Page 12 of The Difference Between

“Sorry about that,” I apologize to the room. “Where are we?”

Projected on the wall is the last slide of my presentation. I missed all the final key points. Though the vibe is positive, it also screams meeting over. People are checking phones, rustling papers, and murmuring to neighbors. My well-rehearsed closing remarks won’t land. Dammit.

“I think Matt answered everything,” Trish says. “I’m intrigued, to say the least. There’s no denying this could be a huge asset in our portfolio.” She glances at the Rutledge brothers beside her. “We’ll need time to review.”

The meeting didn’t go exactly like I planned—I should have rescheduled the surgery—but those words sound like a win.

“The committee will debrief and let’s say—” Trish looks at her Rolex. “We meet in two hours. My office? That work for you, Reese?”

“Absolutely.”

“Perfect.” Her smile is there as fast as it’s gone then she turns to her brothers. They exchange hushed words before she calls, “Matt, can we have a minute before the debrief?”

“Sure thing.” He winks at me—I want to gouge that eye out—then strolls to them.

As I gather my papers, the room fills with an excited buzz. The sound means one thing: Fizz Co is about to be ours. Mine. I’ll have a ton of work in the coming months, possibly years, but it’ll pay off; it always does.

I check my phone—nothing—then drop it into my bag.

At the clear view of the Windy City, I smile to myself. A couple of more years of winning deals like this and the Rutledge family might just adopt me and make me a managing partner.

Three

Trish Rutledge-Brady looks more like a first-grade teacher than a woman with a corner office in a Chicago high rise.

At fifty-eight, she’s pretty enough, but with her greying brown hair pulled back in a headband, a little extra weight, and a somewhat dated pantsuit, she screams low maintenance. Underneath her disarming exterior, she’s smart as hell. She isn’t showy about it, but when she looks at a potential investment, she knows how to ask the fewest questions to get the most information then come to a sound conclusion. She’s efficient and decisive, qualities most people don’t appreciate as much as they should.

She and her brothers joined the firm their dad started back in the ’80s as soon as they graduated college. Scott Rutledge Sr. passed years ago so now it’s fully run by Trish, Scotty Jr., and the third Rutledge, Robert. Combined, they have kids of various ages and the ones old enough for college are all getting degrees in business or finance. The next generation of Rutledges will be working here in the coming years. Like the mafia, but with a strong moral compass.

“Reese,” Trish says in a warm tone when I step into her office. “Have a seat.”

She sets a cup of tea in front of me before circling her desk to take a sip of her own as she settles into her chair. I take a seat and a sip; it tastes like gardening soil that spent the last six years marinating in a sewage pipe.

“Delicious,” I say. “Thank you, Trish.”

Despite the pisswater, I’m almost giddy. I smooth my skirt and don’t let my excitement show. It’s not a power play; I’m proving I’m not emotional. It’s a weakness at this level, especially for women, and I’ve become a master in concealing mine.

“It’s made of hawthorn leaves,” she explains. “Supposed to help with heart health.”

“To heart health, then.” I raise my mug in mock cheers before taking another sip. I’ve spent the last two hours pacing my office—Mom’s surgery hasn’t had any other issues, meaning my focus has fully been on this meeting and next steps. I’ll drink three cups of this tea if I have to. I just want Trish to give me the good news; I don’t care what flavor it comes in or what lies I tell to get her there.

A loud silence follows that pulls the background noise to the front. Muffled laughs float through the walls from down the hall combines with the tat-tat-tat-tat-tat of a jackhammer from construction on a nearby building.

I’m mid-sip when she says, “Speaking of health, how’s your mom doing? You visited her on vacation earlier this summer, right?”

I choke on my tea. Trish knows a little bit about my mom because I went home after we found out about the tumor and she and my sister, Rue, let the antique store they own go to hell in a handbasket. Trish wanted me to take the whole time off, but I insisted on working remote. She would die if she knew Mom was currently in surgery while I’m sitting here.

Which is why I didn’t tell anyone.

“That wasn’t a vacation,” I correct. “I worked remote so my sister could go on a treasure hunt—” I scoff. “Can you imagine?” I laugh; Trish doesn’t; my laugh falls to the floor and dies. “But Mom is . . . fine.”

She nods, taking a short sip of her tea.

“Who did you want to be?” she finally asks. “When you were younger, I mean. Childhood. College.” She makes a nonchalant gesture to nothing in particular. “Before all this.”

“Um.” I clear my throat. What the hell is this? “I . . . wanted to be successful—which I am—and . . .” I blow out a contemplative breath. For the most part, high school Reese wanted everything forty-year-old Reese has: the job, the money. On a corkboard in my childhood bedroom is a list seventeen-year-old me wrote that confirms this. Sure, I don’t have the personal life I thought I’d have—the perfect husband or kids—nor did I retire at the ridiculous age of thirty-five then move back to Fontain. But the naïve teenager that wrote that list had no idea how all-consuming being successful would be and how hard it is to jump from this train once it starts moving. How that first win leads to a domino effect of chasing every win that follows. I’ll get to a personal life and retirement and Fontain later, right now I just want Fizz Co. “And be better than my sisters.” I smile brightly. “Lucky for me, that started at birth.”

“I see.” Trish’s tone isn’t amused. She’s clearly never seen Rue’s overalls. “And what do you do when you aren’t working?”