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“So what’s going on? Oliver is great. I can see how much you like him…and of course…”
“What?”
She nodded. “He’s in love with you, you know.”
I felt my eyes widen, but a secret place in my heart warmed at her assessment. “We haven’t known each other long enough for that.”
“Love doesn’t always take time,” she said. “I can see it when he looks at you, Holl. It’s nice. You deserve it.”
Staring at her, I felt a smile take over my face. “I care a lot about him,” I said.
“But…?” she prompted.
“But what?”
“I can hear a but coming. Spit it out, girl.”
I searched my mind. Delia often seemed to know what I was thinking before I did. Under her watchful scrutiny I felt something click in my mind, a glimmer of light that shone on a scrap of something I’d been ignoring. Something I didn’t want to consider. “I care about him,” I repeated. “But I feel like a fraud. What if the only reason I got this promotion was because of Oliver?”
“We talked about this. So what if it was?”
“Then I didn’t do it myself! That’s so fucked up. It invalidates everything I’ve spent my life working for.” I felt my shoulders crumple slightly as I gave voice to the worry I’d been refusing to acknowledge, hiding instead in Oliver’s arms and behind my busy desk.
“You don’t have to achieve something completely alone for it to count.”
“But achieving it and being given something because you’re a delightful fuck are completely different things.” I felt my lip go out slightly in a pout. It was ridiculous, but Delia was the one person in the world I could pout in front of.
“You can let your ‘ethics’ get all up in here and screw everything up.” Delia waved her hands around my head. “Or you can smile, enjoy what you’ve earned, and try to actually be happy for a change.”
I let out a frustrated sigh.
—
We went back to Oliver’s that night, and the next night, too. For two weeks I practically lived at his house, though my concern over the ethics of my promotion began to haunt me. After sleeping at Oliver’s more often than at home, something comfortable and easy had developed between us. Which was not to say that the sizzling heat we shared had dissipated. At all. If anything, the more I got of him, the more I wanted. But in the moments when we were apart, when I was at my desk, for example, a quiet voice spoke deep inside me. I knew I should be listening to it, that it was the voice of reason. It said things I didn’t really want to hear.
It talked about how hard I’d worked for the things I had, about how I’d done it all on my own. Until now.
I could have stared into space for hours, but I was interrupted by the ringing of my office line.
“Holland O’Dell.”
“Ms. O’Dell, this is Anton Mitchell. From MLB?”
I sat up straighter in my chair. “Yes, of course. How are you?” It had been several weeks since our initial presentation and I’d begun to worry I’d never hear from them at all. Oliver and I had made a point of avoiding the topic.
“I’m doing well,” he said. “Can’t complain. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Of course.” I picked up a pen and clicked it furiously, waiting to find out if this new office I was sitting in was deserved or not.
“I wanted to let you know that we’re very interested in the measurement device you presented to us. Your presentation notes have been shared throughout the organization, and everyone agrees this could be a game changer for baseball.”
My heart jumped. This was what I’d been waiting for, what I’d hoped for and dreamed about. “That’s great news,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
“We have a few more questions,” he went on. “And naturally, we need to talk numbers before anything is certain.”
“Of course.”
“Can we set something up for a few weeks out? We’ll be back out in LA the middle of April.”
