Patrick shed his jacket with fluid movements, but his gaze was laser-focused on Mr. Martin's hand, which was still clamped possessively on my leg. The temperature in the booth seemed to drop several degrees, and I could practically feel the tension crackling in the air between them.

I'd seen Patrick angry exactly once before—when Tommy Briggs had pushed me off the monkey bars in third grade and I'd scraped my knee. Even at eight years old, Patrick had possessed this same quiet, controlled fury that was somehow more intimidating than any tantrum could have been. Now, watching him stare down Mr. Martin with that same cold intensity, I felt a mixture of gratitude and terror.

Jason slid out of the booth, clumsy and off-balance, extending his hand toward Patrick with the desperate eagerness of someone trying to make a good first impression. "Mr. Henson! What a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm Jason Martin, senior partner at Nexus Creative Group."

They grasped hands, and I watched Patrick's expression darken with each pump of the handshake, his green eyes narrowing as they studied Mr. Martin with obvious distaste. The handshake went on a beat too long, and I could see the muscles in Patrick's forearm tense like he was applying just a little more pressure than necessary.

Patrick dropped the handshake abruptly, then wiped his palm against his pant leg like he was cleaning off something unpleasant. The gesture was subtle but unmistakable, and I had to bite my lip to keep from smiling. Some things about Patrick hadn't changed—he'd always had a talent for making his displeasure known without saying a word.

Mr. Martin scooted back into the booth next to me, seemingly oblivious to the insult, and I immediately shifted as far toward the wall as possible, putting as much space between me and Mr. Grabby Hands as the confined space would allow. The booth suddenly felt like a cage, and I was trapped between two very different but equally dangerous predators.

Patrick slid into the booth across from me in one graceful, smooth movement, his eyes never leaving my face. That familiar smirk was back in place, but there was something different about it now—sharper, more intense when his gaze flicked briefly to Martin before returning to me. It was the same expression he used to get when planning elaborate playground schemes, except now it carried the weight of real power behind it.

"How is it you know Ms. Mayar?" Mr. Martin asked as he watched Patrick get settled in the booth.

"We go back a long time. Childhood friends," Patrick responded, his voice casual. 

"So," Patrick continued, settling back into his seat like he owned the entire bar, completely unfazed by announcing to my boss that we'd known each other since childhood. "Jason, is it? Tell me about Nexus Creative Group. What makes you think you're the right fit for Cypher Tech?"

Mr. Martin launched into what was clearly a rehearsed pitch, his voice taking on that oily quality I'd heard him use with other potential clients. "Well, Mr. Henson, we've been in business for over fifteen years, serving clients across multiple industries. We pride ourselves on innovative solutions and personalized service..."

I found myself tuning out the corporate speak, instead studying Patrick's face as he listened. He'd grown into his features—the sharp jawline that had been too prominent the last time I saw him now looked perfectly proportioned, and those green eyes that had once sparkled with mischief now held the calculating gaze of someone who'd learned to read people for a living.

My mind circled back to when he said we were childhood friends, and the way he said "friends" made my stomach flutter. We'd been so much more than friends, at least in our child minds. We'd been soulmates, adventure partners, each other's whole world for those precious few years before I left everything behind.

Suddenly he looked over at me, as if he could feel me watching him, and his sharp stare became too much, bringing back a flood of memories and emotions I wasn't prepared to handle. The way he used to look at me like I was the most fascinating person in his universe. The way he'd hold my hand during scary movies,  The promises we'd made under the big oak tree about growing up and getting married and having adventures together.

I looked down at the polished table surface, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

"What kind of work does Ms. Mayar do for your company?" Patrick asked, his attention shifting back to Martin.

Mr. Martin's gaze cut to me before he puffed out his chest. "Ms. Mayar is incredibly reliable and an excellent resource for our company."

