The Partner Track

Mila Watts

Okay, keys — check.

Phone — check.

Miniature purse — check.

Merlot —

Shit. Where’s the Merlot?

I spin around like I’m in a crime scene reenactment. Fridge? Nothing. Booze cabinet? Just a sad little bottle of peach schnapps no one asked for. That random shelf above the microwave I’ve never cleaned? Dust bunnies and a lighter, but no wine.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, staring down the empty countertop like it owes me money. I swear I bought that damn bottle. Like, recently. I have a memory of holding it. Cradling it like a newborn. Did I dream that?

I can’t roll up to a BYOB with N-O-B. That’s social suicide. That’s how you get marked forever in the cubicle jungle — “Oh, Mila? Yeah, she’s the one who shows up empty-handed and eats all the good cheese.”

Unacceptable.

“Ally?” I yell toward the living room, because at this point, there’s only one logical explanation.

“Yeah?” she calls from her fortress of throw pillows, where she’s been nesting like some kind of Netflix-watching woodland creature.

“Did you open a Merlot?” I’m fastening earrings, trying to maintain some illusion of control.

“Uh… no?” she says, with all the conviction of someone absolutely lying.

Bitch, please.

I march over and peer into her pillow pile like a mom looking for contraband. No bottle in sight, but I spot a glass with suspicious purple evidence on the rim.

“I told you that was for the party,” I snap.

She shrugs, completely unbothered. “You didn’t say which party.”

“I didn’t think I had to specify that the only unopened bottle of wine in the apartment was not for your Real Housewives rewatch marathon.”

“I mean, technically you didn’t label it—”

“For fuck’s sake, Ally.”

She makes a sad face and offers the half-full glass like that somehow makes up for it. It doesn’t. It makes it worse. Who brings half a glass of Merlot to a party? What is this, a tasting?

I grab my purse, contemplating the logistics of a 7-Eleven wine run. God help me, I might have to bring rosé.

And if Karen from accounting makes a snarky comment, I swear I’m throwing a Babybel at her forehead.

I slam the door behind me and march down the stairs like I’m on a mission from God — or at least Dionysus. I’m mentally running through every half-decent place still open at this hour, weighing how desperate I’m willing to look. Bodega wine? No. That’s how you end up with a $4 hangover and a bottle that tastes like regret and raisins. CVS? Might as well bring rubbing alcohol and a prayer.

I end up hustling my ass toward Harlem, dodging a dude trying to sell me incense and a lady screaming into a headset like she’s directing traffic in her own personal opera. Classic New York: chaos, noise, and three rats who clearly pay no rent but run the block like they own it.

Finally — finally — I spot the Aldi like it’s a damn oasis. No angels singing, just the wheezy slide of automatic doors and that familiar whiff of budget groceries and broken dreams.

I power-walk inside like I’m training for the Olympics: Wine Sprint Edition. I dodge a cart with one janky wheel and make a beeline to the liquor section. Past the chips, past the sad produce, past a guy having a very emotional moment with a rotisserie chicken.

There it is. The promised land. The wine shelf.

Except — and of course, because my life is a sitcom written by spiteful gremlins — it’s slim pickings. A lone bottle of Chardonnay that’s been there so long it’s developed abandonment issues. A Pinot Grigio that looks like it came with a side of regret. And then, finally, blessedly, one bottle of Merlot tucked behind some random Riesling like it’s hiding from me.

I snatch it like it’s the last life vest on the Titanic.

“Don’t fuck with me,” I whisper to the label, checking the year. Not great, not terrible. Definitely drinkable. Probably won’t blind anyone. Perfect.

“I wouldn’t bring that,” a voice cuts in behind me, smooth and smug like a latte with too much foam.

I whip around on instinct, ready to fight. It’s a man — of course it is — dressed in that curated casual look: blazer like he’s not trying too hard, nice jeans that definitely cost more than my internet bill, a grey button-down probably steamed just for this errand. His hair’s doing that architectural swoop thing that screams I spend more time on this than you spend on your taxes. Tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose like he just stepped out of an indie bookstore with a tote bag full of opinions. And those brown eyes? Locked on the bottle in my hand with all the judgment of a Master Sommelier and the actual experience of a guy who once got tipsy off sangria at a cousin’s wedding.

“It’s Merlot,” I say, eyebrows raised. “Good year too.”

He actually snorts. Snorts. Like I just told him I was pairing it with SpaghettiOs.

