My charcoal dress pants clung to my thighs, my hands rubbed over the fabric to ease the tightness. Dark closed shoes were tied, black strings held together in a double knot. I leaned back into the gray soft leather chair.

In front of me, there was a rectangular table where three piles stacked in a horizontal frame wire container. A golden-glass plate screamed CEO Anthony Dalton of Hazel Inc. in the middle of the table. The silver Mac computer glared from sunshine coming in from behind me. Two skinny, cylinder windows offset the enormous rectangular window outside the office.

Mr. Dalton's office doors were clear, thumb and fingerprints were visible around the long, gray doorknob. The doors were behind me. Every minute or so, I twisted around to catch a glimpse if anyone entered the room.

Where is he?

I ran my hands through my hair, fingernails scratched at my scalp. I turned around facing the table. Mr. Dalton called me a week ago to schedule a meeting to dwell and converse over the show.

"The news seemed to settle down," I told Mr. Dalton over the phone. A small hope. A reason.

Articles and social media posts declined after the first two weeks. Algorithms seemed to pop up the articles less, as fewer and fewer people clicked, liked, or commented on the news. The magazines searched for their new victim.

"We'll talk more at the meeting." There was something hidden in Mr. Dalton's statement.

A clear tone, my hands shook.

For a week, I was radio-silent. I messaged tons of ladies on all of my dating apps. Flirting, sending cute statements. Once I received, "Let's hang out," "Want to meet?" or sometimes "Go away," I moved on to the next woman. The game was over – the distraction vanished. Seven and a half billion people in the entire world. Half were women. And then half would be a good age range. The number was around 187 million hundred or something . . . I wasn't privileged in the math area. The number declined if I factored in our romantic relationship status . . . still I estimated there to be 100 million or so. How can there be one right person for me when there's that many out in the world?

The "what if" factor happened.

Especially since Penelope.

I questioned and doubted my decisions.

I texted Sugar twice. Well, I wrote fifty times – but I always deleted the characters and retype. Then delete again.

Eventually I sent:

Hey, Lollipop! How's work?

Sent 3:03 PM

Four days later, I sent:

Mr. Dalton has a meeting. Will update you soon.

Sent 8:06 PM

All I knew was the messages sent. We stayed the same. Did Sugar read them? I had no clue. She stayed silent.

What I wanted to say was: "Are you okay?"

"What happened at the bake sale?"

"We're good. Right?"

The bake sale.

Sugar ran to the bathroom.

She was fine, taking in my jokes and teases. The dessert received more glances than I did. I wondered, will she do another air-kiss? A hug?

I was tempted to remove the entire booth. The table created space, which was too much for me to accept. I leaned over to smell the goodies, when I had other motives. My hand reached the middle closer to where her hand was on the table's edge. The buckeye! Damn. I devoured the peanut butter chocolate dessert.

She created it.

All I did was glance up to compliment the delight. Her mouth gaping open, eyes observed my reaction.

This is delicious.

Stuffing the two remaining buckeyes into my mouth, I licked the melted chocolate from my fingers.

Is she watching me? I hope so.

I winked.

Closing my eyes, I continued in the moment. My thoughts wandered all over the place with endless possibilities on how Sugar will react, multiple scenarios played in my mind like a short video . . . spit was on my finger. Swallowing, I hummed. I opened my eyes.

She disappeared.

A two to four-minute bathroom wait turned into a ten. Then twenty.

I hovered near the bathroom's entrance.

"Lydia, can you, " Can she what, "I mean – I'm sure Sugar is fine. But can you-"

"Watch the booth. I'll check on her," Lydia responded.

"I'll help," Min-ho spoke up, "watch the-"

Lydia gave him a glare.

He held up his hands and laughed, unable to finish his sentence.

Min-ho and I took over while Lydia checked on Sugar.

Lydia said Sugar was sick. She took her home even though I offered to take her home. Sugar glanced at the ground, nodding her head, said, "Thanks, August. I'm good. Lydia will be taking care of me."

What happened? Why did she go to the bathroom, I thought as I sat in Mr. Dalton's office, recalling the bake sale exchange.

My thoughts returned to Sugar.

If Mr. Dalton wasn't late . . . perhaps he would help control my thoughts on the significant agenda. The show!

I brought my thumb up to my mouth. Fingernail grazed over my bottom lip.

What are the next steps in the show? What has Hazel Inc. decided . . . ignore the rumors? They can't stop the film . . . they've put a significant amount of money into the production already.

I crossed my right leg to move on top of my left knee. My fingers started to wave up and down the gray chair's arm. The soft smooth leather made a dull sound when I lifted my fingers up in the air and back down.