Patrick leaned forward, putting his elbow on the table in a deliberately casual way that somehow managed to look both relaxed and threatening. He grasped his chin as he studied Mr. Martin with obvious skepticism. "Resource," he repeated slowly, his green eyes flicking between Mr. Martin and me with laser focus. "That's interesting phrasing. What exactly does Ms. Mayar bring to this partnership? I assume she's here because of her expertise, not just her..." He paused meaningfully, his gaze landing on Martin's hand which had somehow found its way back to my knee. "...other appeals."

The question hung in the air like a challenge. I could feel Mr. Martin stiffen beside me, his fake smile becoming more strained around the edges. The hand on my knee tightened imperceptibly, a silent reminder of his earlier instructions.

"Of course," Mr. Martin said, his voice taking on a slightly defensive edge. "Ashleigh is one of our most promising junior agents. She has excellent instincts for consumer psychology and brand positioning. Very... intuitive understanding of what clients need."

The way he said "intuitive" made my throat tighten. Everything about this conversation felt like I was being discussed rather than included, like a piece of equipment being evaluated for purchase.

"I'd prefer to hear from Ms. Mayar herself," Patrick interrupted smoothly, turning those penetrating green eyes directly on me. The full force of his attention was like standing in a spotlight, both thrilling and terrifying. "What's your take on Cypher Tech's market position, Ashleigh? Where do you see the biggest opportunities for brand expansion?"

My mouth went dry. This was exactly what Mr. Martin had told me not to do—give advice, volunteer opinions, contribute anything meaningful to the conversation. But Patrick's expectant gaze felt like a lifeline, and suddenly I realized he was deliberately putting me in a position where I had to participate, whether Mr. Martin liked it or not.

I glanced nervously at Mr. Martin, whose smile had frozen into something that looked more like a forced grin. His hand tightened on my knee in what could have been either a warning or a threat. But Patrick's eyes never left my face, and there was something in his expression—encouragement? Challenge? The same look he used to give me when he'd dare me to jump off the swing at its highest peak, that mixture of belief and mischief that had always made me feel like I could do anything.

"I..." I started, my voice coming out smaller than I'd intended. I cleared my throat and tried again, drawing on every ounce of confidence I could muster. "From what I've heard about Cypher Tech, you're positioned in a really competitive space. The consumer tech market is saturated with companies trying to be the next big thing."

Patrick nodded slowly, leaning back in his seat. "Go on."

Mr. Martin's fingers dug deeper into my leg, but something about Patrick's encouraging expression made me push forward. "But what sets successful companies apart isn't just the product—it's the story. People don't just buy technology, they buy into a vision of who they want to be." I felt my confidence growing as I spoke, the ideas flowing more naturally than they ever did in boring office meetings. "Your company's focus on user privacy and data security could be a huge differentiator, especially with younger demographics who are becoming more aware of digital footprints and corporate data mining."

"Interesting," Patrick said, and I caught the hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth—the same expression he used to get when I'd say something that impressed him. "And how would you suggest we communicate that story?"

I could feel myself getting animated, my hands starting to gesture as the ideas poured out. "Authenticity is everything in marketing now. Gen Z and millennials can spot fake corporate messaging from a mile away. They've grown up with technology, so they're incredibly sophisticated consumers. Instead of trying to be flashy or trendy, Cypher Tech should lean into what makes you genuinely different."

"Ashleigh," Mr. Martin interrupted sharply, his voice cutting through my enthusiasm like a blade. "I think Mr. Henson has heard enough of our preliminary thoughts—"

"Actually," Patrick cut him off without taking his eyes off me, "I'd like to hear more. Please, continue, Ms. Mayar."

The power dynamic in the room had shifted so quickly it made my head spin. Mr. Martin's hand had gone completely rigid on my knee, and I could practically feel the anger radiating off him in waves. But Patrick's encouraging nod gave me the courage to keep going, to say the things I'd been thinking about for months but never had the opportunity to voice.

"Well," I said, my voice gaining strength with each word, "transparency about your processes, real stories from real users, maybe even showing the behind-the-scenes development work. Make privacy protection feel personal, not corporate. Like you're not just selling a service, you're protecting people's digital lives."

