SIX
- Avoiding
"Chickenshit," Evan tossed at me the day after Christmas when I asked him to be at the club to receive the alcohol delivery.
Because Grant was likely going to be there.
And, yes, I was being a chickenshit.
I wasn't like Evan.
I wasn't comfortable with casual sex.
I didn't know how to navigate the inevitably sticky situation that would arise from sleeping with someone you worked with. Someone you worked for.
I knew what would happen. I would lose that confidence I had adopted from working with Grant, standing up to him. I would second-guess myself, our interactions, anything he said or did or didn't say or didn't do. God, I wasn't even sure I wouldn't freaking blush around him. And that, well, would be humiliating. Especially since Grant was uncommonly observant, because he would know what was going on, what impact he'd had on me.
The worst part was, there had been an impact.
I had spent Christmas Eve and Christmas thinking of little else. Even when Evan had popped over so we could exchange gifts before he went off to spend Christmas Day with his family, all I could think of was the delicious beard burn hidden under my clothes, the way the muscles in my thighs ached.
I tossed and turned in bed at night, thinking of his hands, lips, tongue, fingers on me.
I woke up clutching my pillow like a lover, wanting his body beside mine.
But all I had gotten was radio silence from the man himself.
He had my number.
He normally blew up my phone all day and night with little tweaks to the planning.
But after we'd had sex... nothing.
Even though I knew he - like me - was alone for the holiday, sitting all alone in his giant apartment.
And I simply was not on his mind.
Or, and there was more than a small possibility here, he had other company to keep his mind and body occupied.
I had no right to feel jealous, but there was no denying that was how I felt.
This was why I didn't do casual sex. Because, to me, there was nothing casual about sex. It brought up feelings, it brought up possibilities, hopes.
See, Evan was right.
I should have just dragged out an old battery operated toy and handled the situation myself. Maybe it would have prevented me from being such a slave to my desires. Maybe I could have resisted, held my ground, been a professional.
"Evan, please," I begged, going for another cup of coffee even though my skin already felt like it was buzzing.
"You know you want to see him."
"And that is the problem," I told him with a sigh. "I don't do casual sex, Ev, because I always want more. And I can't want more with him."
"Why not?"
"Because he doesn't want more with me."
"You don't know that."
"Since I started working for him, he's texted me at least a dozen times a day. Since that night, nothing. Not a single text."
To that, Evan didn't have much to say. Since he was the one who frequently told me when I was fretting about someone calling or not that if a man wants you, he finds you, he makes the moves. So if he isn't tracking you down, letting you know he was into you, then he wasn't. Case closed.
It simplified dating.
And to say that Grant was just being unsure or something of that sort would simply go against everything he fundamentally believed about dating.
"Alright. I'll go. But for the record, you know that I am always a firm believer in confronting problems."
"You're better at it than I am."
"Because I've practiced it, perfected it. You avoid it at all costs."
He wasn't wrong.
But this was hardly the time to practice. With two-hundred-fifty-thousand on the line. Evan, thankfully, understood that. He wanted that paycheck as badly as I did.
We were so close, too.
The finish line was in sight.
Five days and we could move on with our lives with a lot less worry.
So Evan was willing to play the middle man if that was what was needed so we could complete this job.
"One thing," Evan said, turning back to me after putting his jacket on.
"Yeah?"
"What if he asks where you are?"
"Tell him I had other things to oversee."
I literally had nothing to do. The kind of nothing that meant that I spent the next hour organizing the files on my computer, running virus scans, and filling in my calendar for the new year.
I nearly flew out of my chair when Evan finally came back two hours later. "How'd it go?"
"I signed a piece of paper and watched some very not yummy men roll in endless dollies of liquor. Not much room for screwing up."
"Was he there?"
If I didn't know Evan as well as I did, if I hadn't been examining him as hard as I was, I might have missed it.
He stiffened.
"Yes."
"Did he ask where I was?"
"No."
I'd never been one to boast of a lot of pride. But what little I had left felt crushed, pulverized at that information. Even if I should have known better. Because, even if I was a novice at the casual sex thing, Grant was an old pro. Even according to his write up in the paper that made him the most eligible bachelor, it was stated how he'd never been serious with any woman, never even been photographed with the same one twice.
I was one of many.
Utterly forgettable, I would imagine, given my likely model-beautiful, rich, interesting, or more experienced competition for his attention.
And that right there was just about enough of that, I decided, shaking my head of the negative thoughts, especially the ones that would make me compare myself to anyone else.
"Is there anything else I need to know?"
"Other than his gaze constantly going over to the bar where you two did the dirty?" Evan asked with a brow raise.
"You're making that up."
"When do I ever lie to you?"
"He was probably thinking we need to have it bleached or something before the party."
"Oh, you are a hopeless case," Ev declared, shaking his head at me. "You're a catch," he added. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you that."
"He's literally the most eligible bachelor in the city, Ev. I think he's the catch."
"Well, whatever. He was thinking about catching you."