What about Violet? Will she be attending? Was she moving on to another project?

"Where is he?" I hissed. My right foot stomped on the white tiles, standing up from the material prison.

Wiping my hand over my face, I swayed in my spot. Shoulders hunched up, neck muscles contracted.

What am I going to do?

A small air pop came from behind me. I grinned.

Finally!

Turning around, I said, "Did I mess up the time?"

My voice trailed off.

Mr. Dalton was here, but he held the door open a bit longer. Two people came inside the office door. A middle-aged gentleman who wore a navy suit and burgundy and white striped tie. The other person was a young woman wearing an emerald sun-dress, white curve designs were at the bottom of the fabric, hitting her knees. The dress had long sleeves with a thumb hole and thick collar covering her neck as if it was a turtleneck sweater.

She ran forward, cutting off the middle-age man, to stand in front of me. The top of her head reached up to my chin. Her head tilted up, her blonde hair reached to the middle of her back.

Her turquoise eye color stared hauntingly into mine. The way she moved her shoulders to sway, her smooth olive skin was clear – foundation and cover up helped enhance the round features and took away the dark circles from the low amount of sleep. Well, at least, I hoped she couldn't sleep like he couldn't. All the two a.m. days, lying awake underneath the fan on the ceiling. The darkness that happened and wrapped around me. The empty pomegranate body soap that she left in my shower stall. Her one lost sapphire slipper underneath his bed. She bit down on her pink lips, before whispering, "Gus."

Shit.

"Penelope." My jaw went tight.

Her mouth opened.

The middle-aged man came to Penelope's side, grazing her elbow. He stuck out his hand towards me.

"Pleased to meet you. Timothy McCoy, CEO of Lucas and Friends."

He thought we were introducing ourselves.

"August," I shook the man's hand, ignoring Penelope's stare. I was going to elaborate about my occupation like Mr. McCoy did, but the words stopped.

Throat constricted. I coughed.

Timothy chuckled. "I know all about you." His hand tightened in the handshake, moving it up and down, "I've heard great things from Penelope and Anthony. My! My! My boy, you're one good looker. I say that's for sure."

I squeezed my hand out of the gentleman's hand.

"Thank you," I said, a wince came out as I tried to rub my hand.

WHY IS PENELOPE HERE?! What is she up to?

Mr. Dalton somehow was behind his desk. I paid little attention to my whereabouts. My stoic face revealed little to nothing about the situation at hand. Mr. Dalton pulled out his desk roller chair and sat down.

"Since everyone's introduced," Mr. Dalton stated, "Let's begin our meeting."

Meeting? Along with Timothy . . . and Penelope?

Glancing over, I noticed Timothy and Penelope occupied the two remaining soft leather chairs. Penelope was in mine where I sat before they came in. She gazed up.

Two blonde wisps of hair caught on her mascara eyelashes. The freakin' sunshine seemed to twinkle on her, giving her complexion a "brighter" look.

I groaned.

I stood in an awkward position. Hands were in front of my stomach. My gaze forward, dismissed Penelope's longing gawk. Taking one step towards the right, the space settled my nerves. Sweat accumulated on the palm of my hands.

"Agree," Mr. McCoy declared.

Mr. Dalton took a deep breath in. His dark brown eyes looked at me.

"The reason I called a meeting is to discuss a proposition," Mr. Dalton opened his mouth to continue.

I cut him off. "What about the board?"

"I wanted to discuss the matter with you before I bring it to the board."

"What's this proposition?"

"Mr. Wakefield," Mr. Dalton raised his voice. "Let's save the questions until after my announcement."

I crossed my arms.

Mr. Dalton rotated his shoulders, and then with a sigh he continued. "With the recent rumors about Online Dating: Fiction or Real? being inauthentic. Doubt and confusion have given the documentary low reviews before it has been broadcasted. Surprisingly, the articles like The Scoop Magazine, viewers are excited about gossip. August Wakefield's name has reached higher ratings in the search engine. On the other side."

Mr. Dalton leaned his elbow on the table.

"It seems the connection with Champion has consumers interested if the documentary had a flavor of drama."

Where the hell is he going with this?

I frowned as I tightened my arms to my chest.

A faint touch tugged on my elbow.

Shifting my foot over, I leaned away from Penelope's spot.

"Mr. McCoy reached out to me two weeks ago," Mr. Dalton lifted his hand, acknowledging the other CEO in the office, "He provided documentation, algorithms, status, and data in the consumers' response and views to the idea of partnership."

Crap. Oh no!