Patrick's smirk had evolved into a full smile now, and for a moment I was transported back to elementary school, sitting across from him at lunch while he listened to my elaborate plans for our latest playground adventure. "Specific examples?"

I took a breath, completely forgetting Mr. Martin's warning about not giving advice. The words tumbled out faster now, powered by genuine excitement about the possibilities. "User testimonials that aren't polished and perfect—real people talking about why privacy matters to them personally. Maybe a campaign around 'digital freedom' or 'your data, your choice.' Partner with privacy advocates, sponsor digital literacy programs in schools. Show that you're not just selling a product, you're supporting a movement."

The more I talked, the more Patrick's smile grew, and I found myself remembering why I'd fallen in love with advertising in the first place. It wasn't about selling people things they didn't need—it was about connecting with something they already cared about and showing them how your product or service could make their lives better.

"Maybe even create educational content," I continued, my enthusiasm building. "Blog posts about online safety, social media campaigns that actually teach people how to protect themselves instead of just scaring them. Position Cypher Tech as the company that empowers users instead of exploiting them."

"That's exactly the kind of thinking we need," Patrick said, and there was something warm in his voice that made my chest flutter. "Fresh perspective, understanding of the target demographic, real innovation instead of recycled corporate speak." He finally looked at Mr. Martin, whose face had gone an alarming shade of red. "You're right, Jason. Ms. Mayar is definitely your best and brightest."

The sarcasm in Patrick's voice when he said "Jason" was subtle but unmistakable. Mr. Martin's grip on my knee had become painful now, his fingernails digging into my skin through the fabric of my dress, and I could see a vein pulsing in his temple.

"Of course," Martin managed through gritted teeth, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. "Ashleigh is... very enthusiastic."

"Enthusiastic and smart," Patrick corrected, his tone making it clear that he'd noticed Martin's dismissive phrasing. "With actual insights instead of generic consulting-speak. Tell me, Ms. Mayar, how long have you been working in advertising?"

"Almost three years," I replied, proud that my voice came out steady despite the pain in my knee and the tension radiating from Mr. Martin.

Patrick's eyebrows rose slightly, and he turned his attention fully to Mr. Martin. "Three years of experience, and she's still just a junior agent?"

The question hung in the air like an accusation. I could see Mr. Martin struggling to find an answer that didn't make him look incompetent or, worse, deliberately held back one of his most capable employees.

"Three years isn't that long in this industry," Martin sputtered, his voice turning gravelly as he tried to maintain his authority. "She still has a lot to learn about client management and strategic planning, and following direct orders” he said, his eyes narrowing on me at the end of his sentence. 

Patrick leaned back in his seat, crossing his ankle over his opposite knee and steepling his fingers in front of him in a gesture that somehow managed to look both casual and commanding. The silence stretched on just long enough to become uncomfortable, and I could see Mr. Martin starting to squirm.

"Here's the deal," Patrick said at last, his voice carrying the quiet authority of someone used to getting his way. "I'm willing to consider doing business with Nexus Creative Group—on one condition."

Mr. Martin leaned forward eagerly, probably already calculating his commission on a fifty-million-dollar deal. "Of course, Mr. Henson. Whatever you need."

"I only want Ashleigh working on this project," Patrick said, his eyes never leaving mine as he delivered what felt like both a professional opportunity and a personal challenge.

The silence that followed was deafening. I could hear my own heartbeat, could feel Mr. Martin's shock and fury radiating off him like heat from a furnace.

"I don't think that's appropriate, Mr. Henson," Martin finally managed, his voice tight with barely controlled frustration. "She doesn't have enough experience with a deal this large. A project of this scope requires senior-level oversight and—"

Patrick started to slide out of the booth with deliberate slowness, his movements casual but somehow threatening. "Well, if that's the case, then this deal is officially over," he said simply, like he was discussing the weather rather than walking away from a contract worth more than most people's annual salaries.

