The thought of her—margaritas, tacos, her soft, contagious laugh—pulls another smile from me.As I approach the school office, I square my shoulders, tuck everything back where it belongs, and step inside.
I glance down at the woman sitting behind the front desk.“I’m looking for Maddox Hartley.”
“Coach Hartley should be in the gym.”
She leads me down the hall, gleaming tiles and dented blue lockers stretching out ahead of us.The air carries that signature high-school blend of floor wax, dog-eared textbooks, and overdone body spray.
Through the large double doors to the gym, she gestures toward the far wall, where a small window glows next to a closed door.“Right in there.”
The office is dark, but before I can ask where he might be, she’s down the hall.I cross the gym floor, my heels clicking against the polished wood, and I peer into the office window.The room sits still and unoccupied.I knock anyway, wait for a beat, then try the handle.Locked.
Fifteen minutes.That’s all I’ll give him.
Boredom wins after ten, and I walk back to the front office.The secretary pages him over the PA, her voice echoing through the empty halls, but there’s no Maddox Hartley.
When I return to the gym, patience fraying, I pull up my recents and hit his assistant’s number.
“Ginny, it’s Grace Buchanan.I’m at the school.Mr.Hartley isn’t here, and I have no way to reach him.”My frustration bleeds into my tone.If she’s going to insist on being the only bridge between us, she needs to keep the bridge open.
There’s a long pause, and I pull the phone away, checking the screen.The seconds are still ticking up, and the line is still connected.
Finally, she clears her throat.“That’s strange.I sent him—” She catches herself, her professional mask slipping for a beat.“Something must’ve come up.I’ll call you back.”
She hangs up before I can ask for his number again.She guards him like a state secret, and I’m the one wasting my afternoon in a high school gym.
Picking up a stray basketball, I bounce it, and the thud echoes in the cavernous space, a lonely, rhythmic sound that matches my heartbeat, until the phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.
It’s Toby.
I drop the ball, which bounces away with a hollow ring, and hit the screen.My insides fizz with the possibility he’s calling to tell me to get on the next flight back to LA.
“Hey, Toby.What’s up?”
“Buchanan.How’d it go with Hartley?”
All my enthusiasm fades, and I stop pacing to stare at the empty bleachers.“We’ve hit a little snag.”
“What does that mean?”
“We were supposed to meet, but he isn’t here.His assistant’s on it.Probably miscommunication.”I downplay the inconvenience and bite my tongue to keep from asking about the Vitale negotiations.It’s only been a few days.
“All right, Buchanan.”His tone is clipped, the sound of a man already onto his next email.“Keep me posted.”
The phone beeps against my ear.“Will do.I have to go—that’s his assistant now.”I end the call and switch lines.“Grace Buchanan.”
“Hi, it’s Ginny.Unfortunately, Mr.Hartley won’t be able to meet today.He apologizes and says Monday after school works.”
Bullshit.
I’m uncertain what is her exact tell—maybe a slight hesitation in her voice or the way her volume dips—but she isn’t telling the truth.
“Monday?”I walk toward the exit, my frustration echoing with every step.“I don’t have time to spare.What about tomorrow, Friday, before the weekend?”
“He can’t.”
I want to push.Not because I enjoy being a hardass, but because something is off.She gives an excuse that belongs to a man who forgot, avoided, or simply didn't bother.If that’s his attitude, the next six weeks will be a special kind of hell.
“Fine.I don’t suppose I can get his number now?”