Where Happiness Begins (Evermore #3)

3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

N ot a lot can rile me up.

I don’t waste precious time getting angry. If I’m not happy with something, I simply walk away or distract myself from it. I don’t get into fights or keep in touch with people who make me miserable. I try to find the good in most situations.

But one thing that never fails to make my blood boil is my boss finding a way to make me uncomfortable every time we work together.

Jayson isn’t always here—the only reason why I haven’t quit yet, debt be damned—but when he is, there’s no way I’ll spend the night without him talking my ears off or being touchy-feely, even when I send him all the signals in the world that I’m not interested. He doesn’t care that it’s inappropriate to clasp his employees’ hips or pull on their ponytails like a third grader. If he can do it, he will.

“So what are you doing this weekend?” he asks as I prepare lemon wedges for the night ahead, probably trying to sound nonchalant, but he’s done this enough times to fool me.

“Not much,” I answer without looking in his direction. I don’t want to give him even an inkling of information about my private life. Then, because my father raised me right and I don’t have it in me to be rude, I make the mistake of asking, “You?”

“Oh, funny you ask,” he says, putting down the tub of grenadine he was filling. “I’m hosting a little something at my place, just a few people, but I think you’d fit right in.”

Damn it.

“That’s nice of you, but I, uh…” I’ve never been good at coming up with lies on the spot, and as he stares at me expectantly and I can’t come up with any good excuse, I wish I’d practiced that skill earlier in life. “I’m going to be busy cleaning my, uh…my garage.”

The second the words are out of my mouth, I realize how stupid they sound—who schedules a garage cleaning?—but it’s too late to step back now, so I just smile and play dumb, something he always seems to like.

“Oh, nice! I have some free time tomorrow if you need help with it?”

And risk being stuck in a room alone with him? I’ll pass.

“That’s kind of you, but I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” He takes a step in my direction, now close enough that I can smell his sour breath from the cheese string he ate earlier, and he clearly doesn’t notice or care about the stiffness in my body because he decides to let his rough hand drop onto my forearm.

“Very sure,” I force out. When I see he’s not moving and is probably only going to continue trying to find ways to intricate himself into my life, I add, “You know what? I just remembered I need to deep clean the cabinets.” Then I pull back and speed-walk away from him.

You need the money , I say to myself on repeat. You can’t go stomping on his foot with your heeled boots.

I feel Jayson’s eyes on me as I walk to the shelves holding the different types of glasses behind the bar, so to keep up with my pretense, I pull glasses out one by one. I used the exact same excuse a week ago, so I know those shelves are pristine, but I’ll take any excuse I can to escape.

I’m almost done scrubbing the first shelf when my phone buzzes in a pattern I recognize right away. I created it almost three years ago, when I was still with my ex and I wanted an easy way to figure out when he was the one who’d texted me. I’d gotten used to jumping on my phone the second it buzzed, hoping it was finally a message from him, and when Finn, my best friend, made me realize how pathetic that was, I made the special vibration for his contact alone.

Even now, so long after our breakup, I feel the inevitable stutter of my heartbeat, not out of excitement to hear from him, but as a guttural, instinctual reaction. I feel like a dog who’s been trained with a Pavlovian method, and I hate the way he still has that hold over me. Hate that I tolerated crumbs from him, enough that the feeling of a text from him can still trigger a visceral reaction in me.

I don’t want to look at whatever he’s written to me this time, but I know if I don’t do it now, I’ll only prolong the inevitable.

Resting two wine glasses on the countertop, I pull out my phone from my jeans’ back pocket.

Greg: Hey! Long time no speak. Was wondering if you still had that contact over at Optique, that glasses company? I’d be down for a collab with them.

The balls on that guy. I refrain myself from eye rolling, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of even having a reaction. Instead, I delete the text and put my phone back where it was, resolute to forget I even saw Greg’s name today.

When we met at an influencer’s event four years ago, I thought he was the most magnetic, larger-than-life person I’d ever met. It didn’t matter that I eventually realized his smiles were fake and his interest in people was only so he could climb the ranks and become the next big thing. I couldn’t get enough of him, and even when we got together, I still felt like that twenty-year-old who would do anything to impress that man. It didn’t matter that when he realized how sick I was, he decided he wanted out and only stayed out of pity. I couldn’t see it.

I know better now.

I return to my unnecessary work, but the second I grab the glasses I’d just put down, I’m interrupted again, this time by a voice coming from behind that sends shivers down my spine with a single word.

“Fireball.”

I freeze, giving myself a second to react internally before turning around. I wish I didn’t recognize the man who just spoke, but after having lived through a thorough humiliation in front of him a week ago, I don’t think I could even if I tried .

When the shock has worn off and I’m convinced I can look normal, save for the heat in my face at hearing the stupid nickname he’s given me, I spin on my heels and smile brightly, the perfect actress.

“Hi. What can I get you?”

“Nothing,” he says, no hint of a smile on his face.

I tilt my head as I take him in. He’s once again wearing a tight-fitting, long-sleeved black T-shirt, showcasing sculpted shoulders and arms. Dark tattoos peek out from his sleeves, stopping at his wrists, his long fingers untouched by ink. His hair is ruffled as if he got out of bed this morning and only dragged his fingers through it, but somehow, it only makes him look hotter instead of messy like it would look on me.

“Oh-kayyy…” I say, taking a slow step backward.

“I need to talk to you,” he explains, his face giving nothing away.

“Me?” I ask, looking behind me as if someone else suddenly appeared there.

His brows twitch inwardly. “Yeah. You.”

I repeat a slow, “Okay,” probably sounding a little slow, but I honestly don’t understand.

Not wasting a second, he jumps right in. “You spoke with Ethan last week about a possible deal?” He says it as a question, but really, he’s telling this to me.