"Our two companies benefited in Champion, Mr. McCoy thought, why not expand to this second project? With the Champion reunion, they'll promote and encourage their viewers to check out the documentary, well, specifically you, August."

The Champion reunion, this is too coincidental.

This time I glared at Penelope.

She waited for my stare. Her bottom lip seemed to quiver.

Mr. McCoy came up with the idea?

A small smile tugged at her lips.

Yeah, right.

"This will provide concrete assurance to the people. The expectation is there and also offering a twist and surprise that'll keep their interest," Mr. Dalton's voice began to fade, as if he tried to believe his own words, "What are your thoughts, August?"

This is utter crap.

"What you're saying is," I tried to keep my voice in a steady tone, "We've lost our ideal viewers in the documentary, people who are interested in real life scenarios. Instead, our project has gained a new audience. The entertainment."

"Yes."

"That's where we step in," Penelope spoke, "Mr. McCoy and I will contribute our experience, to create a smooth transition to the project."

"Why are you here?" The hiss came out before I stopped myself.

Penelope leaned back into her seat. The calm whisper from our reunion changed her present, her voice held a calculative and assertive tone. Her shoulders back and at the proper position. Her heels on the ground, holding her head high.

"I'm the executive producer," she replied.

"No, you're not."

Penelope blinked. "If we agree to more onto the next phase with the collaboration, I will be."

Like hell I'll allow this!

"August," Mr. Dalton said, earning his gaze, "We're losing money as we speak. Our contract with the network, if they believe the documentary has low interest, could be terminated. If the network stays, we would be lucky if we gain the same profit back."

My platinum credit cards were maxed out. The month payment was two days behind my schedule. My debit card had $10 left in my checking account . . . until Hazel, Inc will pay me tomorrow.

Unless they didn't pay me.

"August?"

"Okay."

"Okay, what-"

"You have my permission. Do with the project whatever you want!"

I proceeded towards the door.

"August, will you be attending the board-" Mr. Dalton stood up and said.

"I have prior commitments for the rest of the day."

Anything. Anyone. Need to get away.

"August," Penelope said.

I hadn't heard her heels clicking on the tile. But I felt her hand on my arm, stopping me in my tracks.

She was behind me like a shadow.

"Do stay. This will aid in a smooth transition."

I glanced down at her hand. Six years ago, I wished for her touch. The gentle, soft and pomegranate fragrance engulfed my senses. My eyes gradually moved up from her hand to her eyes. I bit my lip. I glared at her.

She removed her touch, fingers lingered, causing goosebumps to occur on my arm.

"No." I turned and left the office.

Breathing heavily, I walked within the halls. I headed towards the bus stop.

What the hell happened back there?!

I groaned, my steps grew louder as I stomped on the tile floors.

She's back. Penelope is here. I should have seen this coming. Why didn't I –

Taking my phone from my pocket, I clicked and called Sugar.

I needed to hear her awkward phrases. Her light breathing . . .make sure she was okay. She could tell me, "What an idiot, I was" or "What do you want Oli?" She had to be feeling better.

I needed to see. Be with someone. I couldn't be alone.

No, no.

"Hello, you've reached Sugar McKenzie voicemail. Please leave your name and message after the beep. I'll call you back as soon as I can. If you have a bakery order. Please give me extended details. Thank you so much. I'll talk to you soon."

She didn't pick up.

Did I mess this up?

What's wrong with me?

My face was damp.

Damn tears. Go away!

I clicked her name again. And again.

The voicemail answered me.

I let out a heavy sigh.

I clicked on another name.

"Hey, man! How's it going? How was-"

"You doing anything?"

Min-ho became quiet. It was my tone. I knew Min-ho detected it.

"My schedule is clear," Min-ho answered, no teasing in his voice, "What happened?"

"Meet at Golden Era."

"That bad, huh?"

"Penelope."

My voice stopped. Along with my walk. I glanced at the stupid tile floor with the weird silver speckles in the white color. My index finger and thumb clutched my nose bridge. I held in my cries.

"Shit," Min-ho whispered in the phone, "I'll pick you up."

Did you see that coming? 😉

The plot is coming together. The pace has been smooth.

Anyone guessed this could have happened? Penelope Becker is here! Welcome, welcome!

We got to witness August's past and feelings towards her.

And what'll happen with this transition? Why didn't Sugar pick up her phone? Working? Family errand? Sleeping? Let's be real, sleeping is a good possibility after a twelve hour shift being a paramedic.

I want to give August a big hug. He's gone through a lot in just the past 2.5K words. ❤️

Love you dearies! 😘