Three executives who have been waiting patiently in the lobby for close to half an hour stand up. The double doors with murky glass, which holds on to both light and secrets, open and Gatsby comes out.

His impeccable suit hugs his body in all the right places, showcasing his powerful thighs and broad shoulders. He is wearing a bright blue silk tie, which brings out his eyes. I watch him give each of the men a firm handshake and flash his beautiful smile. He invites them through the double doors and waits for them to go inside. Right before he disappears, Gatsby gives me a brief nod, and his platinum cufflinks catch the sunlight, blinding me.

I have never seen him emerge from his office and, as I sit there at my desk, staring at the computer screen, I wonder if I had imagined it.

“Ms. York, please put away the tea set,” Ms. Greaves says, walking past my desk. Her voice breaks through my trance, and I realize that I wasn’t dreaming.

The three men in expensive suits were all tall, poised, flirtatious and had one of those British accents that make all American girls panties melt away. Ms. Greaves always makes sure that all of Gatsby’s – er, Mr. Wild’s – visitors are comfortable and calls ahead to their assistants to find out what kind of drinks and snacks they prefer. These men were served the highest quality loose leaf Darjeeling tea she could find along with an assortment of miniature pastries.

They drank all the tea but left the pastries untouched. This is a common occurrence. At first, I thought it was rude, but then Ms. Greaves explained that the visitors often left the food untouched because they didn’t want to get their suits dirty or have crumbs on their hands. What’s more important is to have it out for them in case they do want something.

It’s five o’clock in the evening, so I make my way to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. In the morning, I didn’t know whether we were still going on our date, and now I have no idea why I am supposed to meet him on the roof. But I still wish that I wore some sort of clothes that were more date appropriate. Not that the pencil skirt with a pale pink satin blouse and Maggie Mae’s stilettos aren’t sexy, this outfit just feels like work. It had Ms. Greaves all over it.

But I don’t really have a choice. I have no idea what is happening or what Gatsby has planned, so I have no way to dress for it properly. I wash out my mouth, reapply the lipstick, and touch up my eye makeup. I flip my head upside down and toss my hair, giving it some volume and life. I look back in the mirror. Not bad, not bad at all, I say to myself.

There’s only one elevator that goes all the way to the roof, so I decide to take the stairs instead. I have no idea why we have to go to the roof. My overactive imagination takes over, and a million different thoughts run through my head. What is there even to do up there? Does he really want to take me on a date on the roof? Maybe he has set up a table, and we are going to have dinner up there. Could be cool.

I push on the metal portion of the door and the exit sign above my head flashes. The unforgiving sunlight hits me like a ton of bricks, and for a moment, I go blind. My sunglasses are in my purse, so I block some of the sun with my hand. And then I see it.

A helicopter.

I stop in my tracks, staring at it. I have never been so close to a helicopter before. Is this the LAPD? Is there some sort emergency? Am I on the right roof?

“Hey, Annabelle,” I hear Gatsby’s muffled voice. He is standing right next to me, but I can barely hear him. The helicopter’s propeller is so loud that I can only make out his words by reading his luscious lips.

Gatsby takes my hand. He is wearing the same suit. Again, his cufflinks send the sun’s rays into my eyes. But this time, they are so close to me; I can make out the details. They are an elegant square design, studded with little diamonds.

“C’mon, let’s go,” he screams in my ear, but I barely hear a word. I just let him lead me up to the helicopter and help me inside.

The helicopter takes off, and the complicated and convoluted city of Los Angeles descends away from us. We fly higher and higher up, near the clouds it feels like we aren’t just above the traffic but also above all the other petty problems of everyday life.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” Gatsby says. His mouth forms into a mischievous little smile. I look around the inside of the helicopter. I don’t see a suitcase. So probably not far.

The helicopter lands at an airport that I’ve never been to before. It’s small and relatively empty. Gatsby helps me out of the helicopter. Continuing to hold my hand, he leads me across the runway.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Burbank Airport.” I didn’t even know there was an airport in Burbank.

“It’s a private airport,” he explains.

Gatsby leads me up the stairs to a luxurious white plane. It’s unlike any other plane I have ever been on. It only has a handful of seats, and all are facing each other as if this isn’t a plane at all but a coffee shop. The space smells of lavender, and a tall, gorgeous woman only a few years older than I greets us at the door.

“Welcome, Mr. Wild. Ms. York.” she nods. “My name’s Stacey, please let me know if there’s anything you need.”

I sit down in a large recliner seat with a little table in the middle of the plane. Stacey closes the door of the plane as soon as we get on, and we start moving down the runway. There are no announcements or annoying safety precaution instructions.

We don’t even have to buckle in. We take off, and Stacey comes around with the menu. Gatsby orders a whiskey, and I order a Bloody Mary. Stacey comes back a few minutes later with a delightful Bloody Mary.

“This is amazing,” I say, taking a sip.

“Well, all the tomatoes are organic and local. I like supporting local farmers. They work really hard.”

I smile at him. Who is this man? I have underestimated him so much. Here I am thinking that he is just some self-obsessed millionaire playboy who doesn’t give a shit about how hard other people worked for their paltry salaries. But he is really surprising me. He gives big tips, he is generous, and he seems to really care.

For dinner, Gatsby orders Tuscan vegetarian soup and an assortment of sushi. I have an open-faced salmon sandwich with avocado.

After devouring my delicious food, I turn to Gatsby and ask the question that has been gnawing at me for some time now.

“Why are we taking a plane on our date?”

“Because it would take too long to drive.” He cracks a smile. He is a smart-ass, one of his most annoying yet endearing qualities.

“I know.” I roll my eyes. “But if I remember correctly, I said yes to a date, not a trip.”

“I am taking you on a date. It’s just that this place happens to be a little too far from LA, and this is the quickest way to get there. You can leave anytime you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

He is toying with me, and he knows it.

“Oh yeah, and why is that?”

“Because I know you’ll love it.”