Page 2 of Playing Dirty
"Debatable." She steals a canapé from a passing tray. "So what's the real issue? Hot athletes not your type? Or do you just hate this one in particular?"
I do, in fact, hate this one in particular.
"Yeah, athletes are not my type," I say instead, swirling my rosé. "I prefer the bookish kind. Philanthropists. My last boyfriend was an environmental lawyer."
"An environmental lawyer." Carol nods slowly. "Sexy."
"Mock all you like, but he never threw a punch over a puck." I lift my glass. "And sustainabilityissexy."
"I'm sure. I don't really get the appeal of men in general, but I'll take your word for it."
I snort into my drink. Carol's wife, Elaine, is an artist who shows in San Francisco galleries and speaks four languages, and together they're easily the most sophisticated couple I know. Next to them, my taste in men reads like a stack of beige cardigans.
"Anyway," I say. "I actually did date an athlete once. Married him, actually, and it cured me for life."
"Oh." Carol's expression softens. "I didn't realize your ex was in sports. You never say much about him."
"Yeah, well. It was a spectacular lapse in judgment." I shrug. "We got married in college after a whirlwind year. Courthouse ceremony, backyard party, all very impulsive and entirely unlike me."
Unlike me was, at the time, the entire appeal. I'd spent my whole life beingexhaustivelylike myself, the girl who color-codes everything and agonizes over texts for hours. Marrying someone spontaneous and charming and the opposite of my type was supposed to be the start of a looser, freer me.
Turns out spontaneous just meant unreliable, and charming meant he was good at lying about the women he was sleeping with. The divorce was finalized before our first anniversary.
Carol bumps her shoulder against mine. "Maybe you'll end up finding Cillian tolerable. He could be the key to making this label a legend."
I nod, glancing across the terrace just as Cillian takes a long swig from a beer bottle.
He isn't even drinking wine tonight!
Carol keeps going, talking about media strategies and launch windows, but her voice fades into a distant hum. Because the memory of Blackstone Vineyards has surfaced in my mind, unbidden and deeply unwelcome.
Six years ago, I was interning there while finishing my degree. Blackstone was a huge vineyard and luxury lifestyle brand, and they were hunting for a celebrity face for their new athletic partnership with a resort.
Cillian was a rising star then, and when his team expressed interest, my boss asked for my input. I was young, eager to prove my worth, and I gave her a candid assessment, which was that he’d be aterriblepartner for the brand. The email somehow leaked back to Cillian and his team, and two weeks later I was cleaning out my desk.
The experience was humiliating more than anything else. I'd spent my whole life being the responsible one, the straight-A student teachers trusted with the attendance sheet, and overnight I'd becomethe girl who got fired.
My younger sister, Sabrina, would have laughed it off and kept moving. We share the same upbringing, the same parents who valued politeness, but she inherited all the fun genes while I got all the anxious ones.
I spent five months after that scrambling for a new job in this tiny industry. And now here he is, six years later, at my dream job.
"Margot?" Carol's voice cuts through the spiral. "Are you listening?"
"Yes," I say automatically, though I have no idea what she just said. "Sorry. Long day."
She gives me a look that says she's not entirely convinced, but lets it go. "Keep an open mind, alright? I know he's not who you would have picked. But if anyone can make this work, it's you."
"I will," I promise.
She squeezes my arm, and then she's off, swallowed by a cluster of board members near the main doors, leaving me alone with my rosé and a growing sense that I'd rather be back with my parents, wrapping National Geographics.
I really should just march over there and settle the awkward history once and for all, the wholeyes, I'm the one who mildly trashed you and yes, you're the asshole who cost me my jobsituation. Instead, I watch his fan club grow and decide the confrontation can wait a little longer.
So I focus on the appetizers, make small talk with colleagues I haven't seen in days, and manage to keep at least half the terrace between myself and Cillian O'Rourke at all times. In the process, I gather the social intel I actually came for.
Two new engagements (one expected, one a total shock), a heated dispute over the updated parking layout (which I'm personally invested in), and the breaking news that Diane, our lead winemaker, has once again called our lead gardener, José, a dick to his face (a sure sign they're head over heels for each other).
A typical evening at Solstice Estates, then.