“It’s lazy,” he says, folding his arms like he’s delivering a TED Talk on how not to embarrass yourself in the beverage aisle.

I blink. “I’m sorry, are you the wine police?”

“No,” he says, smiling like he thinks that’s charming. “Just saying. Merlot’s what people grab when they don’t know what they’re doing.”

“And unsolicited opinions are what people give when they have nothing else to offer,” I fire back, still holding the bottle, now more determined than ever to show up with it and pour it with theatrical flair.

He chuckles, like I’m some amusing little disaster with no taste buds.

“I mean, there’s a Bordeaux on the bottom shelf that’s not bad,” he says, tilting his chin toward it, because apparently he thinks I’m the kind of girl who takes wine advice from strangers in discount grocery stores.

“Cool,” I say, “but I’m not trying to impress a bunch of assholes. I’m trying to not get roasted by Sharon from HR for showing up empty-handed.”

He shrugs, grabbing the bottle for himself. “Suit yourself.”

“Oh, I always do.”

I strut past him to the self-checkout, bottle clutched like a middle finger. Screw him and his wine elitism. I hope his Bordeaux has a cork so dry it crumbles into the bottle like a sad metaphor.

Let him take his artisanal attitude somewhere else. I’ve got a party to crash, a reputation to salvage, and a bottle of ‘lazy’ Merlot with my name on it.

By the time I’m out of Aldi, I’m sweating like I just survived a wine-based Hunger Games. I clutch the Merlot like it’s a newborn and hustle to the nearest train, ignoring the man on the platform beatboxing into a traffic cone. God bless New York.

I make it to the party just late enough to be considered “cool” and not so late that anyone can accuse me of flaking. The apartment is nice — too nice — one of those open floor plan, Edison bulb, Scandinavian-wood-vibes kind of places. Definitely paid for by someone who uses the phrase “investment property” unironically.

I spot the booze table and practically slam the Merlot down like I’m making a statement. Because I am — I brought the bottle, it’s here, it counts, and if anyone wants to fight me about it, I’m armed with both corkscrew and rage.

The party is full of people pretending they’re not coworkers, sipping from solo cups like it’s 2006, trying to make HR-safe conversation while also getting just tipsy enough to gossip. I wade through a sea of people I sort-of-know and definitely don’t trust, heading toward the cheese plate like it owes me money.

And then, like some kind of karmic joke written by a petty god, he’s there.

Blazer Guy.

Blazer. Fucking. Guy.

Standing across the room, wine glass in hand, talking to Karen from accounting of all people, laughing like he’s auditioning for a wine commercial. And what’s in his hand?

A glass of Bordeaux.

Of course it is.

I freeze mid-sip, watching him make some dramatic swirl-and-sniff gesture like he’s about to recite poetry. Karen is eating it up. Probably thinks he’s sophisticated. She’s always had a soft spot for pretentious men in loafers.

He sees me. I know he sees me. His eyes flick to my cup, then to the bottle on the table. My bottle.

I raise it in a little cheers motion, all sarcastic smile and no mercy.

He smirks, like this is all very cute to him, and lifts his glass back. Then — and I swear to god this man has no shame — he mouths lazy at me from across the room.

I mouth fuck off right back.

He laughs.

I down half my cup in one go, letting the Merlot warm my chest like armor. I don’t know who invited this man, but if I find out, they’re dead to me. That said… I might also need another cup, just in case I feel like proving a point. Or starting a petty war. Either/or.

I make the rounds, doing the classic work-party waltz: one hand on my cup, the other shaking hands with people I talk to every day but now have to pretend I enjoy seeing outside of Slack. George from IT tells me about some drama with the printers again, Jen from Compliance gives me her usual “we should totally grab lunch” lie, and I nod like I haven’t heard this exact script before. Corporate déjà vu.

Then Lucy — the other paralegal, sharp bob, sharper eyeliner — grabs my arm mid-step.

“Hey, Mila,” she says, eyes already glinting with gossip. “Have you heard the news?”

My brain immediately goes to layoffs, drama, or a surprise drug test. “What news?”

“New lawyer,” she says, tipping her chin toward the corner like she’s revealing the location of a body.

I follow her gaze — and, of course. Of course.

Blazer Fucking Guy.

He’s leaned casually against the kitchen island, chatting with our senior manager like he was born inside a LinkedIn post. Same smug half-smile, same goddamn glasses, like he just walked out of a Netflix courtroom drama and into my actual workplace.

