25. Gianna

This was not a big deal. That's what I told myself, even as my heart pounded away in my chest. The brownstone I was staring up at was my dream house. I'd been told repeatedly and pretty bluntly that Dylan wanted to work with me. And on the phone, she'd sounded excited, so there was no reason for my stomach to be in knots.

My phone buzzed, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts, so I pulled it out and tapped the screen.

Emerson: You got this, Mariposa. Just be yourself. Can't wait to hear about it.

My shoulders relaxed just a little, and I took a breath.

Me: Thanks

With my head held high, I headed up the steps and rang the bell. Instead of the typical ding-dong, a sound like a wind chime brushed through the air, and an instant later, the heavy wooden door swung open.

"Who is you?" A little girl stood in the doorway, her brown pigtails bouncing as she tipped her head one way and then the other.

"Addie." A blond girl who looked about ten with bubble braids skipped to the door and scooped her up. They wobbled in the way a ten-year-old does when holding another child who's almost half their size. "I've explained repeatedly that the probability of opening the door to someone you know is only about 9 percent."

"What about the probability that it's not gonna be a murderer?" A boy with dark curly hair appeared beside the blond.

I rolled my lips but couldn't stop myself from smiling at his head-to-toe denim ensemble. His jean jacket was buttoned up to the neck, and his pants were the same shade. He was sporting a pair of aviator sunglasses and three gold chains around his neck. The kid looked like a bad eighties rapper.

Cute as hell and thoroughly himself.

Behind them, another boy sauntered up. This one was tall enough to ride a roller coaster. The teenager stepped into the light from the sun behind me and flicked his red hair out of his eyes.

"Ma says this is an important meeting and we're supposed to be at the park. Let's go, rugrats."

The teenager ushered all three younger kids out the door.

"The term rugrats implies that we crawl." Another blond girl who looked identical to the first one followed them out the door.

I stepped back to give the kids space as they tumbled out and clambered down the stairs to the sidewalk.

"No, it means you're shorter than me." The teenager shook his head, his shaggy red hair falling into his eyes again. "Come on, Addie. Up ya go." He scooped the little pigtailed girl up and popped her up on his shoulders, then turned back. "Kai! Win! Let's move it."

Two more kids came flying out the door, chasing the others.

"Ma's inside." He tipped his chin as the four-year-old pulled his hair. "Just go in."

For one second, I was frozen to the spot, watching the seven kids skip down the road, laughing and pushing each other.

They couldn't all be Dylan's, right? Or was she running the daycare out of her house until the space at Langfield Corp was ready?

"Oh, hi!" Dylan chirped, peeking her head out the door. "The kids get off okay?" She shook her head, her curly red hair dancing around her shoulders. "What am I saying? Of course they did. Liam is as much of a drill sergeant as Becks these days." She pulled the door open wider and stepped back. "Come in."

The moment I crossed the threshold, I could swear the air lightened. The crystal blue on the walls, the original but refinished woodwork, and the stone fireplace created a serene calm that was palpable. How it was possible was a wonder after the way those seven freaking kids had just left the house like a pack of Tasmanian devils. Child number eight was here, babbling from a play mat in front of the entertainment center.

But the high ceilings, the crown molding, and the original fireplace, mixed in with the modern sectional and artwork, were perfection. This was the type of brownstone dreams were made of.

"It's beautiful."

She nodded. "We wanted the aquamarine energy. Cortney suffers from anxiety, so it's important to have the calm, healing energy to give him peace."

"Sure." I nodded. Though I had no idea what she meant, she'd done an amazing job with the place.

She pointed toward the sofa, so I moved that way and sat, placing my portfolio on the floor next to me. Dylan gracefully pranced across the floor, scooped up Willow, and dropped onto the couch, crisscrossing her legs. As she settled Willow in her lap, the baby cooed up at her.

"Oh, shoot." Dylan's eyes went wide. "I have the manners of a six-year-old. Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?"

"No, thanks," I assured her. My stomach was still a mess of knots, so empty was the way to go.

She pursed her lips. "My friend Shay left some swamp sludge for the kids that they don't want. If that's your jam?"

"I'm sorry. Swamp what?"

Dylan shrugged. "It's like bone broth and spinach and cat puke or something."

Hmm. That was…different. "I think I'll have to pass."

"Me too. Every damn time." Holding the baby with one arm, she used her free hand to grasp the crystal pendant that hung from her neck and slide it across its chain. "And Cort went with the team, so he's not here to be the bigger person."

"Does he not normally travel with them?" I asked.

She shook her head. "That was a big ask when they offered him the GM position. He wanted to be home, so he is for the most part. They're checking out a reliever on the Kansas City Roasters this week, though. They're trying to lower the payroll for next year or something."

