Chapter 22

Chapter

Twenty-Two

Rhonda

Monday night, Rhonda stepped out of the rideshare and into a puddle of slush. She was glad she hadn't taken her own car. The roads were slick with the remnants of snow that was now solidifying since the sun had gone down. She pulled her coat around her shoulders, wishing she’d worn wool pants. She smoothed down her sleek black dress, the hemline brushing just above her knees. Professional, yet sexy, as usual.

She walked through the doors of the event centre and followed signs for the Founder’s Event. When she arrived outside the ballroom, Rhonda's breath caught in her throat. Even glimpsing it through the arched doors, it was a sea of opulence. Crystal chandeliers sparkled overhead, glinting off crystal glassware and pristine white plates. The hum of conversation blended with the delicate strains of a string quartet.

Guests milled about in the entry hall in designer gowns and sharp suits, sipping champagne from fluted glasses. Towering floral arrangements punctuated the space, their blooms so perfect their existence seemed impossible for Calgary in November. Rhonda's eyes scanned the space, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and cologne. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror behind one of the pop-up bars. One of these things is not like the others.

As she turned to find the Will-Call or check-in desk, she spotted Jordan across the crowd. Her breath hitched. He was wearing a tailored dark suit that hugged his broad shoulders and lean frame. He was clean-shaven. His hair, wavy and sleek. It was like seeing a favourite piece of art only to realize that the versions she’d admired before were knock-offs.

Rhonda's stomach did an involuntary flip. She was back in her entryway, tearing off her top and posing for him in his coat. Her cheeks flamed.

Jordan was gone when she woke up Saturday morning. She’d known he would be. That look he’d given her on her front step wasn’t one of excitement or desire. It was pain. Self-loathing. And still, she’d let him walk through the door.

For a moment, she wondered if she should turn around and walk right back out the door. Then she remembered her texts with Derek that morning. How thrilled he’d been that she’d secured an audience with Dr. Mallory for the first time in years.

As much as she wanted to pretend that praise didn’t matter, that it was all about what was best for patients, it absolutely did. She’d worked her ass off for years to prove she was worthy of a promotion. How many misogynistic comments or dismissals had she bounced back from? How many times had she been looked over or rejected? Even by her own people at Cantra?

No. She had to go through with this meeting, even if it meant sitting next to glow-up Jordan and facing the terrifying reality that she was a little bit dead inside.

Rhonda inhaled a steadying breath and strode across the hall. Jordan waited next to the official entrance to the ballroom, and she couldn't help but notice the eyes of a few women lingering on him. He had that whole rugged-with-a-touch-of-sophistication thing going for him. Plus, he was at least twenty years younger than any other man in the immediate vicinity.

Jordan turned, and his eyes locked with hers. Was that a flush creeping up his neck, or was it just the warm lighting?

"Hey, sorry I'm a bit late." Rhonda gave him a smile, hoping it came off as casual.

Jordan cleared his throat. "No problem. I just got here myself." He lifted a hand, then thought better of it. “The coat check is there.”

Rhonda nodded, her stomach souring. “Right. Thanks.” She walked over and handed the woman behind the table her coat in exchange for a ticket, grateful there wasn’t any line. When she reappeared at Jordan’s side, he held up two tickets.

“Hope it’s okay. I got these already.”

Rhonda nodded, her brow pinching. “Of course.” He hadn’t smiled at her. More than that, apart from the moment she’d greeted him, he wasn’t making eye contact. It made her feel woozy. Off-centred.

She tried not to stare at the way his suit jacket clung to his shoulders or how he had one hand casually slipped into his pocket. He looked confident. Strong. Without realizing it, she’d planned on him being her ally, but right now, he felt like a paid escort.

How had Jordan gotten these tickets? She knew how much a table at one of these events cost, and she hadn’t even thought to ask.

They wove through groups of people, Jordan nodding and exchanging pleasantries with a few familiar faces. Rhonda’s heels snagged in the industrial carpet as she tried to keep up. The tables were set with precision, each one a tableau of intricate centrepieces, gleaming silverware, and name cards written in elegant script.

Finally, Jordan stopped at their table. It was tucked toward the edge of the room. Not quite in the thick of things but not banished to the outskirts, either. Perfect.

