I walk inside and all of the hope I had leading up to this meeting drifts away. Instead, I’m left feeling unwelcome, uncomfortable, and confused.

“Sorry I got here early.” Even though I’m not exactly sure what I’m apologizing for. Professionalism? Punctuality? Both? “I was expecting more traffic and when I got here, I didn’t know how long I could sit in my beat-up Camry with Mustangs stickers before one of your neighbors called the cops thinking I was a stalker fan.”

This is not a lie. Once I saw blinds starting to crack open, I got out of my car immediately.

I stand inside the entryway, unsure of what I should do. Between the stark white walls, the cement floors, and the industrial beams scattered across the room, it’s like the tension is vibrating throughout the space, bouncing from one cold surface to the next, intent on latching onto me.

“I said it’s fine.” Quinton throws over his shoulder as his bare feet pad across the cement floor.

It’s all so awkward that I have to wonder if working with him for the next four months is actually worth it. If I’ve learned anything over the last couple of years, it’s that life is too short to be miserable.

“Are you just going to stand there or come in? I’m guessing since you got here early, it’s because there’s a lot to do.” It’s a good thing he’s a better quarterback than he is host.

He’s standing behind an island in the kitchen that—like the rest of the house—has no personality. He leans forward, cracking his knuckles against the white stone covering the island, the black pendant light dangling above his head only highlights the shadows crossing his face that make him seem even less approachable than he did in HERS yesterday.

But since I can’t quit today—bills can’t be paid with happiness—I pull up my grown-up panties and get to work . . . still wishing I wasn’t wearing Birkenstocks.

“Yes, as I told you yesterday, while this won’t be hard, it will be time-consuming.” I cross the room and place my bag on the counter across from him, pulling out my sleek and shiny laptop. After years of buying secondhand computers that were usually covered with half-peeled-off stickers, seeing it still sends a thrill through my system. “So, first things first. Why do you want a foundation?”

“You’re the one who wants the foundation.”

I not so successfully fight the urge to roll my eyes. But, because he’s acting like a petulant teenager, he’s not looking at me to see it anyways.