We both went back to our regular lives.
I dropped my number with Rhett before I left that night — scribbled it on a napkin like we were strangers in a bar instead of two people who had known each other for most of their lives. He'd taken it, looked at it for a second too long, and tucked it into his pocket without a word.
That was five days ago.
I hadn't heard anything since.
No call. No text. No "Hey, Teddy, made it home safe?" or "Been thinking about what you said" or even a simple "Fuck off, I'm not doing it."
Nothing.
I told myself it didn't matter. We hadn't spoken in years. Why would a few days of silence feel any different? Why did I keep checking my phone every twenty minutes like a lovesick teenager?
Because you're an idiot, I told myself. Because you showed up at his game unannounced and asked him to fake date you, and now you're surprised he needs time to think about it?
Get a grip, Theodore.
But the silence still stung.
I went back to work the next morning, and the familiar chaos of the family business swallowed me whole. That was the thing about running a company — it didn't care about your feelings. It didn't care that you'd driven three hours to see an old friend who might not even want to see you. It didn't care that your heart was doing stupid things you couldn't control.
The work was there. It was always there. And at least it didn't ignore me.
My parents own a perfume brand. Pierce & Co. It started in their tiny apartment kitchen, with my Pa mixing essential oils in a saucepan while my Papa handled the business side from a secondhand laptop. I'd grown up surrounded by the smell of jasmine and sandalwood, bergamot and vanilla.
Now the brand had gone from costing a few dollars to costing millions. We had flagship stores in five countries. Our perfumes were stocked in department stores across the continent. Celebrities wore us on red carpets. Influencers featured us in their "get ready with me" videos.
And I was supposed to be the one steering the ship now that my parents had retired to a beach somewhere warm.
I had a degree in business from a good university. I'd worked my way up from the bottom. I knew this company inside and out.
But knowing something and feeling ready for it were two very different things.
The thing was, I actually loved this brand. Not in a "this is my inheritance, so I have to pretend to care" way. I genuinely loved it. I had always loved the idea of making something that made people smell really good.
There was something magical about it — the way a single scent could unlock a memory, could transport you back to a moment you'd thought you'd forgotten. The way a perfume could make someone feel powerful, or beautiful, or safe.
I used to sneak into my Pa's workspace as a kid, opening bottles and sniffing them until my head spun. He'd catch me and pretend to be angry, but he was always smiling.
"You're going to run this company one day," he'd say, ruffling my hair.
I didn't believe him back then. I was just a kid who liked pretty smells.
But he was right. And now I was here, sitting in a corner office that used to belong to my father, staring at spreadsheets until my eyes crossed.
We had a lot of loyal fans — people who looked up to our brand, who trusted us to make them feel good. I didn't want to let them down.
I almost didn't want to inherit the brand at first. The weight of it felt too heavy. The expectations felt too high. But my parents trusted me. They'd looked me in the eyes and told me I was ready.
I was still trying to believe them.