As they approached, Rhonda scanned the table's other occupants. She recognized a few of them from her visits to various hospitals around Calgary. One of the women, Doctor Smithson, was a stern-looking woman with her hair pulled into a tight bun and a pair of glasses balanced on the bridge of her nose. She didn’t realize she’d moved to Rocky Ridge and felt like an idiot for not keeping better tabs.

She recognized Doctor Mallory immediately. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard, and he was looking at them with either intrigue or pure disgust. “I didn’t realize you’d changed your name to Gertie.”

Jordan picked up the name card. “She wasn’t available tonight, but you can call me that if it makes you more comfortable.”

The other doctors chuckled, and Rhonda tried not to panic. Dr. Mallory didn’t know they were coming.

Jordan motioned to Rhonda. “This is Rhonda, my plus one.”

Plus one. The words stung like a slap, even though she had no right to expect he’d call her anything else. She gave a small wave and looped her purse over the back of the chair.

“We met a few years ago, didn’t we?” Dr. Smithson leaned forward.

Rhonda nodded. “Yes, you were over at Hilltop.”

Dr. Smithson smiled, pleased she’d remembered. “Are you still with Cantra?”

Rhonda nodded. “I am.”

Dr. Mallory visibly stiffened. His eyes flicked to Jordan, but Jordan was turned, waving to an elderly woman at a neighboring table with a brunette bob. Rhonda suddenly felt like she’d swallowed a handful of gravel.

Jordan turned, then leaned back in his chair as a server approached to fill their water glasses and offer them a wine list. The rest of the doctors introduced themselves to her. It was obvious Jordan already knew them, and they easily jumped into conversation about the hospital. Jordan ribbed them about their various quirks, and they preened at the attention.

Jordan was smooth. Funny. Rhonda smiled and added in a sentence here or there, but couldn’t take control like she usually did. She didn’t want to. From the second she’d seen him across the hall, all the energy she brought to events had been sucked out of her. She was like a white dwarf, an impotent core left behind to orbit any other object with greater mass.

She tried to be interesting when their appetizers arrived and succeeded at pulling out a few comments about the best wings in Calgary. Then, she asked questions about their various professional struggles and goals. She’d hoped to bring that back around to her own goals with Reviact, but then the lights dimmed, and the hum of conversation dissolved into expectant silence.

A microphone crackled to life, and a well-dressed man in his sixties stepped onto the stage at the front of the ballroom. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he began, his voice resonating through the room. "I'm Dr. Andrew Keller, and it's my privilege to welcome you to the annual Calgary Founder’s Event. Tonight, we celebrate the remarkable strides we've made in cancer research and treatment, and we look forward to the future with hope and determination."

Applause sounded through the room. Rhonda tried to focus on the speaker, but her eyes kept drifting to Dr. Mallory, who nodded thoughtfully, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the tablecloth.

Dr. Keller continued, introducing a series of speakers who shared stories of breakthrough treatments and heart-wrenching patient testimonials. Each anecdote was punctuated by the soft clink of silverware as servers began to bring out the second course of their meal.

The aroma of seared scallops and tender filet mignon wafted through the air, and Rhonda's stomach growled in response. She reached for her fork, and then her attention was pulled back to the stage as a young woman stepped up to the podium.

"Good evening, everyone. My name is Sarah, and I'm here to share my story as a survivor of stage three breast cancer."

Rhonda's heart clenched. Stories like this never failed to hit her in the gut, which of course was the point. But she couldn’t handle another infusion of any kind of emotion at the moment.

Dr. Smithson leaned in. "Isn't it incredible what they're able to do now with targeted therapies?"

Rhonda glanced up as she cut into her scallop. "I've been reading about some new advancements in immunotherapy."

"Mmm," Dr. Smithson murmured, her focus on her plate. “It’s exciting. To be able to tailor treatments to individual genetic profiles.”

Rhonda nodded, relief rushing through her. “I agree. I’ve been educating doctors around the province on a new addiction treatment drug. I know it’s working well, but I can’t imagine how much more effective it would be if it were individually targeted.”

The doctor across from her, thin and wiry with a slightly wrinkled white shirt, looked up from his plate. "Addiction medicine is a complex field."

"Absolutely." She took a sip from her water glass and drew a deep breath. “That’s why it’s so exciting to see real results.”

