dress-up for after school?"
"But daddyyyyy,” her lip pooches out. “Ms. Jenny said we could wear costumes!" She crosses her tiny arms, bottom lip already trembling. I'm about to stand my ground when I remember the email from yesterday—she's right. It is "Fantasy Friday" at preschool.
"How about we save the tiara for after finger painting?" I try to negotiate, already knowing I'm fighting a losing battle. "We don't want to get paint on the crown jewels."
Felicity's face scrunches up in thought, considering this diplomatic proposal with all the gravity of a financial merger. "The tiara stays in my cubby until art is over?"
"Deal." I hold out my pinky, and we seal the agreement with the solemnity it deserves. Small victories, right?
I never expected to be a single dad, I’m not sure most people do but life had other plans—or Celine, my now ex-wife, had other plans. Plans I wasn’t aware of until I walked in on her and our twenty-two year old neighbor making those plans right in our bed.
My stomach sizzles in discomfort at the memory—an image I’ll never be able to erase from my mind no matter how much I try. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, reminding myself that whatever issues Celine and I had in our marriage that led to it’s demise didn’t involve Felicity and she doesn’t deserve to have those bitter memories taint her world.
“Alright baby girl,” I say holding out my arms toward her, “let’s get you princess-a-fied!”
“Princess day!” She squeezes at the top of her lungs before launching herself into my arms.
Now the morning whirlwind begins in earnest. I'm trying to wrangle Felicity's curls into something resembling order while simultaneously attempting to knot my tie. There's a reason I usually do this part before getting her ready, but last night's late preparation for my first day at Blake Financial threw off our routine.
“Let me do it,” Felicity smacks my hand away from the tie with her chubby fingers, tugging down hard on the back portion to tighten the knot.
“Whoa,” I cough when the tie cinches around my neck, “a little too tight today sweetie,” I laugh, attempting to fix it as best as I can while glancing at my watch.
Shit, running very late already.
"Daddy, you have sparkles in your hair," Felicity giggles, reaching up to pat my head after running her fingers through it. I catch a glimpse of myself in her mirror and she's not wrong. Somehow, I've become a walking disco ball with my once neatly combed hair now sticking up in every direction and I have a meeting with the partners in less than two hours.
The doorbell chimes just as I'm finishing the second pigtail, and Felicity's hair is only half-done. Perfect timing, as always. "One minute!" I call out, knowing full well it's Mrs. Rodriguez from next door, right on schedule to check if we need anything. She's appointed herself our unofficial grandmother since the divorce, and while I appreciate it, her timing is impressively terrible.
I glance down at my suit, realizing I'm half covered in princess stickers, something Felicity must have done while I was focused on her hair. Fantastic. Nothing says "competent corporate counsel" quite like tiny tiaras and unicorns decorating your lapel.
"Daddy made the toast black again!" Felicity announces cheerfully to Mrs. Rodriguez when I finally open the door, still picking stickers off my jacket. I'd attempted to recreate Celine's famous French toast this morning—a misguided effort to show our daughter that dad can make special breakfast too. The smoke alarm's triumphant symphony and the charred remains in my sink tell a different story.
"Mijo, you know I can make you both breakfast," Mrs. Rodriguez clucks, already heading toward my kitchen like she owns the place. The smell of burnt toast lingers accusingly in the air.
"We're actually heading to McDonald's," I admit, trying not to sound as defeated as I feel. "Big first day at Blake Financial."
"In that fancy suit? With all that..." she gestures to the remaining glitter and stickers, fighting a smile.
"It's a new look. Very in right now. All the top lawyers are wearing glitter this season." I straighten my tie with as much dignity as I can muster, which isn't much.
“You need a woman,” she says matter of factly. Another endearing if not somewhat frustrating characteristic I’ve learned to accept about her.”
“Maybe, but right now, I need a miracle to make it out of here on time.”
“Why does daddy need a woman?” It’s always the things you don’t want kids to pick up on that they notice.
“A girlfriend,” she says with a smile as she bends down to poke her nose.
“Daddy has a girlfriend?” Felicity gasps, looking up at me with her mouth hanging open.
“No, no! There’s no girlfriend. What daddy needs right now is for Maria to not bring that up again.” I flash Miss Rodriguez a glare which just makes her laugh.
“Go,” she shoos us toward the door, “I’ll clean this mess up and lock up before I leave.”
“Thank you,” I grab Felicity’s bag, making sure she has everything she needs for the day.
“Adios mija,” Maria says, planting a kiss on Felicity’s forehead, “mi belle princess.”
“Gracias, Tia,” Felicity says, waving as I pick her up and walk toward the elevator, “adios!”
We finally make it to the car, only to discover that Felicity's shoes don't match.
