The offices of Whitfield Capital Group have always been a dull, dreary place that seem to suck the joy out of you the moment you step off the elevator. But today, in comparison with my weekend in Eastbrook, it feels like a funeral home.
The day drags on and on, and during every pointlessly long, drawn-out meeting I find myself staring out the window, reminiscing about La Bella Vita. Standing next to Lia at that stove, watching the steam from the pot rise up and glisten her delicate face.
More than anything, yesterday morning made me certain that I want to be with Lia.
But it also reminded me of how much I love to be in the kitchen. The smells of ingredients combining, the sounds of liquids boiling and metal pots clanging. For the first time in a long time, I felt like myself in that kitchen.
“Walker,” a voice breaks into my thoughts and I swivel my chair around to see a boardroom full of stern eyes staring back at me.
I sit up straighter in my chair. “Yeah?”
A few snickers chorus around the room.
“Care to enlighten us with your thoughts on the matter?”
It’s Gavin Billings talking. He’s a total prick. And he’s been out to get me since the day I walked in here.
I glance down at the legal pad in front of me, hoping to glean some clue as to what is being discussed, but it’s blank. I clear my throat, struggling to come up with an ambiguous question that doesn’t expose me. “Uh, what exactly are you uncertain about?”
More snickers.
“I’m not uncertain about anything,” Billings says in his usual snooty tone. “I’m simply asking if you agree with the rest of your colleagues about the direction of this deal.”
All right. I have two options right now.
1) Come clean and admit that I’ve been fantasizing about a woman who’s not my fiancée this entire time.
2) Lie.
The choice is obvious.
“I...” I fumble. “I agree, of course.”
Satisfied nods circle the table. Billings looks peeved, tipping me off that he was in the minority of whatever was just voted on. Which means I made the right decision.
Not that I care in the slightest.
I say I agree, and some billionaire earns enough money to buy his third yacht.
Did this ever feel important to me?
I peer at the clock on the wall. I swear the second hand has just stopped ticking all together.
After the meeting, I attempt to make the time pass by returning emails and filing paperwork, even though it’s technically my assistant’s job to do that. But I have to stay busy. My mind keeps wandering to Lia on the train. Wondering what she’s seeing through the window. What she’s thinking. Is she as nervous about tonight as I am?
But why am I so nervous?
This is Lia.
Sweet, selfless, vulgar-mouthed Lia. I’ve never felt anxious around her. She’s always been a constant in my life. Something solid. When Alex and I were on the rocks (too many times to count), Lia was the one thing that never changed. The person I could count on for a laugh. Or to say something wildly inappropriate.
When four fifty finally crawls onto the clock, I bound up, grab my suit jacket off the back of my chair, and slide my arms through the sleeves.
“I’ve got an appointment” is all I say as I hurry past my assistant’s desk on the way to the elevator.
“What about your five o’clock with Billings?”
Shit. I guess I must have blocked that from my mind.
Fuck it. Billings can kiss my ass.
“Tell him something came up.”
I exit onto Park Avenue and insert myself into the traffic of bodies traveling down the street. Penn Station is seven blocks from here and I don’t think I’ve ever made such record time.
I burst through the doors of the concourse, out of breath, but with four minutes to spare.
As I wait, I shift restlessly from foot to foot, trying to figure out what to do with my hands.
Why is this so difficult? What do I normally do with my hands? Do I clasp them behind my back? Cross my arms over my chest?
Jesus, Grayson, get a grip!
I finally resolve to stuff my hands in my pockets. I glance to the left and see another nervous-looking dude holding a bouquet of flowers.
Fuck! Flowers!
Should I have gotten her flowers?
Then at least I’d have something to hold.
No, I quickly decide. Lia is not the type of girl to like something as conventional as flowers. She’s too original for that. She’d much more appreciate something funny and personal.
And then an idea strikes me. I check the digital clock on the bottom of the massive hanging train schedule. I can make it if I run. Fast.
In a snap decision, I turn and dash out of the station. I glance around the intersection until I spot a newsstand on the other side of Seventh Avenue.
Please let them have it, I think, as I wait for the light to change. I dance a jig on the edge of the curb, eliciting strange looks from other pedestrians waiting to cross.
Normally, this kind of attention would embarrass me.
But not today. Not now.
And besides, this is New York City. I’m just another nut job waiting for a green light.