Sam chewed on the pencil at her desk and stared at her computer screen. She’d been that way for an hour, but for some reason this client email was impossible to write.

Scratch that, she knew the reason. She couldn’t concentrate on a damn thing after what had happened in that alley.

She sighed, and instead sent the file to her boss that had been requested that morning. Immediately, a message popped up. This isn’t what I asked for??? Mrs. Whiteworth replied.

Shit. She’d messed up the simplest of tasks all day. Sam could still smell him on her. But it wasn’t just that—no matter how many times she ran over the event in her head, she just couldn’t figure him out. Was he just jealous? Perhaps. Horny? Definitely.

Still, she thought there was more to it than that. She’d dealt with jealous, horny men before. None of them had that fire in their eyes that he’d held the other night.

It was obvious he liked her. That much was evident when he nearly dragged her out of the club Tarzan-style. Sure, she’d egged him on. Ellie had called her out on that. She hadn’t known what he would do, but she hadn’t expected what had happened.

And now she was more attracted to him than ever.

Idiot! she thought to herself. Sam couldn’t help how she felt, but she knew how he treated her was wrong. Misogyny nearly sweated out his pores at times. How he treated all women was wrong. There were certainly hints that maybe he was more like his dad than he seemed. No, he’s not. You’re wrong.

Sam breathed out deeply and put her head on her desk.

“Taking a lie down, are we?” Mrs. Whiteworth asked. Sam’s head snapped up. She hadn’t heard the woman walk in. She walked like a cat, always on the prowl and silent.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her entire body coursed with embarrassment. She scrambled for excuses, but came up with nothing. An apology would have to be enough.

“Sam,” the older woman said as she walked close to the desk. She crossed her arms over her chest and looked down at her. “Are you alright?”

That simple question nearly brought Sam to tears. She would not cry at work. How weak was she? “I’m fine,” she said, and forced a smile. “Really. I’m sorry about that wrong attachment, I’ll send it over right now.”

“I’m not concerned with the file at the moment,” the woman said. She smiled kindly at her. “I didn’t come all the way over here to make pleasantries. I asked if you’re alright.”

“I don’t know,” Sam said slowly. She realized it was the most honest thing she’d said in awhile. The time with Ellie and Aunt Mary had been good. They soothed her. But it had also just fed her wild need to lure Connor in. With Mrs. Whiteworth, she’d been caught at her most vulnerable.

“You can talk to me, you know,” the woman said. “I know I don’t always seem like the warmest person in the world. And I’m not HR, and I’m not your mom, but it’s clear you’re going through some things.”

“I… I won’t let it impact my work again,” Sam promised with new resolve.

“Sweetheart, you can’t do it all,” she said. “Trust me. What are you, twenty-six? Twenty-five?”

Sam nodded. Twenty-five years old and mooning over some boy like she was sixteen. How did she let it come to this?

“It’s a beast of an age,” Mrs. Whiteworth said. “I was twenty-five once. I worked in the catering department for a company that no longer exists, but served every political gala in the city.”

Sam looked at her with a new perspective. She couldn’t imagine the regal woman in a black apron with platters of food.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the woman said with a laugh. “I did, really. And I was quite good at it. I wanted to be a chef, like Julia Child. Well, not like her, but you know what I mean.”

“A chef,” Sam repeated. What do I want to be? It had been so long since she’d pondered it. She knew she wasn’t cut out for a great career in event management, that was for sure.

“And I was crazy in love. Or lust. Thought I was, at least,” Mrs. Whiteworth said. “The kind where I was happy to throw everything away for it.”

Sam blushed. Was I that easy to read? “What… what happened?” she asked.

Mrs. Whiteworth sat down in one of the guest chairs. “He was the son of a very influential politician at the time. If I told you his surname, you’d probably be able to guess. I met him when I was helping to cater one of those godawful snoozefests.”

She cocked her head and looked at the elegant woman. Sam couldn’t imagine her being anything but poised. And able to get anything she liked.

“But,” Mrs. Whiteworth continued with a sigh. “It didn’t work out. As you can see,” she said, and waved her bare ring hand at Sam.

“Was it unrequited?” Sam asked. She nearly laughed at the word herself.

“Unrequited? No, not entirely,” Mrs. Whiteworth said with a smile. “I like to think not. We carried on in secret. For nearly a year, in fact. He worried that being with me would mar his family’s reputation. His budding political career.”