Dr. Mallory's eyes flicked to her, and Rhonda's heart skipped a beat. He held the key to getting Reviact into Rocky Ridge, and she wasn't about to miss her opportunity. “What addiction services do you offer at Rocky Ridge?”

Dr. Mallory leaned back in his chair, folding his hands neatly in his lap, his expression measured and deliberate. “At Rocky Ridge, we pride ourselves on a comprehensive, multidisciplinary approach to addiction treatment,” he began, his tone as crisp as the white coat hanging in his office. “Our services range from counseling and outpatient programs to medically-assisted detoxification and long-term recovery planning. We’re thorough, because we need to be. Addiction treatment is an area where lives are at stake, and every decision carries weight.”

Rhonda nodded, her face open and attentive, but inside, she braced herself. This was the kind of conversation that could either soar or crash.

Dr. Mallory’s gaze sharpened. “That’s exactly why we’re cautious about new medications entering our formulary. It’s not just about the numbers on a trial sheet or a slick presentation—no offence.” His lips twitched in something resembling a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s about the real-world impact. The long-term outcomes. How the drug performs when faced with the complexities of actual patient care.”

Rhonda resisted the urge to shift in her seat, keeping her smile steady. “Of course, Dr. Mallory. That’s precisely why Reviact is such a game-changer. It’s been thoroughly tested not just for efficacy but for safety. Its mechanism of action allows it to?—”

He held up a hand, cutting her off. “I’ve read the literature. And while the initial data is promising, we’ve seen promising data before. The trouble comes later. Unintended side effects. Adherence issues. Patient affordability. We don’t gamble when it comes to these matters. Our process is deliberate for a reason.”

Rhonda took another sip of water, keeping her breathing steady even as her nerves coiled tighter. “I completely understand, Dr. Mallory. That’s why I work with medical centres. Not just to talk numbers, but to work with your team to address any concerns. Reviact has shown incredible results, especially in patients who’ve struggled with adherence in the past. I’d be happy to arrange a peer-to-peer consultation with prescribing physicians who’ve had success with it. Perhaps that could help alleviate some of the doubts?”

Dr. Mallory studied her for a long moment, his gaze inscrutable. “Could you pass the butter?”

Rhonda nodded, even as her stomach churned with frustration. She picked up the butter dish and passed it to Jordan, who handed it to Dr. Mallory.

And that was that. Her one chance. Blown.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to stew on it for more than a few seconds. A woman’s voice came through over the microphone, and everyone in the room turned their attention forward. Rhonda had never been grateful for an auction before, but there was a first for everything.

“You okay?” Jordan whispered as he turned his chair so he could watch without craning his neck.

She nodded, but didn’t turn to look at him. After a brief introduction, the auctioneer took over. He was an older man with a booming voice and a flair for drama. He started with jokes and instructions that sent ripples of laughter through the room, then began with a series of lavish items that made Rhonda's head spin.

A private wine tour in Napa Valley. A diamond necklace from a renowned local jeweller. A week-long stay in a villa on the Amalfi Coast. The bids flew fast and furious, paddles shooting up like popcorn kernels in a hot pan.

Rhonda watched, her heart racing as she tried to calculate the zeros behind each number. "Twenty thousand," the auctioneer called out for the wine tour. "Going once, going twice—" It felt like they’d all been handed a stack of Monopoly money.

She turned her attention back to Dr. Mallory, who watched the proceedings with calculated interest. Rhonda needed to make an impression, but how? She couldn't outbid these people. Her salary was respectable, but it wasn't even in the same stratosphere as the numbers being thrown around.

The auctioneer introduced the next item, and Rhonda's ears perked up. "Our next item is a weekend getaway at the prestigious Canmore Cascade, a boutique hotel nestled in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. This package includes a two-night stay in a deluxe suite, breakfast in bed, all meals included at their Michelin-starred restaurant, and a couples massage. December twentieth, right before Christmas, folks."

Rhonda's eyes flicked to Dr. Mallory, who leaned forward ever so slightly. His paddle was still on the table, but the wheels turned in his head. This was it. This was her chance.

"Let's start the bidding at two thousand," the auctioneer announced.

Rhonda took a deep breath. She'd never been one to shy away from a challenge, and tonight was no different. She raised her paddle, her hand steady.

"Two thousand, thank you, ma'am. Do I hear three?"

