I sit back and stare at my computer screen, the curser blinking over Engel Elite’s in-house account, waiting for my phone to ring. It’s eleven twenty and Dan with Engel is officially five minutes late for our weekly Wednesday conference call.
I tap my forefinger on my mouse pad, irritated, and listen to the clicking sound it makes.
Still, the phone sits silent.
I glance at the clock in the right-hand corner of my monitor, and my stomach growls. Oh my god, I want to start eating my sandwich so bad, but I know as soon as I take that first delicious bite, my secretary is going to buzz Dan through to my phone.
Never fails.
I don’t care how dried up and gray old Danny Boy is: chewing cud on the end of a business call is not cool. Or professional. Or sexy.
11:27
“Come on, come on, Dan. Shake a tail feather,” I murmur, and my lips lift into a grin when I check my email and see a new message from GreatDane51. He always manages to bring a smile to my face. In light of the two shitty dates I’ve had recently, his message is a welcome distraction. I read it while I wait.
Hey, Nina. Unfortunately, I opened your last message just before I walked into a meeting and almost pissed myself when you detailed your blind date with “Killer.” I don’t blame you for being pissed—what a letdown. With a name like that, you probably expected someone more badass.
Exactly! See? GreatDane51 gets it, even if my mother doesn’t…
Since we’re sharing dating horror stories, let me just tell you it could have been worse: he could have brought a friend. The last date I went on, I just happened to be sitting next to this really nice guy while I waited at the bar (a CLASSY bar, not Applebee’s). We talked and chatted until my date showed up, and when she did—whoa boy, was she pissed. Turns out the random stranger happened to be her ex. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she accused me of setting the whole thing up. She ranted and raved before storming out. I don’t know which was worse: that date, or the woman who showed up with her best friend in tow. That was weird. Sat with us right at the table texting while we ate. Was Killer your only bad date, or do you have others?
–GreatDane51
And wouldn’t you know it, as soon as I begin a witty response, my damn intercom buzzes.
I continue typing as Bonnie’s raspy voice crackles from the speaker on my desk.
“Janine, Dan from Engel Elite is holding for you.”
I sigh. “Oh, you mean Dan from Engel Elite with shitty timing?” I huff grumpily to no one because I’m getting hangry, but complaining is useless. It’s not like I can ignore his phone call.
I press my index finger down on the TALK button. “Thanks, Bonnie. Put him on line four.”
My fingers move deftly over the keyboard, and I wait for his call to light up my line.
GreatDane51. Oh lord. I don’t even want to know what kind of grown woman brings her best friend on a blind date. Don’t get me wrong, my best friend and I share everything, but I would never bring her on a date. I can’t even imagine it: she would be bossing us both around the entire time. She has five kids (yes, FIVE) and would probably make sure we both had napkins on our laps and correct our bad manners. I love her to death. And since we’re on the subject of bad blind dates, I never did tell you about Mickey Mouse Mike, did I? Dear. Lord. It was awful. The poor guy… probably has to duct tape his mouth shut to get a girl in bed…
I write a few more sentences, add my signature, and click SEND.
As I hit line four on my office landline and put Dan on speaker, the air is suddenly filled with the deep sound of chuckling. I roll my eyes at the wall and sit back in my chair.
“Hello, Dan. You’re sounding chipper this morning.” He chuckles again, and my lip curls. “Want to share with the class what’s so funny?”
“Morning, Miss Richardson. Just in a good mood. Sorry I’m calling so late. I got tied up in a previous meeting.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, “Tied up to a chair, I hope.”
But of course, I don’t. Instead I go with, “Understandable. I finished up some paperwork and have your file open in front of me so we can get started. Since we’re starting late, I’m going to have to cut this short. I have an eleven forty-five.”
Yeah. An eleven forty-five with my sandwich.
“Right, no problem. Again, sorry.” I hear papers shuffling, then some clicking. Is the asshole typing while we’re on the phone? Rude. “Do you have the plot map for Palmilla pulled up?”
Palmilla is the subdivision we’re working on with Engel Elite.
“Yes. I had Amy in accounting place all the elevations. So that frees up Eric in the sales office to begin listing the lots for sale.”
Dan clears his throat. “Thanks. So with that out of the way, technically we’re ahead of schedule.”
“Yup.” I let the ‘p’ make a loud popping sound. “Looks like it.”
“Okay…” More clicking from Dan’s end of the line. “You probably could have just emailed me that information and saved us both fifteen minutes.”
I clear my throat and take a deep breath. “Hmm, but if I recall correctly, you’re the one who insisted on these weekly chats. If you want to nix them and move to email updates, that certainly works for me.”
“Agreed. Let’s be honest, these calls aren’t very pleasant.”
Whoa! Hold. Up. What? Is he giving me attitude? “Excuse me, Mr. Engel, but are you saying that I’ve not been pleasant?”
I can’t keep the incredulous tone from my voice, and go as far as making a scoffing pfft sound into the receiver. Me, unpleasant? Please.
Dan continues typing. “Yes, Ms. Richardson, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Click, click, click goes his keyboard in the background.
“I’m sorry if it comes off that way, but I can assure you—”
“Nope. Don’t apologize. I know how hard the construction industry is on women. Can’t fault you for the jagged edges.” He chuckles, his voice deep and rich.
