It didn’t matter, Juliet told herself. She’d keep her head down and do her job. Her work had always spoken for itself. Sadie was the fun one, the kind of person who made a new friend every fifteen minutes, or had people telling her their life stories after ten seconds in her presence. Juliet was the worker. Organized, determined, a big-picture thinker with a list of details. Clear eyes, full heart, can’t lose, as Friday Night Lights told her. That slogan had always spoken to her. Her heart had always been full, because she truly felt blessed in life, with a mother who encouraged and guided her, a stellar education, a wonderful husband, healthy children, a job she loved.

Clear eyes meant seeing what needed to be done. Oliver often marveled at her organizational skills. She had a monthly meal plan she put together so grocery shopping and dinner prep would go smoothly. Chore charts for the girls. She maintained the family calendar, juggled her and Oliver’s work schedules so at least one parent would be present at every school or sport event. She researched their vacation destinations, booked flights, found hotels or rentals. Scheduled the dentist, the doctor, took the girls shopping for clothes (by the way, Brianna probably needed a bra, and she’d try to make that a bonding experience, the way her mom had done for her).

It was the can’t lose part of the phrase that was coming into question. When Dave had appointed Arwen as the lead of the Hermanos building, Juliet had lost project management to a woman far less experienced than she was. She may have lost Kathy as well.

“Juliet Smith?” A strikingly beautiful woman with dark, dark skin and a shaved head stood in the doorway. “Ms. Smith?”

That was her. She’d given a fake name. “Hi,” she said, standing up.

“Right this way,” said the woman, smiling gently. “You’re new to us?”

“I am.”

“Welcome.” She was shown into an exam room, and the woman smiled and left.

God. Juliet was sweating now. Why was she here? She’d never thought of herself as beautiful, but she liked her face. She looked a lot like her father, she knew, and had what Oliver’s mother called a sporty face. Strong bone structure, symmetrical enough, not particularly girly-pretty, in that she didn’t have full lips or doe-like eyes.

That was fine. She was attractive. With some makeup, she could look quite nice. She had good skin, in that it was clear and even-toned, more or less. She’d always thought she was aging well. Sure, she had crow’s-feet, which she rather liked. And yes, her throat was starting to get crepey. And her hands looked like a crone’s if she didn’t drink enough water. And there was a wrinkle on her cheek when she smiled that hadn’t been there last year.