Dr. Mallory raised his paddle. Rhonda's pulse quickened.

"Three thousand, thank you, sir. Do I hear four?"

Rhonda was going to throw up. She raised her paddle again.

"Four thousand, wow, sir, are you going to let her steal that from you? Do I hear five?"

Dr. Mallory's paddle went up with a flick of his wrist.

"Five thousand, thank you, sir. What do you think, little lady? Do you want it for six?"

Damn it. She couldn’t hear over the pounding of her pulse.

Jordan put a hand on her knee. “Rhonda?—”

She brushed it off and raised her paddle. "Six thousand, thank you, ma'am. Do I hear seven?"

Dr. Mallory raised his paddle, and Rhonda's stomach twisted. What was she doing? She didn't have seven thousand dollars to throw around. But she also couldn't back down now. Mallory thought he could shut out the rest of the world and keep his hospital in the dark ages. The way he looked at her, like she was a nuisance, made her want to slap him. Instead she raised her paddle.

“Seven thousand, wonderful! Do I hear eight? Think of all the good this will do, and imagine eating a perfectly seared steak?—”

Dr. Mallory raised his paddle, and Rhonda started to see stars. She couldn’t go any higher or she’d have to take out a second mortgage. The auctioneer looked at her expectantly, but she shook her head.

“How about eighty-five hundred?” He walked up the aisle, but Rhonda kept her paddle on the table.

"Going once, going twice?—"

"Ten thousand."

Rhonda turned to stare at Jordan. He held up his paddle, his face stone-cold.

The auctioneer grinned. "Ten thousand, going once?—"

Dr. Mallory frowned, then put his paddle down.

"Going twice . . . and sold to the gentleman next to the lovely lady in the corner!"

Applause filled the room, but Rhonda's ears were ringing. She pushed back from the table and strode toward the bathroom. The applause from the room turned into a muffled hum as she slipped past the double doors into the bathroom.

She drew a deep breath, then another, trying to tamp down the turmoil roiling inside. She couldn’t splash her face with water and make her mascara run, so this would have to do. After her breathing returned to normal, she pushed back into the hall.

Jordan stood there, leaning against the wall. He looked so handsome, and that fact was like lighter fuel dumped over the coals that were still simmering from when she'd stood up and left the dining room.

She wanted to run. She wanted to sneak past and go back to her table, and that thought took her right back in the Ice Centre. Watching him disappear into the crowd. She wasn’t going to take the easy way out this time.

Rhonda stepped forward, the pressure in her head still making it feel like her eyes were sunburned, but at least tears were no longer threatening to spill over.

Jordan looked up. "Hey." He pushed off the wall and walked toward her.

Rhonda stopped. "I think they're serving dessert.”

"Did I do something in there?" Jordan asked, completely ignoring her statement. His expression was hard, as if daring her to say anything critical.

Rhonda felt like a tea kettle, sealed up with only one tiny airway, about to burst. "I didn't need to win that," she worked to keep her voice calm.

"I know. I just thought?—"

"Jordan, you have to stop doing this,” she said. His eyes hardened. "I know I asked for your help to meet with Doctor Mallory, and I appreciate you giving me this opportunity."

"I'm feeling very appreciated right now."

"Don't do that."

"Don't do what?"

"I bent over backward?—"

"You didn't have to do that!"

Jordan scoffed. "Right. Because what I want doesn't matter. I'm just your call boy."

Rhonda leaned in. "I was very clear the first time I met you."

"And what about the second time or the third? You're the one who texted me. Remember?"

Rhonda opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.

Jordan clenched his jaw. "I didn't mean to have feelings for you. Okay? I fought like hell not to have feelings for you. And I get that you don't feel the same way about me, but?—”

"I don't know how to do this!" Rhonda sucked in a breath, clapping a hand to her chest like she was Celine Dion.

Jordan stopped, his eyes burning into hers. His throat worked, and then he asked, "You don't know how to do what?"

Rhonda grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side wall where they wouldn't be in the way. "This! Where you're doing nice things for me, and—” She let out an exasperated sigh. “I can't be in your debt."

"You're not in my debt.”

“You just spent ten grand?—”

"That was my choice.”

“I understand. But if I wouldn't have been here, you never would have made that choice.”

He raised an eyebrow. "How do you know that?"