"He was thinking about having sex with me," I clarified. "There's a difference. And he wasn't even thinking about that enough to text or call or show up. So can we just let it drop?"
"Fine. He also mentioned needing to know when the food was going to be delivered."
"Sunday," I told him.
"And let me guess, you expect me there?"
"I promise, as soon as the check clears, you will get a bonus. And a raise."
"Well, now you're speaking my language," he said, flicking around his Burberry scarf. "But you do realize you're going to need to be at the event, right?"
I did realize that.
I would even have to interact with him if I wanted my check.
"Luckily, Grant hates socializing. He's going to spend most of the night in the little security room. I can avoid him by floating around most of the night. Then I can just demand our check, and get on with my life. Easy enough."
"Aside from the spinach issue - and I called Aiden, and he said he can make do with romaine now that it is back on the shelves - were there any issues?" I asked Aiden on Sunday evening.
"Aside from the especially grumbly Boss Man standing there glowering at me, you mean?"
"You're acting as though that is something new for him."
"He was especially grumbly."
"Mhmm," I mumbled, trying not to let my mind think things like Maybe it is because of me or Maybe he wished it was me there instead of Evan.
"He asked if you were working another job."
"And you said?"
"Of course not. That you were fully devoted to him."
"You did not say that."
"I said it."
"Why?"
"Let's call it an experiment."
"Please, please don't use my romantic life as an experiment."
"But it's so fun."
"For you maybe. And for your information, he looked pleased at the idea."
"Why are you pushing this so hard? We barely know each other."
"You spent almost every day of, what, three weeks together. That is not barely. And according to you, the sex was smoking. Sue me for rooting for you."
"We spent three weeks fighting," I reminded him. "It wasn't like we were having in-depth conversations about our hopes, dreams, political stances, socioeconomic aspirations. We argued over colors and dinnerware and music."
"You know what foods he likes, music, colors, liquor. It's not everything, but it's a start. And, hey, you'd never have to worry about having your first fight. You've already had your first fifty."
"It's not going to happen," I assured him, even if I had - in very weak moments - wondered if there was a possibility of something more. There was chemistry. There was no denying that. But in stronger moments, I knew it would never work. We were different people. We were from different worlds. It would never work.
"Alright, alright. Fine. But he did make it a point to say he expects to see you there on New Year's Eve."
"He used that word?" I really didn't even need to ask. It sounded just like him.
"Mhmm."
"Don't give me that look. Him being an ass isn't going to make me jump into a cab, go over there, and argue with him. Then end up in bed."
"A man can dream," he said, moving over to plant a kiss to my temple. "Well, I will see you Monday."
"Yes you will."
And I would likely be awake until then, fretting that there was some tiny, minute, but important detail I might need to pull everything off. Then, of course, worrying myself sick about the inevitable interaction with Grant.
"Damnit," I growled, halfway up my staircase on my way to my apartment, watching and hearing - and cringing at - my cell flopping down three flights of stairs since the freaking elevator was out once again. "That seems about right," I grumbled, going back down, grabbing the poor, cracked all to hell thing.
Verizon was closed.
I had no landline.
So I just had to sit in my apartment and sweat until the morning, making myself sick over the idea that some catastrophe could be taking place, and I would have no way of knowing.
I was waiting when the doors opened in the morning, impatiently standing by as my new phone was activated.
"Woman, what the ever-loving hell?" Evan's voice barked at me when I could finally call him.
"My phone broke. Is everything going to hell?" I asked, checking the time as I ran down the street toward the office, grabbing a box of decorations that somehow got sent to the office instead of the venue.
"You have a chef who is baked off his ass, a dozen or so servers who have nothing to do but rain questions down on me, decorations I don't know how to hang up, a signature cocktail I don't know the recipe of to give to the bartenders to practice, and a club owner who is breathing down my neck thinking we are screwing up his payday."
So, essentially, it was the day of a party.
No matter how well you laid the plans - and I was rather meticulous if I do say so myself - the day of was always wrought with complications, with stress. And this was amplified by having a bigger staff, a larger venue, and a lot of money on the line.
"I am seven minutes away," I promised him, throwing myself into a cab.
"Did you grab your outfit for tonight?" he asked, and I could practically hear the brow raise. He'd been insistent about me not being able to wear my blazer and slacks to a New Year's Eve party where all the other women were sure to be in dresses.
"I have it. But I really don't think it is going to be necessary. Tell everyone to stay calm."
"Alright, I talked to the boss lady," Ev's voice called to the room at large, making me wince. "So everyone just needs to calm the Eff down!"
I hung up as he continued to lecture the staff, trying to calm the frantic pounding of my heart, knowing that the boss' mood set the tone for the whole staff. I needed to project calm and collected and confident. Even if I didn't feel any of those things.
They said if you faked it well enough, you would feel it.
So, I was going to fake those things for the staff.
Then, well, fake unaffected around Grant.
I was fairly certain I could handle the former.
The latter, well, that was less clear.