And annoying.
Click, click, click goes his keyboard.
I swear, old people have no technology etiquette. “I’m sorry, sir, but… are you… even paying attention anymore? It sounds like you’re in the middle of something important.”
“Oh, now you want to talk?”
Huh? “No! I was just… It sounds like you’re typing and it’s distracting.”
“I’m going to level with you, Ms. Richardson. At one point I looked forward to these Wednesday morning calls, and now… they’re a chore. Let’s just email the information and go from there.”
“A chore! What the hell are you even talking about?” Shit. Did I say that out loud?
Dan Engel’s low, sexy laugh is anything but professional, and sends a damn shiver up and down my spine. Seriously, what the hell? “Want me to be blunt, Ms. Richardson?”
Oh my god, stop calling me that damn name, I want to shout. I cross my legs under the desk and bounce my foot, agitated. “Sure, Dan, why the hell not.”
He laughs again.
“Would you stop laughing?” I demand.
“Are you this bitchy with your friends, Ms. Richardson?”
“Okay, that crosses the line,” I start. “You can’t say shit like that. This is business, not a supper club, and it’s certainly not the 1950s. I know men your age tend to be old-fashioned—”
“Men my age?” Dan starts to interrupt, but I’m on a roll and keep going.
“—but you have no business calling me bitchy when you haven’t even met me in person. How dare you?”
“How dare me? Every time I call you’re a complete shrew. What’s your problem? I’ve been nothing but professional until today. You don’t laugh at any of my jokes—”
“Maybe I would if they were funny,” I interrupt.
“—you piss and moan during all our calls—and don’t think I can’t hear you sighing when you say hello. Please. I’m not hard of hearing.”
“Yet,” I mumble.
“What was that?”
“I said clearly our communication styles are different—”
“Bullshit.” Dan snorts. “I like to make people laugh and you’ve got a stick up your ass.”
I gasp indignantly, resisting the urge to tell him to fuck off. Sarcasm rolls off my tongue. “I am so sorry, but I happen to be hilarious. Ask anybody.”
Why am I arguing with this guy? Suddenly, I’m assailed with a visual of my Papa Clayton, his tired, slouching shoulders, hunched back, and white hair, and am wracked with guilt.
“Yeah, okay. Whatever you say.”
My email notification dings, but for once I ignore it. “Look, sir—”
“And that’s another thing. Why the hell do you keep calling me sir like I’m a geriatric? Jesus Christ.”
“The same reason you keep calling me Ms. Richardson, sir.”
I can hear Dan rolling his eyes. I mean, do old people do that? “Fine. Fair enough.”
“Fine.”
He grunts. “Good.”
“Great.” I punctuate the word with a hard t. Asshole.
“Alright. I’ve had just about enough of this Wednesday call, and your eleven forty-five started about…” I picture him checking his fob watch. “Three minutes ago.” The clicking begins again. “I’ll have my secretary email you the notes from this call.”
“Perfect. Anything else?”
“Nope. Try and have a good day, Ms. Richardson.”
“Oh, don’t you worry, sir. I’m going to have an awesome day.”
Dan Engel laughs, and for the second time, my spine tingles. “You do that.”
“Oh, I will.”
The sound of laughter and the call ending fills the room, and I hit END with a hard poke.
“What the hell just happened?” I ask to the empty room and glare down at my sandwich.
Me: So get this. After the phone call from hell, Dan has his secretary email me the notes from our call, right?
Becky: Okayyyy…
Me: Know what that sonofabitch did?
Becky: I bet you’re about to enlighten me.
Me: He literally had pieces of our conversation emailed to me. Even the part where he calls me bitchy. And the part where I snorted. It’s typed out like a damn court transcript. Of all the fucking nerve!
Me: Right after his secretary notes our discussion about the Palmilla project, it says “Sighs loudly.”
Becky: LOLOL—Omg, that’s hilarious, Janine.
Me: How is that even remotely funny? What a jerk.
Becky: Well, I mean, you did insult the man’s sense of humor…
Me: You are NOT allowed to take his side. That goes against the Friendship Code Treaty of 1997.
Becky: Um, we wrote that code when we were like 18… and drunk.
Me: I don’t care. I’m enacting all the policies again.
Becky: If this is how you were acting on the phone with Dan, no wonder he called you bitchy. Don’t get mad, I’m just stating a fact.
Me: BECKY! Stop being a mom for 2 seconds and take my side. The man is old and rude, and living in the 50s.
Becky: How do you know? You’ve never even met the guy. Why do you keep saying he’s old? For all you know, he’s our age.
Me: He calls me Ms. Richardson. Who does that? Old people.
Becky: You’re being ridiculous. What’s he supposed to call you?
Me: I don’t know! But he doesn’t have to say it the way he says it.
Becky: Um, that made no sense.
Me: I don’t know. He says it in this way… like… God, I don’t know. A freaking caress! It drives me nuts.
Becky: A CARESS??? Wow. Sounds to me like you’re getting the hots for an old dude. I mean, you talk about him all the time…
Me: I’m hanging up on you now.
Becky: You can’t. We’re texting, remember?
Me: Fine. Then I hope you get buried under a huge mountain of dirty laundry.
Becky: Oh no you did NOT. Them are fighting words….