Page 31 of The False Flat

A rock landed in the base of my stomach. My noncompete expressly said I couldn’t pursue TCF clients for a period of one year, but that didn’t apply if they contacted me first.

“I haven’t heard from any of the clients I had at TCF.”

“Shit,” she whispered.

“That bastard.” The Fletchers weren’t the first. Of course they weren’t.

“I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“Let me know if you hear anything else. You’ve done a lot already.”

“I definitely will, but I better start looking for a new job myself,” she said. “Because once Houston finds out—”

“I’ll make sure Mrs. Fletcher doesn’t say anything. You’ll be fine.” I had no business promising that, especially since this had the potential to get real ugly, but she had faith in me.

We said our good nights, and I told her to get some sleep.

If Houston thought he could get away with this, he had another think coming. I went upstairs, ignoring Chad as I slammed doors and drawers too hard while looking for a pair of leggings. I needed to call my mother, tell her about this and see what she could find out in her social circles, tell her to be careful about what she said to Houston. But before facing my mother, Mrs. Fletcher, Houston, or anyone else, I needed my bicycle, and not the stationary one either. I needed the wind in my face. I needed the open air because this room couldn’t contain my fury.

CHAPTER 13

LIFE REALIZATION #7: BEING SOMEONE’S INSPIRATION IS DANGEROUS

It had taken nearly an entire week, but early Friday morning, my phone, resting on an investment portfolio, vibrated with a text: Pen, this is Yolanda Fletcher. In a meeting. Will call later. Please prepare the necessary docs. We’re looking for a new planner.

I stared at my phone.

The Fletchers.

The Fletchers.

The freaking Fletchers!

All week, as I’d invested the funds from the twins’ property sale and exchanged emails with Erin, explaining my weird shared office space because, for some reason, she was interested, I waited. I was waiting for this moment, sure it wasn’t going to come. The Fletchers were worth dozens of smaller clients, and they’d surely bring other, bigger ones with them. And I’d be set, no longer scraping by. I’d go from trying to build my own business to having one, a solid one.

I fired off a text that was way too long and way too schmoozy and then danced around my office, too keyed up to remain at my desk.

As usual, I needed my bicycle, and I knew exactly where I was going to go. I grabbed my bag and headed to the bathroom to change.

Twenty-five minutes later, I was on my bike ride in an area someone had told me was a perfect riding spot on the outskirts of the city.

Okay, it was Grant.

Grant had told me about this spot, and he’d also told me he came here every Friday morning for a solo ride. No conversation. Just him, the wind, the trees, and Gaia, which I later realized was the name of his bicycle. Such a Grant thing to do.

I wasn’t here for him, though. I wasn’t.

I just wanted to experience the magic he’d said this place had after getting the good news about the Fletchers.

I probably wouldn’t see him anyway.

And . . . there he was.

I’d been on the trail, riding past moss-covered tree trunks and quaint wrought iron benches, for three minutes. And there he was.

I rode past him, hoping he’d be too preoccupied in his meditation, or whatever he’d said he did here, to notice.

The thing was, we were fading into friendship. At least, we had been until the silly dance-off a week ago. And now I wasn’t sure which of us was keeping distance.