1. Hannah: 15 years later

ONE

"Knock, knock." The man's voice cuts through the silence in my office.

"Hi, Brandon." I greet him, typing out the last line of an email.

When I hit send, I look up from my computer.

Brandon is… okay. Cute in a middle-aged, I wear fleece vests as a fashion statement kind of way. But he's not my preferred brand. No matter how many times he not-so-subtly tries to ask me to dinner. Or drinks. Or to his lake house for the weekend.

Even though we both know our salaries don't allow us to purchase second residences. Which means he's referring to his parents' house over on Darling Lake. And I don't know what I dislike more, the way he bends the truth or the cologne he wears.

Taking a calming breath, I remind myself that I'm extra stressed today and that he's not that bad.

I force a smile on my face. "What's up?"

Brandon props his shoulder against my doorframe. "Have you had your interview yet?"

And there it is, the reason for my stress. "Not yet."

The company I've worked at for years was just purchased by another company.

We knew it was a possibility. That the owners had been considering selling. But Monday's email told us the deal had been finalized and signed that morning. And that we were all now employees of MinneSolar because our company was being absorbed by this new one.

And if that wasn't terrifying enough, the email also stated that we would be reinterviewing with the new executive team for our current jobs on Wednesday. Today.

My manager told me not to worry about it. That it's standard procedure and more of a way for the new brass to get to know the employees.

But if that was true, I don't think they'd call them interviews. It would just be a meeting.

"I just finished mine," Brandon says, referring to his interview. "Wasn't too bad."

"Did they take the whole forty minutes?" I ask.

He makes a face. "Pretty much. But the questions seemed standard. Didn't feel like they were trying to trip me up or anything."

"That's good." A bit of my anxiety melts away. "Is it really three people at once?"

Brandon's been here since I started four years ago. I know he'll stand there talking whether I ask questions or not, so I might as well ask.

"Yeah. The new CEO seems alright. I think her name was Dana. And the CFO dude was pretty chill. But the last guy." He rolls his eyes. "He didn't even say anything."

"Who was the last guy?" I can tell Brandon doesn't like him, so now I'm intrigued.

"The owner." He scoffs as if he wouldn't love to own a multimillion-dollar company.

"He can't be that bad if he didn't say anything," I try to point out.

Brandon lifts the shoulder he's not leaning on. "I mean, I guess it'd be worse if he was trying to grill me about my position. Considering he probably knows nothing about it."

Ah, yes, there is the obnoxious man I know.

"If he owns the company, I'm sure he gets the basics." I try to keep my annoyance out of my tone.

Brandon is a sales guy, not a freaking mechanical engineer. It's absurd to assume the owner of the company couldn't keep up with his day-to-day selling of solar energy equipment.

I'm an internal auditor. My job is a bit more nuanced, but it really just boils down to me overseeing accounts and expenses. If this guy has enough money to own a solar company large enough to buy and absorb our company, then I'm sure he understands money. Probably even better than I do.

"Maybe," Brandon says skeptically. "But he's only been in the business for like two years. Before that, he played football."

A small chill creeps up the back of my neck, and I sit up straighter in my chair. "What do you mean he played football?"

Brandon glances over his shoulder to check that the hallway is clear, then steps farther into my office. "Have you not heard who the owner is?"

I slowly shake my head. "No. Who is it?"

"It's Mad Dog Maddox. He was the defensive tackle for us for like five years. And before that, he played for Arizona for—"

I don't hear any more of what Brandon says because my ears are filled with a high-pitched ringing sound.

Mad Dog Maddox.

Maddox Lovelace.

The Maddox.

The Maddox I spent one life-altering night with in college.

The man who swept me off my feet, literally, and more than once, only to never ever call.

The one whose career I followed closer than I'll ever admit.

The Maddox I forced myself to stop looking up when he retired from football.

The man who broke my twenty-year-old heart.

The one I've thought of too many times over the past fifteen years.

That Maddox.

That Maddox is here.

"Hannah?" My manager's voice cuts through the noise in my head.

I blink and find her standing behind Brandon in my doorway.

She smiles, unaware that my mental stability is rapidly unraveling. "You're up."

I swallow and nod. "Okay."

She moves away from my door as I push out of my desk chair.

Brandon is still here, taking up space. He says something about luck before finally turning around and exiting, leaving me alone in my office.

Maddox is here.

I take a breath.

You can do this.

I take a second breath.

You're a bad bitch.

