Chapter 12
Jamie stood in the office kitchen, watching the coffee drip into his mug like it might reveal the secrets of the universe if he stared long enough.
It was presentation day.
The presentation.
His heart thudded in that anxious rhythm somewhere between what if I forget how to speak and what if I actually don’t suck and this changes everything.
He was in a crisp button-up (slightly wrinkled), his good jeans (the dark ones that made his butt look confident), and sneakers that weren’t technically business casual but made him feel brave.
His hair was doing a thing.
He let it.
He didn’t hear Blake enter.
Just felt the shift in the air – and the scent of something clean, expensive, and entirely distracting.
“Morning, Capulet.”
Jamie turned.
Blake leaned against the doorway, coffee already in hand, wearing a navy suit with no tie, the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled like they always ended up.
Like perfection had a setting called casual power move.
Jamie tried to smile. “If I throw up during the presentation, can you please lie to the board and say I have a stomach virus?”
Blake raised an eyebrow. “If you throw up, I’ll call it a performance piece about the anxiety of modern branding.”
Jamie huffed out a laugh, then exhaled. “I just… I want it to be good.”
Blake stepped closer.
His voice dropped – just for Jamie.
“It already is. The idea is smart, the copy sings, and you’re the only one who could have written it like this.”
A beat.
“You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to be real.”
Jamie swallowed.
That again.
“That’s your power.”
Jamie looked down at his coffee. “It’s easier when you say it.”
“Then I’ll keep saying it,” Blake replied, steady, “until you believe it.”
Jamie glanced up.
Blake smiled, softer now. “Now breathe. Drink. And try not to pass out before you change the industry.”
Jamie shook his head, a small laugh escaping. “You’re such a flirt.”
Blake winked. “Only with people who deserve it.”
That really shouldn’t help. It does.
The presentation room was full.
Clients. Leadership. Half the creative department. Notebooks, coffee cups, cautious optimism.
Jamie stood at the front, palms damp, laptop connected, heart doing too much.
And then…
he started.
He talked about Ritual Coffee.
Not as a product.
As a feeling.
Mornings that didn’t hurt.
Holding warmth.
Taking time.
The power of a pause.
He showed visuals – unfiltered, honest, emotional. He played with copy and rhythm and identity.
He didn’t perform.
He shared.
This is mine.
And when he finally clicked to the last slide…
“Ritual Coffee. A promise to slow down.”
…there was a beat of silence.
Just one.
Then applause.
Blake didn’t clap like a boss.
He clapped like someone proud.
Like someone who already knew.
Jamie’s chest tightened.
Five minutes later, the room was breaking apart – clients talking, leadership circling, energy buzzing.
Jamie slipped into the hallway, needing air.
Needing a second to catch up to himself.
Blake followed.
Of course he did.
“You nailed it,” Blake said, eyes bright. “Absolutely wrecked the room.”
Jamie leaned back against the wall, still catching his breath. “I don’t know what just happened.”
“You happened,” Blake said simply. “Exactly the way you were supposed to.”
Jamie looked at him.
Really looked.
“I think… I’m starting to believe I can do this.”
Blake stepped closer.
“Good,” he said. “Because I never doubted it.”
Jamie smiled – small, real, a little disbelieving.
Blake’s smile matched it, but there was something else there now.
Something warmer.
Something heavier.
“I’d offer you a victory kiss,” Blake murmured, voice low, “but I think HR would actually combust.”
Jamie laughed, softer this time. “Maybe after hours.”
Blake’s smirk returned, but it didn’t quite hide the way his gaze lingered. “Dangerous, Capulet.”
Say yes. Don’t say yes. Definitely say yes.
Before Jamie could decide…
voices filled the hallway.
Elise popped her head out. “We’re getting started on the first rollout. Jamie, you coming?”
Jamie straightened, something steadier settling into place. “Yeah. I’m coming.”
Blake gave him one last look.
Private.
Promising.
Like a conversation paused – not finished.
Jamie turned and walked back into the room.
This time, with his head high.
His pulse steady.
He was Jamie Capulet.
Lead writer.
Creative force.
Ritual Coffee was just the beginning.
And maybe…
just maybe…
so was this.