She gave him a look, then tried to steady her breathing. "You're doing these things for me, and it makes me feel?—”

“Good?”

She watched him, her body tearing itself apart from the inside out. This was it. Fight or flight. “No. It makes me terrified."

Jordan frowned. "I don't understand."

"In my experience, whenever anybody does something nice, it's because they want to hang it over your head or they want something from you. Something you don’t always want to give.”

"So you don't let people do things for you?"

"No. I don't. I take care of myself."

"That's . . . sad."

Rhonda swallowed hard. “It's safe." She squeezed her eyes shut and turned to flatten her back against the wall, forcing her lungs to expand. The light in the hall seemed to tunnel around her as she blinked.

"Do you need to sit down?" Jordan's fingers grazed her elbow.

Rhonda squeezed her arms around herself, wishing she had her wrap. Jordan took off his suit jacket and pulled her from the wall just far enough that he could sweep it over her shoulders.

She looked up at him. The shivery feeling she'd had all week came back in full force. It made her teeth start to chatter and her knees begin to knock. Whatever she'd felt in her stomach sitting across from Claire at Moxie's had grown to ten times the size without her recognizing it.

And right then, looking into the deep blue of Jordan's eyes, she could no longer hold it in. "I think . . . I want to know your name." The words spilled out of her, and she gasped like she'd just been exorcised.

It was the truth. Her most intimate truth. And she’d just spoken it in front of Jordan Wheatfill.

She could think of a thousand reasons why Jordan would be so damn intriguing when compared to other men she’d been with. He was funny, which meant he was smart. He was confident, bordering on cocky, which always drove her insane for probably some very messed up psycho-evolutionary reason. He took care of himself, worked his body hard, and bordered on dangerous. Add in the fact that he was quite literally the forbidden fruit, and it all added up on paper.

But none of those reasons were at the forefront of her mind because they couldn’t squeeze in past the two that sat front and center.

First, Jordan was kind. She’d seen it in action, and that didn’t compute with his bad boy reputation.

Second, he didn’t need her just as much as she didn’t need him.

And yet she wanted him.

Badly.

Neither of those things made logical sense, and her brain couldn’t stop obsessing over the solution to that puzzle.

Jordan wet his lips, and his eyes narrowed. He stood there, staring at her.

"What are you doing?" Rhonda asked.

"I'm making sure your pupillary dilation is the same in both eyes."

"Jordan—"

"Okay. So you do know my name."

She couldn’t help her exhausted grin as she dropped her head back against the wall. "I meant . . . I want to know your name ." It was the same thing she already said, but she couldn't think of any other way to explain it. Not without dying of embarrassment and shame. She leveled her gaze at him again and watched as his eyes flared with understanding.

He let out a soft “hmm” and she knew he got it. That night at his hotel. No names.

Then the wave hit her. Heat. Want. Not that she hadn't been noticing him all night, but everything about him seemed to sharpen in that moment. His almost dimple, the nick in his eyebrow, the way his shirt sat slightly askew after he pulled his jacket off.

Maybe that was the problem. She just needed to blow off some steam.

Rhonda looked closer and noticed the pattern on his tie that she'd thought were diagonal stripes were actually tiny roses smooshed together. She reached out and threaded the silk between her fingers. "Can we just get out of here?" Her voice was low, and only after a moment of silence did she allow her eyes to wander up over his collar, the swell of his Adam's apple, his jaw and cheekbones.

Jordan exhaled, his nostrils flaring. "No."

Rhonda blinked as a flash of ice hit her hands. "Oh. Okay." She started to disentangle his tie from her fingers when Jordan's hand slid inside his jacket and curled around her waist.

"If you want to know my name, then I'm not going home with you." His lips were so close, they brushed her cheekbone.

The waves crashed stronger. She needed him to come home with her. It was like she was sitting at the symphony waiting for them to play the final chords, but the conductor wouldn't lower his damn baton.

“But—”

"My first rule is you don't get to tell me when I'm allowed to be nice to you,” he said. Rhonda's breath caught in her throat, but Jordan was already talking again. "Rule number two, no sex."

Rhonda's jaw dropped, and she pushed him back. "What are you?—”

“You don't think I see what's happening here? You don't think I know how this goes?" He scrubbed a hand over his jaw and leaned in again. "I've been that guy, Rhonda. The guy who is perfect for the night, but who nobody wants to take home to their parents."