“A deal?”

“Yeah. Doing some promo for them? ”

I chuckle, knotting my hands in front of me. Somehow, he has a way of making me feel like I’m the one intruding on his space instead of the opposite. “That wasn’t serious.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” he asks as if he genuinely has no idea why anyone would ever joke around.

“I don’t know, maybe because I only met them once?”

“So?” He leans forward, arms crossing over the bar. “We’ve seen your impact on our—their—streaming numbers from one post. Having you on our team would be game-changing.”

As flattering as this is, he’s also wrong. I’m not a music influencer. I post about my often-boring life and make videos testing makeup and giving reading updates. One story doesn’t mean anything. We could just have been lucky.

“What’s it to you anyway?” I ask, trying to give myself time to put my thoughts in order. Who even is he? He wasn’t up there on the stage from what I know. “Are you their manager?”

“I’m their producer.”

“Why would a producer be involved in a band’s promo?”

“Let me worry about my reasons.”

I don’t know what’s gotten into all these men today, but I’ve had more than enough. His answer doesn’t change anything to me—I’m not even considering his offer—and yet the way he just spoke to me like I have to listen to him rubbed me the wrong way. I give him an overly-cheery smile and say, “Then allow me to walk away.”

He only speaks when I turn around and get back to my cleaning, but not before he lets out a deep, loud sigh .

“Visibility for them is visibility for my work. The industry’s saturated, and if I wanna stand out, I need their album to do well.” While he answers, I slowly turn back around so I catch his bored blink as he adds, “Good enough for you?”

I hum.

“So?” he asks, having the nerve to sound impatient.

“So I still don’t know exactly what you’re asking of me.” In truth, I do have an idea, but I like to see him work for it.

I’m sure he sees it with the look he throws me, but he still says, “You could become some kind of spokesperson for Crash & Burn. Share clips of shows and music, things like that. Get the public to know them personally so they want to look their music up.”

Just like it did when Ethan initially mentioned it, flashes of following the band on their shows flood my head. Always listening to music, feeling that spike of adrenaline all the time… No matter what the marketing job actually entailed, it would sure be a hell of an experience.

However, I still don’t have the luxury of quitting my nicely paying job to follow a group of people around, as fun as it sounds.

From the corner of my eye, I spot Jayson taking a few steps in my direction, probably noticing I’m just chatting and not working, so I turn around and resume my cleaning job. With my back to the guy—I think Carter was his name—I say, “It’s a great offer, and I’m flattered that the band thought of me for it, but I don’t think the logistics would work.”

“Why’s that? You’d get paid, obviously. ”

I turn around too fast, probably giving away my overeagerness. “What kind of payment are we talking about?”

My delusional bubble bursts the moment he mentions an approximate number. Even if they agreed to go higher than that number, it’d probably still be less than what I make here with tips. Plus, I’m hopeful that once I’ve been here for a few years, Jayson will add me to the health insurance policy he and a few of the higher-ups get. I don’t think it’s much, but it’d probably be enough to get me by.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t have it in me to give him attitude anymore. “Honestly, I wish I could say yes, but financially, it just wouldn’t work.”

His poker face doesn’t move an inch. “What do you want, then? Name your price.”

I shake my head, then snicker. “Honestly? Unless one of you has health insurance and is willing to marry me, then I don’t think there’s any way this can work.”

For the first time tonight, I get a reaction out of him: a sharp huff out of his nose.

“But again, thanks for thinking of me.”

As I turn around, he says, “Wait, you were actually serious?”

“No. Well, not about marriage anyway.” I’m desperate, but I’m not that desperate.

I pull two glasses back onto the first shelf before he says, “Name something else. Anything.”

He’s really not making this easy, is he ?

With a sigh, I turn around and lean against the bar, my face now close enough that I can see just how long his dark lashes are. In a tone low enough that Jayson won’t hear, I say, “Look, I’ll be honest with you. I have a crap ton of medical bills to pay, and unless you can get me insurance or a lot more money than I’m making here, then I can’t leave.” I give him a sad smile even though his face is still painfully blank. “I’m sorry.”

He drags a hand through the dark strands of his hair, just like I imagine he has all day. “The guys are self-employed. They don’t have insurance.”

“I assumed.” I lift a shoulder. “But you guys will be fine. There are plenty of influencers out there.”

“But we know your platform works with their sound.”

He has a point. Sure, the success they saw after my story could’ve been a fluke, but there’s also a possibility my audience simply works for them. Being an influencer is a strange thing, one that can never be fully understood. Another blogger similar to me could have shared the same post and it wouldn’t have led to the same results, just like sometimes, my own collaborations fail, all for reasons out of my understanding.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat for the millionth time. “I really do wish I could help you.”

His jaw tightens, and he waits for a long moment before nodding once and getting up.

Watching him walk away feels like staring at a golden fantasy, one I might have explored in another life, almost within reach but too far not to slip through my fingers.

It’s almost 3:00 a.m. by the time everyone has left the bar and I get to turn off the lights and lock the doors behind me. My shoulders are tight and the one thing I want more than a hot shower is to drop onto my bed and sleep for three days straight.

Once I’ve tested the doors to make sure they’re truly locked, I bring the trash bags to the dumpster, and when I turn toward my car, I jump out of my skin, noticing someone there. I clutch my chest, blood thumping in my ears as I take in the man there.

Carter.

He’s leaning against the hood of a vintage Mustang, his arms crossed over his chest, one ankle thrown over the other. Even only illuminated by the single lamppost of the parking lot, he looks like a sinful dream.

I open my mouth to complain about how much he scared me and ask what he’s doing here when he says, “ I have insurance.”

My lips part.

“If that’s what it takes, then I’ll do it.” He blinks, the only movement in his perfectly still body. “I’ll marry you.”