His tone was so casual, so utterly unconcerned, that it took a moment for the words to sink in. He was really going to walk away. Fifty million dollars, gone, just like that.

I looked up at Mr. Martin, whose face had gone from an alarming shade of red to bone white. He finally removed his hand from my knee and  I could see his hands clenching into fists under the table. The fifty-million-dollar deal was slipping through his slimy fingers, and we all knew it.

"Wait," I said quickly, seizing the moment and the sudden shift in power dynamics. "I think Jason meant to say that I'm more than capable of handling this project." I drove my elbow into Mr. Martin's ribs for emphasis, the sharp jab making him grunt softly and shoot me a look that promised retaliation later.

Patrick paused in his exit, one eyebrow raised in amusement. That knowing smile was back in place—the same expression he used to get when one of his schemes worked exactly as planned. "Excellent. I'm glad we're all in agreement."

"Very well then," Mr. Martin managed through gritted teeth, rubbing his side where I'd elbowed him. His voice was strained, like each word was being dragged out of him against his will. "Ashleigh is... at your disposal."

The phrasing felt hallow , but Patrick's smile only widened. "Perfect. I look forward to working with someone who actually understands modern marketing."

Patrick stood from the booth with practiced ease, and Mr. Martin scrambled to follow, his movements awkward and rushed. I slid out behind them, but before I could fully stand, Mr. Martin grabbed my arm, his fingers digging painfully into the soft flesh just above my elbow.

He leaned forward, using his body to block Patrick's view, his lips brushing against my ear. "Don't think this changes anything, you little bitch," he hissed, his grip tightening like a vice around my arm. "You still work for me, and when this project is over, you're going to pay for embarrassing me tonight."

The threat was delivered in a whisper, but the venom in his voice made me flinch. I could feel bruises forming under his fingers, and for a moment, genuine fear shot through me. Mr. Martin had always been inappropriate and sleazy, but this felt different—darker, more dangerous.

Patrick must have noticed my wince of pain, because in one fluid motion I went from being held in Mr. Martin's punishing grasp to the protective embrace of Patrick's arm around my shoulders. He'd grown so much taller since the last time I saw him—now standing a full foot above me, making me feel small but safe in a way I hadn't felt in years.

"Mr. Martin," Patrick spoke, his voice remaining calm but filled with deadly authority that made the air around us seem to vibrate with tension. "For the sake of this business relationship, all future communication will go through Ms. Mayar directly. I trust that won't be a problem?"

It wasn't really a question. It was a politely worded command, delivered with the kind of quiet confidence that made it clear refusal wasn't an option.

Mr. Martin's face cycled through several shades of red and purple before settling on a sickly pale color. "Of course, Mr. Henson. Whatever you prefer."

Without another word or even a goodbye, Patrick led me away from a stunned and sputtering Mr. Martin. The man was left standing there like a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly as he watched his biggest potential client walk away with his junior employee.

"Patrick," I hissed as we walked through the upscale bar, past curious patrons who were pretending not to stare while obviously eavesdropping on our dramatic exit. "I think you just cost me my job."

I glared up at him, but his cocky smile was still firmly in place, making my heart stutter in that familiar, infuriating way. Some things never changed—Patrick had always been too confident for his own good, always sure that his charm and intelligence could get him out of any trouble he caused.

"Oh, believe me, your job is safe," he said with the casual confidence of someone who'd never doubted his own power. "Especially if that buffoon knows what's good for him and his company's reputation."

There was something in his tone—a hint of steel beneath the silk—that made me believe him. Patrick might look like the same mischievous boy I'd known, but he'd clearly learned how to wield real power in the years since.

He led me through the front doors and into the parking lot, where the cool night air hit my bare arms and caused an involuntary shiver to run through me. Patrick immediately noticed, gently pulling my jacket from where it hung over my arm and holding it up for me to slip into. The gesture was so natural, so protective, that I found myself smiling up at him gratefully as I tucked my arms into the sleeves.