Sam looked at her lap. It all sounded too familiar. Although Connor had never told her that outright. She’d never asked or looked into Sandra’s background. What did Sandra have that she didn’t? The right upbringing? The right education? What’s wrong with me?

Mrs. Whiteworth leaned toward her. “If he doesn’t see what a catch you are, he’s a moron,” she told her.

“How did you know?” she asked. And how much do you know? Did she know Connor was a client?

“It’s obvious, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Whiteworth said. She held up a finger to her lips. “Don’t worry. I don’t think the rest of the office knows. It takes age, and experience to be able to see it. Plus, your generation is so obsessed with their own lives, they barely notice others exist.”

Sam’s face burned. She was part of that generation, of course. And Mrs. Whiteworth was right. When was the last time she’d taken a genuine interest in anyone’s well-being at work? When was the last time she’d noticed anything about them unless it had to do with her, too? She couldn’t help but think of poor Jenny. She’d swooped in on her when she’d thought Connor was hot on that first day, and she’d been unfairly angry at her with the whole dating app thing—even though she’d never approached her about it.

She didn’t know a damn thing about Jenny, and they’d started at nearly the same time.

“I had no idea.” It was all she could think of to say.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Mrs. Whiteworth said. “You’re young. I know you’re probably tired of hearing that at this point in your life, but it’s true. You have no idea how young, or how much is ahead of you. I know it feels like whatever you’re going through right now is too heavy to carry. Trust me, it isn’t. You’re a strong woman.”

Sam blushed at the unexpected compliment. She wanted to look away; the woman’s eyes were almost too intense. But she forced herself to hold the gaze. “Why do you think that?” she asked. She wanted to take it back. It sounded too much like she was fishing for compliments.

“You think I’d hire anything else?” Mrs. Whiteworth asked.

She went over the roster of employees in her head. Mrs. Whiteworth was right. There were elements to all of them that were impressive. How else would this agency have so quickly become the powerhouse in the industry it was?

“Just remember,” Mrs. Whiteworth said as she stood up. “You can talk to me.”

“Mrs. Whiteworth?” she asked as the woman was halfway to the door. She turned in her flawlessly tailored Chanel and looked at Sam. “Why event management?” she asked.

The woman laughed. “Turns out I was shit in the kitchen,” she said. “I went to culinary school when I was forty. Or tried, at least. This is the next closest thing. As it turns out, I never wanted to be a chef. What I wanted was to throw one hell of a party.”

Sam smiled. The woman was forty before she even gave what she really wanted a chance. There was time. There was time to decide. “And the boy?” she asked. “What happened to him?”

Mrs. Whiteworth sighed. “I wish I could tell you I don’t know,” she said. “That he disappeared into the great wild, that all I carry of him are romantic notions of what he could be doing. Who he could be. But this is a small town at its core,” she said. “All I can tell you is he followed, diligently, in his family’s footsteps. Although, do you want to know something?” she asked.

Sam leaned forward, the promise of a secret way too tempting to pass up. “What?”

“He got bald and fat before he was thirty-five,” she said with a conspiratorial grin. “My torch for him went out long ago. That doesn’t happen with real love, does it? Believe me, you’re not too old to still be confusing lust for love.”

Sam sat back and let that soak in. Was she right? Is that all this was?

The glass doors to her office swung shut in silence.

Sam leaned back in her white leather chair and wondered about the self-imposed deadline. It was just a few days away. When she’d said she’d just finish up the month, she’d meant it. She didn’t care that she hadn’t told Connor. Who was he to deserve a notice, anyway?

That’s it, she thought to herself. You have until the end of the month. Either you get him to see things your way, or let him go.

That was easier said than done. Sam searched Connor’s name and a plethora of images popped up of the two of them together. A few local bloggers guessed at their potential wedding date. Some completely made up how the two of them met. Journalism at its finest, she thought.

Still, she had to admit they looked more than good together. They looked right.

She knew she shouldn’t do it as soon as her fingers started to type the name. Sandra Brewer. It took her a few minutes to narrow down the search—but there she was.

Moderately pretty and largely unassuming. Sam was surprised. It wasn’t the airhead hot blonde she’d expected.

The girl had gone to Vassar, worked at an NGO, and was from a town in Connecticut she’d never heard of. She seemed moderately well-off and educated, but not leaps and bounds “better” than Sam in any regard. Why her and not me?

Sam stared at a photo of Sandra until her image had to be permanently burned into her brain. She just couldn’t figure it out.

Why did she get the real engagement?