I worked not to frown in response to that comment. That didn't sound good for Emerson's contract being renewed.

"Plus, he's worried about Mason and the trainer. He thinks they're banging behind everyone's back." Dylan laughed, the sound a light tinkling. "He did it with me behind Becks's back, so he isn't really one to talk."

Willow reached up and grabbed a fistful of her mother's red hair.

Dylan just tipped her head down, still smiling, like it didn't faze her. "Anyway, enough team talk. About the design…" She lifted one brow.

"I brought some samples of my work." I reached down to my leather bag.

She waved me off. "I've seen so much of your work. Honestly, your charcoal of Cortney sold it for me."

Confused, I frowned and studied her. My what?

She pointed up to the entertainment center with a smile, and I followed her line of sight. When I saw it, I rose. There were two frames and a magnet of the firefly from the Disney movie The Princess and the Frog. In the first frame was a note that said Puzzles are fun, but not as fun as a game of pool with you. Thanks for an unforgettable night. ? D.

"I gave Cort that the night we met. I can't believe he kept it, but he never wants to lose it." Dylan shrugged. "He's much more sentimental than people realize."

In the second frame was a sketch. I lifted it off the shelf and took in the details of the black-and-white sketch I'd done last season. I'd left it at Chris's apartment because I wanted the charcoal to set before I moved it. Then I'd forgotten it completely.

Chris was on the mound, mid-pitch. Behind the plate, Cortney was sporting his number 8 pinstripes. Behind them, a boat floated in the Boston harbor.

"Gano, right?" she asked.

I'd started signing pictures at four or five, back when my drawing ability was better than writing and I was still learning to spell my name. My mom had suggested shortening it, maybe because she got tired of repeatedly telling me how to spell Damiano. But now, every time I signed a piece, she was there with me.

I nodded and spun, a question on the tip of my tongue.

Before I could ask it, she answered, as if she could read my mind. "Emerson and Chris gave it to Cortney when he retired. You are really good with details. Even Cort's ass in his baseball pants." She giggled.

My stomach twisted as I took in the image again. The frame matched the one the oil painting of Puff had been matted in. It had Emerson's mark all over it. My heart flipped over itself. What was I supposed to do with this idea that Emerson thought my work was good enough to gift a friend?

"I want something similar for the background of the Little Fingers logo, but I want kids playing the part instead of the guys."

As she went on, describing the colors and her vision, the picture played out in my head.

"Maybe the shaded areas could be imperfect," I suggested. "Like a child colored outside the lines?"

"Yes." Dylan beamed. "I knew you'd be perfect for the job."

I set the frame down and moved back to the sofa. "So here is what I'm thinking…" I pulled my sketch pad and a pencil out of my bag and got to work drawing the baseball diamond. Then I smudged the middle line and worked the rink in on the far right. From there, I went on, smudging and sketching until I had the backdrop. Then I flipped it. "I thought since Langfield Corp owns both the Bolts and the Revs, we could play on both teams."

"Perfect." Dylan had adjusted Willow in her arms and scooted closer. "I get the feeling we've got lots of new souls joining the Bolts family soon."

I had no idea what she meant by that, but she and I played around with a few ideas. Dylan had to be one of the most open, honest, genuine people I'd ever met, and she was very easy to please. When I left the house forty-five minutes later with a promise to send her drafts over soon, I was riding a high. I pulled out my phone, and I wasn't the least bit surprised to find a text from Emerson asking me to let him know how it went.

Me: It went really well

Me: She officially hired me - I'll have the first round of drafts to her next week - I'm excited.

I hadn't been this excited to start a new project since the meeting with the Boston Zoo over six months ago. Maybe it was because, in both instances, I had the opportunity to meet with the client and see their excitement about their work directly. Through the firm, I was never included in that part of the process. I supposed it made projects feel more impersonal. My phone buzzed in my palm as I headed away from the house.

Emerson: GIF of a guy dancing in celebration

Emerson: Headed out for batting practice, but I'll call you after. I want to hear all about it.

He was just like my dad in that respect. Anytime I was excited about a project, Pop got antsy to hear all about it. And all my life, he'd been the first person I'd call or text over big news, good or bad. Guilt crept up when I realized I hadn't even thought to text him. I hadn't talked to him since Sunday. That in and of itself wasn't strange, but how could I so quickly have moved Emerson up to the top of the list of people I wanted to share good news with? Maybe because I'd never dated a guy who hyped me up and got excited about my work. Not that I was dating Emerson.

I headed down the steps into the subway in a rush, since I had a Zoom call at noon with Jake and the team. As I hit the last step, my phone buzzed again.

Emerson: Excited for you.

Me: Thanks.