"Thank you," I said softly, suddenly feeling shy in a way I hadn't in years.

"Can't have you catching cold," he replied, his voice gentle in a way that made my chest tight with emotion. "Which car is yours?"

I pointed to my Mustang sitting under one of the dim streetlights. It looked even more mundane  next to the luxury cars that filled the rest of the lot.

He let out a soft huff of laughter as he guided me toward it, his arm tightening around me protectively. "Some things never change," he murmured, and I wasn't sure if he was talking about the car or something else entirely.

"What do you mean?" I asked, looking up at him as we walked.

"You always did like things that were classic, reliable. Never cared about showing off." His voice held a note of warmth that made my stomach flutter. "I remember you chose that beat-up old bike over the shiny new one your parents wanted to buy you."

The memory hit me like a punch to the chest. I'd completely forgotten about that bike—powder blue with streamers on the handlebars and a basket that was slightly dented. My parents had wanted to replace it with a newer model, but I'd refused because Patrick had taught me to ride on that bike. Every scratch and dent held a memory.

"I can't believe you remember that," I whispered.

"I remember everything," he said simply, and the way he looked at me made my breath catch.

As we reached my car, he suddenly stopped walking, turning to face me fully. In the dim light of the parking lot, his green eyes looked almost luminous, and I could see something vulnerable in his expression that reminded me achingly of the boy I'd once loved.

He leaned down, brushing his nose gently against the top of my head in a gesture so tender I held my breath. The movement was so familiar, so achingly reminiscent of our childhood, that I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

"I've been looking at your pictures too," he whispered, his voice low and intimate, his breath warm against my hair.

The admission hit me like lightning. So, he'd been thinking about me too, remembering, maybe even missing what we'd had.

With that earth-shattering revelation, he dropped his arm away from me and started walking in the opposite direction, leaving me standing there with my keys in my hand and my heart pounding like I'd just run a marathon.

"I'll email you details of our next meeting tomorrow," he called over his shoulder, his long legs carrying him quickly back across the parking lot toward a sleek black motorcycle parked near the bar's entrance.

Of course he rode a motorcycle. Of course Patrick Henson, successful CEO and childhood heartbreaker, would have the kind of dangerous, sexy transportation that perfectly matched his grown-up persona.

I stood frozen by my car, watching him disappear into the night, wondering what the hell had just happened to my carefully ordered life. Twenty-four hours ago, I'd been a forgettable junior account executive writing ads for tire sales. Now I was apparently the sole point of contact for a fifty-million-dollar deal with the only boy I'd ever truly loved.

As I fumbled with my keys, my hands shaking slightly from adrenaline and lingering shock, I couldn't shake the feeling that everything was about to change. Patrick had always been a force of nature, even as a child—the kind of person who made things happen just by existing. And now he was back in my life, bringing with him all the chaos and possibility that had always followed in his wake.

I slid into my car and sat there for a moment, trying to process everything that had just happened. The meeting, the confrontation with Mr. Martin, Patrick's protective intervention, and that final, devastating admission that he'd been thinking about me too.

My phone buzzed with a text. 

Sandy: How did it go? Are you alive? Did you get the deal? 

I stared at the message, trying to figure out how to even begin explaining this turn of events. How do you tell someone that your childhood sweetheart just walked back into your life and completely upended everything you thought you knew about your future?

ME: It’s complicated. 

I finally typed back. 

Me: I’ll tell you everything when I get home. 

Sandy: That doesn’t sound like a work meeting. That sounds like a story that requires wine and chocolate. 

She wasn't wrong. This definitely felt like a wine and chocolate kind of story.

The drive home passed in a blur of streetlights and racing thoughts. By the time I pulled into my driveway, I'd replayed the entire evening, trying to make sense of what had just happened and what it might mean for my future.

One thing was certain: my boring, predictable life had just become a lot more complicated. And despite the fear and uncertainty swirling in my chest, I couldn't deny the flutter of excitement that came with that realization.

Patrick was back. And somehow, he'd been thinking about me too.