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I think back. The first day was a disaster. I hadn’t drunk that much Dr. Pepper in a day since high school. That first night, Devon explained away his incompetence on the ingredients being mislabeled. My latte was nearly perfect on the second day. While he continued to bumble around the café, breaking dishes and spilling drinks, my latte was always perfect. I assumed he solved the riddle of how to make at least one drink correctly. It’s just another deceit from his bag of tricks.
“He made sure to always get your order right.” Mrs. Whitehead rises. “All week, I sat back here, working and watching those monitors.” She points to the monitor at the edge of her desk. A four-by-four live stream of the activity in the café. “He likes you, Zara. A lot. That’s not an act.”
My headshake is a violent denial. “It’s all been an act. From day one.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t.”
“Don’t mind me right now if I have an issue with trust.” I toss the card in the air toward the desktop. It flips, displaying the Coffee Loft Logo.
She reaches into the desk again, and I hold my breath. Is this another secret to be revealed?
“I know you, Zara. You’re one of my favorite customers. I consider you a friend.” Her eyes mist with emotion, and I notice what she’s holding. A gift.
A gold and silver box about ten inches by four.
“I know you like to have conversations with future you. I’ve always found it endearing. Weird but endearing.” She giggles, and I wonder where she’s going with this. “Right now, you aren’t in a position to hear what I’m about to say, so I’m going to speak to future you.
“Hello, future Zara. Now that the shock of everything that has happened this week has worn off, please know it’s okay to reach out to Devon. He cares for you. You know this to be true in your heart. Think of the hundreds of moments you’ve shared, the glances across the café, him visiting you on every one of his breaks. Please forgive him for his deceit. We all have been in positions where our job made us assume roles not to our liking. Consider things from his point of view. He was working on achieving his dream. He couldn’t do it alone. Hopefully, you understand this and give him a second chance.”
She pushes the box toward me, and I have no choice but to accept it. “This is for you. But don’t open it until you hear back from the sports team. I want to see your face when you open it.”
I’ve heard every word she said, but she’s right. I’m in no mental state to process what she’s asked. The hurt is still too fresh.
“You got me a consolidation prize? What is it?” The box is light, and I wonder if it’s a gift certificate for lattes. How many lattes does it take to mend a wounded heart?
She scrunches. “I have no idea. Devon left it for you, along with the hat. His instructions to me were for you to open it with me here in the café after you hear back from the volleyball team.”
My eyes pinch tight, and I push back the desire to rip open the present. Given these instructions and the weight of the gift, it must be a letter of apology. He knows he screwed up. He knows he’s left me high and dry. His actions kick up my slim, one-in-a-million shot at winning this pitch up to a billion in one.
I hand the box back to Mrs. Whitehead. “You can hold onto this. I don’t think I’m going to need it anytime soon, if ever.” This pitstop was a distraction. Another misdirection I can’t afford. “I’ve got to go.” I can’t waste any more brain cells on the man who carved a path to my heart, then shattered it with his clumsy hands. “I’ve got a pitch to lose.”
Chapter Nineteen
Zara
Ifeel like a fool. I’m standing at the center of a volleyball court in a massive arena, half a foot from a microphone.
David Blane’s assistant stands three feet away behind the small table he scrambled to find to hold my laptop. He gives me pitiful eyes that let me know I have no business being here. He swipes at his phone and gives me another update.
“Apologies once again. After the last four presentations, Mr. Blaine had to hop on a quick video conference call. He should be here shortly.”
“No problem. I’m ready whenever he is.” I try to maintain a positive disposition even while I expect the assistant to tell me to go home. That they’ve picked their design team, and they don’t have the time to waste to even listen to my pitch.
The arena doors slam open, and we both turn. Designer shoes slap the hardwood court as David Blaine, multi-millionaire and owner of the Magic volleyball team, approaches. David is white, five-ten, mid-forties with dark hair and the body of an athlete. Based on his bio, he played competitive volleyball and crew backeast in college. His family was upper middle class, comfortable is how he’s described it in the articles I’ve read.
He risked his college funds from his parents and invested in a Silicon Valley start-up. Took the profits four years later to start his own firm and has never looked back.
“Sorry for keeping you waiting, Zara. I’m David.” He gives me a warm, welcoming smile that immediately puts me at ease. He sits across the table from millionaires, Fortune 500 executives, and Wall Street lawyers who manage risk portfolios in the billions. Yet, he gives me his complete attention as if I’m the most important person in the world.
“Yeah, I kind of know.” I smile at his presumption I wouldn’t know who he is. “I wouldn’t be much of a businesswoman about to pitch you if I didn’t know who you are.”
“Good.” His gaze rises over my shoulder, his neck twisting as if he’s missing something. “Is this everyone? Do you have everything you need?”
I point to the laptop. “Just little ole me.” I attempt to project confidence despite the nervous quiver in my voice.
“Okay. We booked the arena because…” He starts to explain and halts, realizing he doesn’t need to say the words. I complete it for himbecause every other company knew enough to bring the thunder. We aren’t just in the sport apparel business but also the entertainment business.
“If you’d be more comfortable, we could go back to my office.” I can tell David is a kind man. His offer is his way to help stave off the embarrassment that’s surely to follow when I underwhelm him with my pitch.
