THREE
- Battling
Things a woman does when she is dealing with a situation she is uncomfortable with, but is unable to control:
Color her hair.
Get bangs.
Empty the fridge and clean the already clean shelves.
I looked washed out when anything other than brunette.
Bangs made my face look as round as a dinner plate.
So, you guessed it, I was on my knees with my shirtsleeves jacked up, scrubbing shelves that genuinely didn't actually need to be cleaned.
I tried to convince myself that I was simply more creatively inspired when my mind was on something else. And that was based in truth. I always got the most innovative ideas while my mind was on something else. When I was stirring sauce on the stove. When I worked out on the elliptical with old early two-thousands pop-rap music blasting. When I was trying to get my new internet security to download.
But the fact of the matter was, I didn't need a stroke of creative genius. I knew full-well where my planning was going. New Year's Eve had, essentially, two traditional sets of colors - black & silver or black & gold - for a reason. Because they were traditional. And there was nothing wrong with traditional.
Well, with the exception of hideous bridesmaids dresses that didn't flatter the coloring or figures of the women who had to wear them just because the planner claimed mustard or teal or grass green was the in color of the season.
So the party was going to be black & gold. The subtle gold, not the brassy sort.
It took four hours of looking at swatches for Grant to choose the original swatches I showed him that I told him would be perfect.
That, of course, was the actual problem.
Not my creativity.
The person who seemed bent on questioning it.
None other than the arrogant, condescending, overbearing executive Grant Calgary.
I had thought he was just going to be particular about the venue.
Oh, how adorably, innocently, idiotically naive I had been, as it turned out.
No.
See, I didn't even get much time after nursing just the tiniest of hangovers - thank you, Tequila - to fret about the shiver incident, about how we might be adults and talk about it, lay it on the table, get it out and over with - or maybe ignore it entirely. Because before my morning coffee finished dripping, my phone had started blowing up like crazy.
About times, music, colors, about how he wanted to be clued in on every single minute detail from the brand names of the liquor to the entire staff hired to work the event.
That day alone, we fought for two hours over names for the featured cocktail.
Apparently, Fresh Starts and New Beginnings were 'cheesy' and 'outdated.' And he 'expected more from me.'
We eventually settled on a Midnight Martini. Which I would swear he only chose because it was black. Like his heart.
I left his office feeling heated, frustrated, but relieved that one small thing was ticked off my list.
Because that list? Yeah, it was about three college ruled notebook pages - fronts and backs - full of things that still needed to be done. On short notice. With a man in charge who was, apparently, the biggest micromanager ever to have held a CEO position. Wasn't he supposed to be wintering or buying a new yacht or peeling off bikinis on some tropical island? Maybe with his teeth? Then pouring an ice cold piña colada on my stomach only to lick...
Wait.
No.
Not my stomach.
Not his tongue.
"Girl, why are you fanning yourself like my Aunt Erica in church?" Evan asked, shocking me out of my weird, winding thoughts.
"Why does your Aunt Erica fan herself in church?"
"'Cause hell is baking her ass for sleeping with half the congregation. Even the married ones." I snorted at that, shaking my head. I should have known that Ev was not the kind of person to just let things go. "You're flushed too. And since it is cold in here because someone refuses to turn the heat up despite the fact that we finally have more than enough money not to have to worry about the electric bill... I know it isn't the heat."
"We don't have the money yet," I reminded him.
"And you have never been sick a day in your life, so that isn't it. And you're avoiding eye-contact," he said, walking back and forth across the small space like some stereotypical detective in some cop drama when he was trying to break the case. "So, the only conclusion must be that you are literally all hot and bothered about Mr. Boss Man."
"What? Don't be ridiculous."
It wasn't a lie.
The idea was ridiculous.
The man was impossible, unyielding, holier-than-thou.
I, a generally even-tempered person - save from my tendency toward anxiety - , had gotten so mad at him the day before that I had slammed my fists down on a table in a coffee shop. Making a scene. A public scene. Over song selections.
Because while Grant Calgary might have been stuck in the all-boys-club of the Rat Pack era, the rest of the world had turned on a radio in the last decade or two. And it was all but impossible to get your dance on to freaking "My Way."
"Because he's an asshole?" Evan asked, raising a brow that was so perfectly tweezed that I felt a bit of guilt for never paying mine enough attention.
"Well, yeah," I said, rolling my eyes.
"So what?"
"So, I don't like him."
"You don't have to like someone to have a good sweaty time with them."
"Not in my experience."
It was Evan's turn to snort. "Sagey, honey, that is because you date the most boring men known to mankind. I mean, your exes could make a room full of chess champion, encyclopedia-reading geeks seem like a lively bunch."
"That's..." Fair. It was fair.
"True. It's true. And your sheltered self gets to finally meet a man. A grown ass man who knows what he wants and fights for it. And your poor, unsatisfied lady bits are waking up from their long slumber and yelling 'Gimme gimme.' It doesn't matter that he's an ass. He's an alpha. And you are genetically predisposed to being attracted to that. It's biology."
"It's nothing," I insisted, moving to reach for my notebook that now had neat, bold print in the margins thanks to Grant who stole it when I went to the bathroom to cool down after discussing something as mundane as plastic or ceramic plates for the food I was dreading talking about.
Dreading.
More than my annual pap-smear.
More than a lecture from my parents about my wasted potential.
More than more of those lean times when all I had to eat was ramen and questionable dollar store bread.
"It's something, Miss Shivers McMyVagNeedsSomeLoveEnstein."
