It’s official. I’ve worn a hole in the carpet in my office from pacing from the window to my desk. It’s a five-foot-long stretch, and the effort is all the more amazing considering it only took a day.

For the last twenty-four hours, I’ve mastered the art of pacing, along with stressing, along with worrying. I’ve also considered entering myself in a lip-synching contest because I’ve spent so much time mouthing words silently as I pace. For instance, consider these potential winners.

“Lily, I need to tell you something crazy . . .”

“Well, it’s kind of a funny story . . .”

“Guess what? That player who’s known for being a playa? I want him to play with me.”

Ugh.

I sigh so deeply, the sound of my frustration burrows underground. They are all sucktastic. None fit the bill for broaching a touchy topic with my boss.

Touchy with a capital T.

But I meant it when I told Jones I’m not sure how much longer I can pull this off. How many secret dates, stolen moments, or hallway encounters can my nerves sustain?

Or my conscience, for that matter.

That’s the bigger issue, and in the last several hours it’s been an insistent drumbeat, telling me to do something, say something.

I don’t know if Jones and I will ever amount to anything, but I admire Lily. I respect Lily, and I don’t want to keep lying to her.

It feels all kinds of wrong. Lily taught me better. She mentored me better, and whether Jones and I can ever be together isn’t the concern gnawing at my heart. What’s eating away at me is the fact that I don’t want to be a person who sneaks around.

I want to find a way to come clean, no matter what awaits with him—if anything—on the other side.

I sink down in my desk chair, swiveling to the window and the view of the San Francisco skyline, the cresting hills of Pacific Heights, the choppy dark blue water of the bay, and the brilliant rust-colored bridge that majestically spans the seas.

I’m lucky to have this view.

I’m lucky to have this job.

I’m lucky to have this wonderful life.

Am I going to risk it all for a guy?

How could a man be worth it? Is it even possible that this feeling in my chest—this sense of champagne and wonder when he’s nearby—is worth gambling what I’ve worked so hard for?

My throat catches, and I swallow down another lump as I reach for a framed photo on my desk—a picture of my mom and dad lifting wine glasses at the camera as they shot a selfie in Florence for me.

They went to Italy a few months before her heart attack, rode bikes across Tuscany, visited the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. When they learned of my very first promotion with the Renegades while traveling, they shot this photo for me. Running my thumb over the glass frame, I want to ask my mom what to do.

I wish I knew what she’d say. She was so wise, so smart, so balanced.

I could ask my dad for his opinion. But I’m afraid I know what his answer would be. When it comes to matters of the heart, he’s a softie.

In the end, I need to make my own choice. My stomach hurts, like a stone is inside me, wriggling around, painfully pressing against my ribs.

You make your own luck.

Pomelos.

Cherries.

The color red.

Little envelopes.

Dragons.

I’ve always loved the idea of luck. I’ve held it tight in my hands, believed that if I honored its power, I could manifest good fortune in my life as long as I put elbow grease behind it.

But luck is capricious. Luck does what luck wants. Luck knows no consequences. And luck can turn south in the blink of an eye.

Luck can bring on a heart attack unexpectedly when you had no warning signs, when you weren’t overweight, when your blood pressure was normal, when you exercised. Luck, or more specifically, bad luck, can upend a perfectly normal life and a happy marriage, leaving one party missing his other half, his soul mate. I tear my gaze away from the photo before my eyes turn too watery.

If I can’t turn to either one of my parents for advice, I’ll need to rely on my own barometer.

I head upstairs to Lily’s office, where she preps me for my interview next week. She reviews the projects I worked on over the last few years, as well as my accomplishments and my ongoing successes.

Rattling them off one by one until she runs out of fingers, she names the players’ auction, the charity calendar, the consistent and fantastic coverage, my reliability when it comes to running the press conferences, the community work I’ve set up, the extra effort with Jones this past summer.

She shakes her head, visibly impressed. “I have to say you’ve done great work here.”

I don’t bother to rein in a grin. I smile widely and say, “Thank you.”

I have to admit, she’s damn right. I’m not only good at my job—I’m great at it. I’m driven, relentless, professional, innovative, and passionate. That has nothing to do with luck, and everything to do with hard work and dedication.

And, if I am all those things, will falling in love with a player change that?

I gasp under my breath, quickly covering my mouth, hoping Lily didn’t notice. She’s continuing to talk about the interview, so I’m safe.

On the surface.

But my head is swimming because there it is.

Reality.

Clarity.

I’m falling in love with Jones Beckett.

I’m absolutely crazy for him. I miss being with him like there’s an emptiness inside me. Jones makes me feel like all my sexy songs. He makes me laugh. He makes me think. He challenges me. And he gives me so much of himself.

In this second, another blast of clarity lands in my lap—I must tell Lily. I can’t hide this anymore from my mentor and my boss. I need her to know my truth before I march into that interview next week. I have to put my cards on the table, no matter what.

Once she finishes, I clear my throat, chucking all my practice words in the trash bin. Time to start fresh and speak from the heart, right here, right now.

Her desk phone bleats, a loud, shrill ring that insists on being answered.

Cradling it against her neck, she answers, waits, and then says, “Oh, fudge sticks.”

More silence.

“It’s in an hour?”

She’s quiet again.

“Yep. I’ll be there.”

She hangs up the phone, bolts from her chair, grabs her purse, and declares, “Apparently, it’s poetry workshop day. My daughter signed me up for it, since she thinks I’m a poet on account of writing press releases, and now I have to go spend the afternoon critiquing poetry from third-graders.”

I wave to her door. “Go. Craft odes. Make words. And please let me know what you have on your agenda. I’ll take care of all of it.”

Snatching a sheet of paper from her desk, she thrusts it at me. “These are the calls I need to make today. You’re an angel.”

I don’t need to possess the soul of an angel to know today isn’t the day for confession.