“How did I miss this?” I ask, looking down at one sparkly pink princess shoe and one purple light-up sneaker.
“Daddy, what’s wrong?”
I’m about to run back inside when I catch sight of the time on my dashboard. Clearly, she doesn’t seem to mind two different shoes or doesn’t notice, so it’s just going to have to be one of those days.
"Not a thing, princess. You're just starting a new fashion trend today." I buckle her into her car seat, pretending this was all part of the plan.
The McDonald's drive-thru worker does an admirable job of answering Felicity’s fifteen questions about what it’s like to work at McDonalds. A job that, according to her, is like the best dream job ever because, in her mind, it’s just getting paid to eat chicken nugget and French fries all day.
By the time we make it to pre-school drop-off, she has the addition of a large syrup stain on the front of her dress that is now all over my tie.
***
The morning sun streams through Blake Financial's towering windows as I step off the elevator, still picking glitter off my suit jacket. First impressions matter, and I'm currently making one that involves princess stickers and what appears to be unicorn-themed sparkles in my hair.
But before I can attempt any last-minute dad-evidence removal, I spot her—Tarryn Wells stands at attention behind her meticulously organized desk, not a single paper out of place. The contrast between her perfectly put-together appearance and my glitter-enhanced suit is almost comical.
"Mr. Ramirez," she greets me, rising smoothly. Her voice carries quiet confidence, professional yet warm. "I'm Tarryn Wells."
I notice how she subtly reaches out to remove a stray princess sticker from my sleeve without drawing attention to it, her movement so efficient it could be mistaken for a simple gesture of welcome.
"Please, call me Miguel," I say, trying to subtly check if there are more stickers. "Though maybe pretend you don't see the..." I gesture vaguely to my glitter-decorated state.
“You’re never off duty as a parent,” she smiles, “so no judgement here.”
“Thanks for understanding, I’m sure as time goes by, it’s only going to get more interesting.”
“Well, as I’m sure Taylor has already told you, I’m here to assist you in any way I can. I’m a certified paralegal and while I was in the pool, I will be fully dedicated to you going forward and be your assistant as well. I previously worked next to Taylor for the last two years so if you ever have any questions or need clarification, just let me know, I know that woman like the back of my hand.”
“Thank you and I’m excited to be here. Taylor and I talked a lot about how she and Austin built this firm and frankly it’s impressive but terrifying.” I laugh, “She seems like the kind of woman that can’t be stopped.”
“Right on the money,” she winks. “So, should we start out by me giving you a rundown of the current caseload? After that we can go into how you prefer to be supported and the expectations you have for me?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She briefs me on our current cases as we walk down the hall, toward my office, her knowledge of each file impressive and thorough. When we pass the conference room, I notice her glancing at her constitutional law textbook left on the table.
“Excuse me one second,” she steps inside, grabbing the book and slipping it under her arm before joining me again.
"Law school?" I ask, appreciating the dedication it must take to balance both. Back when I was in school, I had the luxury of being a full time law student, picking up random shifts bar tending without the pressure of an additional full time job.
"Evening program," she confirms, a flash of pride crossing her face before her professional mask returns. "Third year. Though sometimes the reading has to happen between meetings."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with a text from Celine about Felicity's dance class schedule. The familiar guilt starts to creep in—that constant balance of work and single parenthood that led me to leave my old firm in the first place.
Even before the affair, I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep up the same pace I had for so long, not once Felicity came along. I didn’t want to spend late nights in the office away from her and her mother, I wanted to be there for every late night feeding, every milestone and dirty diaper…but I wasn’t.
Tarryn must notice something shift in my expression because she smoothly transitions to showing me our case management system, giving me a moment to compose myself.
“I know I threw a lot at you but please don’t hesitate to ask me questions. I’m going to be at my desk if you need anything.”
She shuts the door to my office, leaving me alone for the first time today and instantly, my thoughts drift to Mia. To be fair, she was on my mind the second I opened my eyes this morning…and when I closed my eyes to go to sleep last night. A warmth spreads through my chest, remembering the way it felt to rest my hand against her this weekend. The electric tingle that ran through my body when she shook my hand, the same tingle I’m feeling right now.
I pull my phone from my pocket, opening our last text conversation. I hold it up and smile, taking a selfie of myself in my new office, the Chicago skyline in the windows behind me. My smile fades when I look at the photo. My hair is still sticking up every which way, my tie severely askew from where Felicity attempted to tighten it and a sticker stuck to the side of my temple.
“Oh hell no,” I delete the photo from the text, deciding my attention is best focused on my appearance rather than trying to flirt with a woman who reached out to me for legal advice and not a date. That tinge of disappointment lingering when I reread Mia’s text. Apart from her cute typo, she made no reference to this being a date or having any interest in me outside of a professional capacity. And while I’m aware that my looks have never been an issue for me, I’m not naive enough to think that leads to anything meaningful…Celine proved that to me.