"Oh my God, stop," I whimpered, hanging my head as my cheeks warmed for an entirely different reason.
"Look. I get that he's the boss man with the fat checkbook and all. But I'm just saying... once he signs that line and hands it over and it is nestled safely in your wallet, climb that man like a tree," he told me, thrusting his arms into his fancy olive green peacoat, swirling a scarf around his neck with the perfect efficiency I always found myself envious of, then making his way to the door. "It would be a true win-win. Talk to you later. I have to go sling some adult sippies. Love you!"
I took a deep breath, tipping my face up so my head rested back against the wall, firm, cool, oddly reassuring.
"I thought the adults needed their sippies," I said, enjoying the blackness behind my lids, the momentary silence in my head.
"I'm not even going to ask what nonsense that is about," a voice that was decidedly not Evan's said, making my entire body jolt, sending my chair wobbling ominously, making me need to throw out my arms, grabbing whatever was close for balance. Which happened to be a box full of paperwork that went flying, pages scattering across the entire room.
"Yep," I mumbled to myself, dropping off the chair to shuffle the bulk of them together. "That seems about right," I added with a head shake, annoyed with myself for being so jumpy, so easily readable around the man I wanted most to close myself off to.
"If you're done scrambling around on the floor, I need to have a word with you," Grant's voice called from above me, making my jaw set tight, my teeth aching they were ground together so hard.
"Gee, sorry, some of us don't have a staff ready to rush to clean up the messes in the office. How lowly of me to have to do it myself," I shot at him, refusing to get off the floor until every last paper was in the pile, then shuffled them together with a pointed tap on the floor before finally getting back to my feet, setting them safely back into their box. "What did you need to discuss?"
Since we had settled the plastic vs. ceramic debate. Going with the idiotic choice of real ceramic despite the fact that it would be in the hands of drunken men and women all night, there was no new topic I was aware of yet.
His eyes did another once-over, something he did every time we met, taking in my clothes, likely cataloging how cheap they were to throw in my face at some later date. Though, to be fair, he hadn't said anything about my plastic shoes again. Mostly because I replaced them with a good pair. And he either didn't notice that I wore the same pair each time he saw me, or he didn't think it was worth commenting on. But I couldn't help but feel like I was constantly being judged and found wanting.
When those dark depths found their way back to my face, there was a curious tilt to his brows, something unreadable because, well, everything about this man was impossible to read.
"The menu."
"And since we are supposed to discuss the options tomorrow, I am at a loss as to why you are here today."
"I took it upon myself to have a few available chefs create some options to sample."
Oh, he did, did he?
My hackles rose, my teeth grinding harder. At this rate, I was going to shell out a couple hundred at the dentist for a custom mouth guard.
"Really, Mr. Calgary, what was the purpose of hiring a party planner when you continually take it upon yourself to do my job?"
He opened his mouth. Likely to snap back. Because he was good at it. Admittedly, better than I was. Likely having had a lot more practice. Seeing as he was a certifiable asshole and all.
But, to my utter shock, he closed it again, looked off to the side, out the door, watching a couple move past, the perfect poster for some Hallmark Christmas movie in their oversized scarves and matching hats, her head resting a bit on his shoulder for a second as they waited to cross the street.
It was almost a full thirty seconds before he turned back, his face a little more relaxed. When his mouth opened, it was almost... pleading. "I'm not trying to make it seem like you aren't capable of doing your job. I simply have connections that you likely don't have. Yet. I exploited them. But I could only get them together tonight. So, here I am... a day before our planned meeting."
Okay.
Maybe I attacked him before I gave him the chance to explain.
It was becoming a habit.
But I felt justified since his behavior generally called for it.
It just so happened that this once, he was being reasonable.
And he was right; I didn't have his connections. And, what's more, I appreciated that he had said 'yet.' I liked his vote of confidence, even if he just said it to avoid yet another argument.
"Oh, alright. So, what is the plan here?" I asked, unsure why he was in my office.
"I figured you would want to..." He trailed off, running a hand across the back of his neck. Was he being... unsure of himself? It seemed like it. He usually spoke so decidedly, so certainly. He never trailed off and stopped to think things through. "I assumed you would want to sample the choices as well. Otherwise, I would imagine all we would do about me overstepping would be arguing."
"You're not wrong," I admitted with a small smile, shaking my head at our dynamic now that it seemed possible we could be in the company of each other for more than five minutes without someone getting ticked off about something or another. "Are we visiting restaurants? Just give me the names, I can meet... no?" I asked when he shook his head while I reached for my notebook.
"They will be coming to my apartment."
"Wait. You got several top chefs to agree to come to your apartment and cook for you at the same time?"
"Not the same time, no. They each have half an hour in-between. It made more sense," he added, almost as if he was somehow embarrassed that he could have important people at his beck and call. Which didn't seem characteristic either. He never struck me as a man who was insecure about his wealth. "They all have busy restaurants. It would have been difficult to get them to work a custom menu for me on such short notice in their own kitchens."
"Yeah, it... makes sense," I agreed.
"So I will see you there at seven," he told me, walking toward the door. "I'll text you the address."
His hand yanked the door open, his body disappearing within seconds. Like he was in a rush to get out of there.
Again, odd.
Not two minutes later, I had a text on my phone.
And that was when something odd happened.
Nerves started overtaking my system.
About what? Being in his apartment? Seeing him as someone more human? Realizing that if I found him more human, it might be harder to deny that all these hours spent with him didn't affect me the way I had been trying to act like they didn't.
I mean, not that anything would come of it or anything.
At least that was what I was telling myself.