“Really?” I say, deadpan. My cup inches closer to my lips. “That guy?”

“Oh yeah,” Lucy says, nodding like she’s about to recite his résumé. “Harvard. Liberty & Partners. Supposedly Jeffrey made some moves to get him — like took him to dinner at Le Coucou, got HR involved two months in advance, the whole golden-chicken treatment.”

Golden chicken.

I blink. “Did you say chicken?”

She nods. “You know, like when they lay all the eggs and make the money and… whatever. You know what I mean.”

I do. I really do. And I hate it.

Blazer Guy — who, just hours ago, insulted my wine choice in a grocery store like we were competing on Chopped: Sommelier Edition — is now my coworker. Probably with his own office. Probably with views. Probably with a salary that starts with a number I’ll never even see on a pay stub unless I sell an organ.

“I chatted with him earlier,” Lucy adds. “He’s kind of hot, in that I-own-cryptocurrency way.”

“He told me Merlot was lazy,” I mutter into my cup.

Lucy blinks. “Rude.”

“Right? In an Aldi, no less.”

She makes a face. “Who critiques wine in Aldi? That’s like reviewing the vibes at a gas station.”

Exactly.

I glance back over at him. He’s laughing at something Jeffrey said, tilting his glass just-so like he’s in an ad for moderately priced red. I hate how good he looks in that blazer. I hate that he probably says things like “synergy” unironically. I hate that now I’ll have to see him in meetings.

Oh, and I really hate that he mouthed lazy at me and now has an office across from mine.

But hey — this is war. Quiet, corporate war.

And I have Merlot.

The party keeps going, music low but the chatter rising like steam off a broken radiator. I’m mid-bite, sliding a cube of provolone into my mouth like I’ve been doing all night — no grace, no shame — when I hear Jeffrey’s voice slice through the noise:

“Oh, Mila! There you are—”

I turn around, half-chewed cheese lodged somewhere between my dignity and my molars. And there he is.

Mr. Blazer. Mr. Bordeaux. Mr. “It’s lazy”. Standing beside Jeffrey like he didn’t just insult my soul in the wine aisle less than two hours ago. He’s still got that too-nice swoop of dark hair, the tortoiseshell glasses, and the smug, polished posture of a man who probably irons his jeans and calls it “effortless.”

I swallow too fast. It burns a little.

Jeffrey beams, full on in boss-introducing-new-talent mode. “This is Oliver Armstrong — he’ll start with us on Monday!”

I extend my hand like a professional, mentally calculating how many days of my life I’ll now have to pretend this man didn’t critique my wine aura like a condescending sommelier.

“Mila Watts,” I say with my most polite murder smile.

Oliver takes my hand, all smooth grip and eye contact. “Pleasure.”

Jeffrey claps a hand on my shoulder like we’re co-captains of Team Welcome Wagon. “Mila’s one of our best — paralegal, but basically psychic. Keeps us all alive. Don’t tell Lucy I said that.”

I nod, still smiling, still very much pretending I’ve never seen this man before in my entire life.

Oliver’s smile twitches. “I’ll try not to say that to Lucy either.”

Jeffrey laughs. “Oh, you’re gonna fit right in.”

I bet he is. I bet he fits in everywhere, like one of those rich-guy pens that just slides into the inside pocket of a $900 coat and never leaks.

“Well, I’ll let you two mingle,” Jeffrey says, already turning to greet someone else like a wedding DJ on espresso. “Mila’ll show you where the good snacks are.”

And just like that, we’re standing there. Alone-ish. Plastic cups in hand. Eye contact in progress. A silent electric buzz of I-know-you humming between us.

But neither of us says a word about Aldi. Or wine. Or the insult that haunts me like a cheap vintage.

He gestures at the cheese table. “You recommend the provolone?”

“It’s dependable,” I say coolly, popping another cube into my mouth. “Uncomplicated. Doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.”

He nods slowly, like that’s a real answer and not an extremely petty metaphor.

“Sounds like a good choice,” he says. “I’ll have to try it.”

I raise my cup slightly. “Better hurry. The vultures descend around hour two.”

He chuckles, taking a step toward the food. “Thanks for the tip, Mila.”

I watch him walk away, blazer crisp, cup in hand. He grabs a cube of provolone, tosses it in his mouth, and — I swear — glances back at me with a ghost of a smile.

Game on.