Page 17 of Top Shelf

“You built this plan.”

I look down at the folder that’s survived my passenger seat, rogue coffee splashes, a car crash, and the storage compartment of Priscilla the bike in the past hour.

“He’s going to ask hard questions.”

“Because he’s Moreno and he respects you enough not to pat you on the head like this is a cute hobby. You know he believes in the concept,” she says with a nudge. “Now you have to make him believe in the structure.”

My stomach gives an unhelpful flip. “Great. Love this pep talk.”

“You got this, Grant.”

I breathe in. Hold it, then let it out.

“I know.”

Carina opens the conference room door, revealing Keith Moreno standing near the windows with a hand in the pocket of his charcoal trousers, and his reading glasses in the other. An orthopedic sports surgeon with a sharp reputation, and the man who’s given me the kind of room to grow here that most early-career clinicians would sacrifice a limb for.

For the purpose of this meeting, he’s now also the person whose investment, referral support, and lease leverage could be the difference between my studio becoming a reality or not.

His silvering dark hair is neat, and his expression is unreadable—apart from the eyebrow situation, which has, in fact, become a conjoined and very severe frown.

“Dr. Grant,” he says.

“Dr. Moreno.”

His gaze moves over me the same way Sloane’s did. “I am told you were hit by an SUV.”

“Technically, my car was hit by the SUV, I was just inside it at the time.”

Carina closes her eyes for half a second, and Moreno’s mouth doesn’t move, but I get the distinct impression he’s resisting the urge to sigh.

“Were you assessed?”

“By both myself, Dr. Park, and our excellent receptionist.”

“Sloane is excellent,” he agrees. “Any symptoms?”

“No.”

“And your vehicle?”

“Towed away to the car doctor.”

“Any reason we should reschedule?”

The answer is right there for the taking, offered by a man who has known me long enough to know my nervous system is currently being operated by three raccoons in a lab coat. For a split second, I imagine taking the out. Going home to sit under a hot shower, then crawling under a blanket with a bowl of pistachios.

But I also think about the space next door with the blank front windows and the polished floors. The athletes who walk out of this clinic cleared and hopeful, but still half-terrified to trust their bodies outside supervised care.

“No,” I say. “There’s no reason to reschedule.”

Moreno studies me for a moment, then gestures to the table. “Then sit down, Dr. Grant, and tell me why Moreno Clinic needs your studio.”

The chair feels too hard as I sit, and my pulse sounds too loud in my ears. Carina takes the chair beside me, and Moreno sits across from us with his reading glasses sliding onto his nose, his pen poised over the copy of my proposal he has already marked in three colors.

That alone should probably intimidate me. It does, a little. But it mostly calms me, because it means he read it. He read enough of my proposal to argue or debate or ask questions. Fuck.

I open my folder, smooth the first page with a palm that trembles slightly, and begin.