I slip into my private restroom, readjusting my tie and fixing my hair as best as I can. I remove three more stickers from my person, picking at the glitter that is so embedded in my suit it’s no use.
“You’re a confident man Miguel, you’re a good father and provider,” I say to myself, repeating the affirmations my divorce therapist told me would be the key to moving on. “You deserve love.”
I let out a long breath, staring at my reflection in the mirror and practicing what I hope is an authoritative expression. “And you’re a badass lawyer.” I mutter to myself, adjusting my tie for the hundredth time. “Stop doubting yourself man.”
“Am I interrupting something?” The door slowly opens and I nearly die of embarrassment as Taylor leans against the doorframe, catching me mid-practice. “I’m sorry to interrupt, I knocked on your office door but you didn’t respond, then I heard you talking in here.” She smiles.
“I’m sorry, I was—distracted.” I gesture to my suit.
“Everything going smooth so far? Tarryn is basically a fairy around here so I’m sure she will make sure you are set up for success.”
“Yes, she’s been great.”
"Perfect. Ready for the morning staff meeting? Though maybe we should..." she gestures to my tie, where a tiny unicorn sticker still clings stubbornly.
"I've got it," Tarryn says quietly, appearing out of nowhere and efficiently removing the evidence of my chaotic morning while simultaneously handing me the files I'll need.
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of introductions and orientations. Every time I turn around, Tarryn seems to be one step ahead—anticipating questions, smoothing potential wrinkles.
By lunch, I've mostly forgotten about my sparkly state until I catch my reflection in the conference room window. The morning sunlight hits the remaining glitter just right, creating what can only be described as a disco-ball effect across the legal documents I'm reviewing.
"Tea?" Tarryn appears with a cup, setting it quietly on my desk. "My mom always says chamomile helps with big transitions."
Before I can thank her, my phone chimes with a FaceTime call from Felicity's preschool. "I need to take this," I say apologetically. "FaceTime means emergency."
Tarryn just nods, already moving to reschedule my next meeting without being asked. It's the kind of intuitive support that was seriously missing at my old firm.
"Daddy!" Felicity's face fills my screen. "I kept the tiara in my cubby during art just like I promised!"
"That's great, princess!" I can feel my professional facade melting away as she proudly shows me her paint-covered hands.
"And guess what?" she continues excitedly. "Ms. Jenny says I can wear it now! Do you still have your stickers?"
I turn so she can see my tie, where one last sparkly embellishment remains. "Right where you left them."
Her delighted giggle echoes through the phone. "You look pretty, Daddy!"
As I head back to my office, I catch Tarryn hiding a smile behind her textbook. "Successful tiara negotiations?" she asks.
"Very diplomatic solution," I agree. "Although I'm pretty I’ll die covered in glitter at this point."
"It adds character," she says. "Though perhaps we should add an additional thirty minutes into your morning debrief so that you can develop a protocol for de-glittering and de-stickering."
The rest of the afternoon passes in a whirlwind of meetings and document reviews. By the time I pack up to pick up Felicity, I've managed to own my sparkly situation. The Morgan acquisition is moving forward, I've scheduled three client meetings for next week, and I've only checked my phone about fifteen times to see if I Mia had text.
She didn’t.
An image of her in that tight purple workout takes over my thoughts. All the blood that spent the day pumping through me has suddenly rushed to one particular area. I reach my hand beneath the steering wheel to adjust myself, pissed I can’t seem to control my thoughts these days. Then again, I don’t mind the thoughts, even if I feel a slight since of guilt.
The leather of the steering wheel creeks beneath my grip, the sexual frustration that’s been building in my balls for the last—fuck, however long it’s been since I’ve gotten laid.
“Oh god, how long has it been?” I think back to the last time Celine and I had sex before I caught her with Todd. My grip tightening on the wheel so hard pain starts to radiate up my forearms. Considering our divorce has been finalized for over a year now…
“Fuck me,” I groan in embarrassment at the realization, “no wonder I’m wound so damn tight—
The person behind me lays on the horn, alerting me that I’m still stopped at a now green light. I hit the gas but it’s not quick enough for the man who swerves around me, flipping me the bird and mouthing a few choice profanities my way.
“Relax, man,” I shout back as if he can hear me, “I just realized I haven’t had sex in over a goddamn year!”
Saying it out loud only makes it worse; now I’m just a pathetic horny single guy. My excitement deflates and I turn my attention back to princess pickup. Reminding myself that my only focus right now is being a good dad for Felicity, even if Maria, Becca, Taylor, and probably Tarryn all can see that I’m about a second away from drowning.
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