I clench my jaw.

You deserve this position.

I unclench my jaw.

You've worked your ass off since…

I take a deep breath in through parted lips.

I've worked my ass off every day of my fucking life to get to where I am.

I moved back home after that one week of living on campus.

I went from the prospect of student life to working full time— scratch that, overtime— at Petals.

I spent my days in the flower shop and my evenings attending online classes to finish my bachelor's degree in accounting. And what was supposed to take me three semesters at HOP U ended up taking me five long years.

Five years of worrying about paying the mortgage. Worrying about Mom's medical bills and the cost of physical therapy. And when it finally seemed like we might have a handle on things, have a plan, my cousin died, and everything changed again. Giving me even bigger worries and responsibilities.

I spent five years under crushing stress as I watched Maddox graduate from college. Get drafted into the NFL. Play his rookie season in Arizona. Go to the playoffs in his second season. Play in the Super Bowl in his third season.

I watched him excel.

I watched him guest anchor for college games.

I watched him living his best life.

Blinking, I tip my head back toward the ceiling.

Keep it together, Hannah.

None of this is new. His success isn't new.

And I'm over him.

It was one stupid week.

One stupid week, a lifetime ago, that I clung to for way too long because I was struggling.

Because I wanted to believe in a different outcome.

Because a stupid, foolish part of me held on to this sliver of hope for years that he might call.

That one day, my phone would ring, and he'd apologize for not calling sooner. That he'd explain how he read the note so many times the numbers smudged on the page. How he tried every combination until he finally got me.

I blink again.

It was irrational.

After the first two weeks passed without a word, I should have let it go.

But I was young. And I wanted someone to save me.

I blink again and remind myself that I'm past all that.

Because I am.

I just never thought I'd have to see him again.

And certainly not like this. Interviewing for my own job.

Taking another breath, I accept the humor in my situation.

I followed Maddox's career in the media for so long. Stemmed from some sort of masochist nature, I guess. And it wasn't until he retired that I decided I needed to stop. Needed to stop caring. Which was good for my mental health. I haven't thought of him in… I don't know how long. But had I continued to follow him, my unprepared ass would've known he was the owner of MinneSolar.

Or, at the very least, I should've spent some of the last two days researching the company rather than being so focused on double-checking all my previous work, wanting my records to be squeaky clean.

A door shuts somewhere down the hall, reminding me of where I am. And what I need to do.

I force my shoulders to relax.

I have a bit of savings now. Not much, but enough to get us through a month or two if I lose my position.

Shaking my head, I take one step, then another, and exit my office.

Maddox isn't going to fire me on sight.

Something hot flares in my chest.

He might not recognize me.

He might not even remember me.

Turning, I walk toward the elevators in our main lobby.

As part of the merger, we'll need more office space, so we're moving up a floor. The employees who already worked for MinneSolar, and the executives, are already moving in up there. And that's where they're having the interviews.

The elevator doors slide open the moment I press the call button, and when they slide closed after me, I stare at my reflection in the polished metal doors. It's not a perfect mirror, but the blurry image is a reminder of what I'm wearing. What I look like now.

My wide-leg black pants are fitted around my waist and ass. My white tank top clings to my curves and is tucked in, showing off the belt detail on my pants.

And showing off the fact that I'm bigger than I used to be.

I pull on my matching black suit jacket, wishing it was a blanket I could hide under.

My hair is still the same honey-brown shade it's always been. But it's shorter now, closer to shoulder length, rather than halfway down my back. And I'm wearing it half up, the top part twisted back into a clip, the bottom half curled in soft waves.

This is my interview outfit. It's meant to give me confidence.

Pretty please, give me confidence.

The elevator slows to a stop, and when I step out, the low heels of my ankle boots quietly click across the floor.

There's a receptionist stationed up here already.

She points over her shoulder and tells me to head back, past the cluster of cubicles, and down the hall to the conference room at the end.

Even from here, I can see this office space is three times larger than our one downstairs, so I appreciate the directions.

Thanking her, I keep my shoulders back and remind myself that my appearance doesn't matter.

It doesn't matter that my hips are wider than they used to be. That my bust is bigger, or that my stomach is softer.

None of that matters for this job.

None of that matters, period.

I grip the edges of my suit coat and tug them down.

I am a bad bitch.

I deserve this job.

I've earned this job.

And I will not be flustered by some fucking man.

With one final breath, I reach the conference room and step through the door.