"I never said?—”

“You didn't have to. You took one look at me in that hotel room, and you knew that's what I was."

“You didn't tell me to leave.”

He blew out a breath. “Exactly. Maybe I don't know how to do this either.” His hands tightened like a belt on her waist. “But I know it's not the way I've been doing it."

Rhonda breathed him in. She wrapped her hand around his tie and tugged, pulling just hard enough that he grunted. "So what do we do?"

"The opposite."

"Which is?"

"I'm going to walk out that door after cashing out. And you’re going to decide whether to stay and endure more miserable talk with hospital administration. And then you're going to go back to your place. Alone.” Jordan's palm found the edge of her opposite hip, and the pressure made her arch involuntarily.

"And then what?" Her breath came in short gasps, the heat from his body soaking into her like sunshine.

"And then you can text me."

"I can text you."

"Yeah. I've got an early shift tomorrow, so I might not even respond. I don't know. I guess we'll see."

His words were both oxygen over coals and a bucket of cold water. So damn cocky. “The opposite sounds shitty.”

Jordan laughed, his breath whispering over her neck. "I'll see you soon." He pulled back, forcing her to let go of his tie, then slowly pulled his jacket off her shoulders. He gave her one last look and turned toward the tables at the exit.

Just as she was about to peel herself off the wall, Jordan turned. He looked her up and down, a muscle in his jaw jumping. "You know, you could use that energy for something."

"Oh, I will." Rhonda snapped, and Jordan smirked.

"I meant before you get home and take off that little black dress." His eyes drifted, and heat flashed over Rhonda's thighs. He cleared his throat and straightened his tie. "You don't have anything to lose with Rocky Ridge." He smiled, then continued on his path to the exit.

Rhonda made a beeline back to the bathrooms. She grabbed two paper towels and wet them with cold water, then pressed them to her neck and shoulders. After her breathing slowed, she washed her hands twice and stared at herself in the mirror. You have nothing to lose with Rocky Ridge.

She chewed on Jordan’s words. What would she say to Doctor Mallory? If she didn't give a damn whether he let her into his hospital or not?

Jordan was right. After tonight, it didn't seem like she was any closer to convincing him.

Rhonda straightened and dried her hands. She walked back into the ballroom and for the first time in a week felt solid on her own feet. She wound through the tables until she found her seat.

Doctor Hughes leaned over. "I'm sorry. Jordan said he had to go. Said he has an early shift in the morning."

Rhonda nodded and picked up her purse and wrap. She fumbled inside her bag for her coat check ticket, then swiveled in her seat. The auction was still going on, but nobody at her table was obviously bidding, their paddles sitting flat on the table next to them.

Rhonda lifted her chin, her tone steady and composed. “Dr. Mallory, I understand the importance of exercising caution when considering new pharmaceuticals—especially when patient costs and institutional risks are at stake. I also understand that not every new drug lives up to its initial promise over time. But the decisions you make directly impact thousands of patients across the Calgary area, and those decisions carry profound weight.”

She paused, drawing a measured breath before continuing. “There are people out there suffering needlessly who could benefit from this treatment. I fully respect the significance of your position and the responsibility it entails. By all means, share the available information with your patients and present them with the pros and cons. But refusing to explore a promising pharmaceutical outright because of the possibility of being wrong isn’t prudence—it’s stagnation.”

Dr. Mallory blinked, clearly taken off guard, but she didn’t give him a moment to interject. “You’ve said you’ve reviewed the research, and perhaps you have. But I’ve yet to encounter another treatment option for addiction that demonstrates this level of efficacy. If there’s a superior alternative in your hospital’s formulary, I’d love to hear about it. Otherwise, patients leaving your operating rooms every day are struggling with opioid addiction, and this represents a chance to help them.”

Her voice softened, but her resolve remained firm. “Sure, some patients may decide not to pursue this option due to cost, just as many patients decline elective surgeries. But we still provide them with the information to make an informed choice. I’ll send the research to your email for a third and final time. Whether you review it and respond is up to you, but this is the last time I’ll be reaching out.”

Rhonda scanned the table. "It was lovely meeting all of you. I hope you have a wonderful holiday season." She scooped her bag and wrap into her arms and strode out into the hall.