I couldn't stop the smile that lifted my lips. My friends and Chris and Pop, even Avery, had made the same remark, but from Emerson, it hit so much more potently. And I didn't hate the feeling.

I boarded the train and found a seat, all the while thinking about how I could make him feel just as supported as he's made me. His comment about seeing me in Revs blue and the glint in his eye left me wondering. Athletes had a thing about their women dressing in their jerseys. Everyone knew it. I couldn't wear his number to a game without garnering way too much suspicion, but I could wear it for him. I didn't have the type of body that looked cute in a buttoned-up jersey, but I'd once seen a TikTok video with the perfect idea. After a quick internet search, I found the Revs site, and two clicks later, I'd purchased an XXXL number 21 for pickup from the store next to the stadium. I could run by after my meeting and grab it. There was no way I had time before.

In fact…I peeked at my watch. Shit. I only had ten minutes to make it back to my computer and log in to the meeting. I flew off the train and ran up the stairs to the street level. I bolted the half block to the building, and by the time I got on the elevator, I was sweating. The distance had been short, sure, but it was almost ninety degrees today.

Inside the apartment, I pushed my hair back from my sweaty face and glanced in the mirror, swiping the mascara from under my eyes, and then fanned myself to minimize the bright red flush.

Two minutes later and one minute early, I sat down in front of my computer and pulled up the Zoom link.

"Why do you look like shit?" Jake asked the second my video feed appeared on the screen. "Jesus, Gianna."

A few of the seven other people on the call covered their chuckles with coughs, and my stomach bottomed out.

"And to think I was going to ask you to meet with the people from the Java NY account." He shook his head. "Regardless of the new relationship status," he sneered, "this bedhead, rode hard and put away wet look isn't professional."

My mouth fell open and my stomach lurched as a few gasps echoed from my coworkers.

My eyes stung, but I locked my jaw. There was no way I'd allow this man to make me cry. I focused on the anger brewing inside me and hit him with a glare. "Actually, I had to run back from another meeting. I wanted to be responsible and not be late. Unlike some people, I care about being professional."

Jake blinked twice and ran his thumb and pointer finger over his lips. "Julie," he said smugly. "Putting you onto the Java account. Gianna, please pass on the Java files."

A sharp breath escaped me. "What?"

"We'll talk later." He reached forward and pressed a button, and in the next second, my screen went black.

Had he seriously just disconnected me from the team meeting? My shoulders tightened, and I blinked repeatedly to keep the tears at bay. Mad. I wanted to be mad. But the moisture wouldn't stop pooling in my eyes. I ground my teeth and forced my eyes closed.

So what if I'd put over a hundred hours of design work into the account? So what if it was the third time he'd taken me off a project? I bit fiercely into my bottom lip to stop it from quivering.

An email lit my inbox.

From: Julie Cartright

To: Gianna Damiano

I'm so sorry. Want me to say no?

~J

It wasn't her fault. She'd always been nice. And we'd worked well together. I tried for a deep breath, but it caught in my throat, and my breath hitched.

I replied to the email quickly, telling her good luck with the asshole, and shared the drive with the files. Then I dropped my head into my hands. This wasn't the end of the world. It was one account. I needed to get a grip.

My phone buzzed on the high-top counter in front of me, dancing and lighting up as Emerson's name flashed across the screen. Shit, I'd forgotten that I told him we could talk.

With another deep, centering breath, I wiped under my eyes again. Jake's comment about my hair floated into my mind, so I yanked my portfolio bag open and frantically searched for a hair tie. By the third long buzz, I had my hair up in a topknot. Shoulders pulled back, I swallowed down all my upset and answered the FaceTime request.

"Hey."

Emerson appeared, already smiling. He was framed by a concrete wall, like he was standing in the tunnels. In the space of a breath, the smile slid from his face, and he tilted his head to the side. His long lashes brushed his cheeks as he blinked twice.

I glared at my own video on the screen, channeling all the composure I could muster.

"What's wrong?" he finally asked.

I shook my head. "Nothing."

He hummed. "Angry face. Sad eyes. So tell me what happened. Or, if you'd prefer, I could track down Miller and find out from his girl."

"What?"

"Miller's on the road with us, so I can find out what happened between I'm so excited and I'm trying my best not to cry from him, or you can tell me." He leaned back and crossed his free arm over his chest.

"Dylan was wonderful. It's just." I swallowed and then started at the beginning, filling him in on the morning and my meeting with Dylan, the rush to get home, and then the Zoom call.

I didn't know what I expected when I poured it all out for him. Maybe some sort of reassurance that I looked professional. Or maybe a little anger. Some kind of reaction I'd have to deal with or possibly talk him down from. But all I got was an eerie calm.