Jocelyn

“More wine, ma’am?”

I glance up at the waiter and smile, then shake my head no. The last three times he’s asked, I’ve gestured for him to top off my glass. But I know my limits, and if I have one more glass, I’m going to tell Mr. Hot Shot CEO across from me exactly where he can shove his cell phone.

He’s been yammering into that thing for the last forty minutes. Our date was supposed to start an hour ago. I showed up seventy minutes ago. He arrived forty-two minutes later, and in our remaining time together, he’s pulled the phone away from his ear just long enough to call me Jamie.

Why am I still here? I swirl the wine in my glass and stare into the deep-red tornado spiraling in circles. It’s probably not worth the effort of splashing it on his shirt. I can’t waste good wine on his tie.

I glance at him, picturing the stain creeping over his white shirt, but he’s oblivious, staring at the ceiling and yelling about some deal that needed to be done five minutes ago. Definitely not worth the wine spillage. Also not worth the cleanup headache for the staff. Instead, I take another sip, flex my fingers, and try to remain calm. Deep breathing.

It’s not as if I had other plans, anyway. Heating up a Lean Cuisine and watching re-runs of Boxer’s games doesn’t count as work, no matter how much I pretend. The man can skate though, and I’d been enjoying my marathon of Boxer highlights pretending it’s research.

Once I start thinking about Boxer, however, it snowballs. Suddenly, I can’t get him out of my mind. Mr. Hot Shot’s grating voice drones on and on in the background while I sink back into the memory of our ice cream date.

Now that’s a man who knows how to listen. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, Boxer hadn’t pulled out his phone once. For that matter, neither had I, and I can’t remember the last time I’d gone so long without checking for an email, a text, or a phone call.

Our dinner arrives finally, drawing me out of my daydreams. I try very hard to wait until Mr. Hot Shot’s off the phone, but his lips show no signs of stopping, so I give up on politeness and dig into my food.

Normally, I’d wait patiently. Usually, this sort of behavior doesn’t bother me. I get it—I’m a busy woman, and I often field work calls on dates. But tonight, it’s extra obnoxious, and I can’t figure out why.

So, I tuck into the tiny piece of lasagna that costs forty-two dollars and polish it off in just a few minutes. It’s amazing how much eating I can accomplish when I don’t have to make polite conversation or worry about what’s stuck between my teeth.

I’m already finished when Mr. Hot Shot puts his hand over his mouthpiece, pushes his salmon toward me, and hisses at me. “Can you tell them I asked for no butter on this? Disgusting. Idiots.”

Before I can respond, he’s back on the phone, this time standing up and pacing to the back of his chair. I survey the salmon which, frankly, smells so appetizing I debate eating it for him. I haven’t eaten since lunch today, and that was hours ago.

Instead, I offer him a tight smile and excuse myself to the restroom. This is my third time to the bathroom since we’ve arrived; I’ve been using it as an excuse to stretch my legs. My date doesn’t notice. This time, however, it’s not an escape. I need to make a phone call.

Leaning against a wall in the quiet, mood-lit hallway, I dial Boxer’s number. My heart speeds up as the phone rings through once, twice... finally, he picks up before I pass out from hyperventilation.

“Hello?” He answers with a low, throaty tone.

My heart is stuttering. I’m at a loss for words. What am I doing calling so late?

“Jocelyn, are you there?”

“Yeah—yes, it’s me,” I stammer, closing my eyes and wishing I could pound my head against the wall. “I’m sorry to call at this hour. Are you busy?”

“Uh, a little.”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your evening, but I just wanted to check in with you,” I tell him. Sadly enough, though, this is the best conversation I’ve had all night, and a part of me wants to hold onto it for a second longer. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he says. “Like I mentioned, I’m a little occupied—”

“I am so sorry!” I exclaim, the impact of his words hitting me. He’s on a date. He must be on a date. How did I not see this coming? “Please tell your date I apologize for the interruption. I’ll call tomorrow.”

To my surprise, he lets out a bark of laughter. “My date?”

“Daddy, who is it?” The small voice registers from a distance. “Can you finish Rapunzel?”

“My date is anxious to continue our bedtime story,” Boxer says, his voice kind this time. “But I’m sure she accepts your apology. Let me ask.”

I can’t help but grin like an idiot into the phone as I listen to Boxer’s exchange with his daughter. He’s not on a date. This fact makes me ridiculously happy, almost giddy.

“Jocelyn says hello,” he tells Charli. “And she says sorry for interrupting our date.”

“Huh,” Charli says. “Is she nice?”

“Very.”

“Is she pretty?”

Boxer coughs, and then puts a hand over the mouthpiece. His answer is muffled, but it’s something about us being business friends and that in business, looks don’t matter.

“But is she pretty?” Charli’s relentless.

“Yes,” he says finally. “Very beautiful.”

In the background, my heart’s pounding again, thumping like a bass drum, vibrations rumbling through my body. At the same time, my thumb is inching toward the hang up button, thinking it might be best to end the awkwardness for both of us now. It’s mortifying! What else can he say with me on the line—No, darling, she’s quite an ugly toad?

“Hey, I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have called at this hour, it’s just—”

“Why did you call?”

I swallow, realizing that none of the answers I’m considering are anywhere in the ballpark of appropriate. Because I wanted to hear your voice? I can’t stop thinking about you? Because I’m on a date with an asshole, and I wish it was you instead?

“I just wanted to check on you. Personally,” I say. “I know it’s a busy time what with Duke retiring, and I know you’ll be bombarded by requests. Just wanted to stay top of mind.”

“Oh. Of course.”

It’s embarrassing, the way I can’t seem to speak like a normal person around him. Normally, I have no problem doing deals worth millions—with male or female clients. Yet here I am mumbling because the man does funny things to my hormones.

“Anyway, Cinderella shouldn’t be kept waiting,” I say. “Goodnight.”

“Rapunzel.”

“What?”

“We’re reading Rapunzel.”

“Right.”

“What if I call you tomorrow?” he says. “If you have specific questions we can talk then.”

“Perfect.”

“Hello?” The thin, high-pitched voice of a young girl interrupts. “Jocelyn? It’s me. Charli.”

“Hello, Charli.”

“Goodnight,” she says. “We’re busy.”

I laugh as Boxer apologizes into the phone. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?” he says. “Goodnight.”

I bid the pair goodnight, my stomach fluttering at the image of the two of them tucked into bed together, a storybook on their lap. Never in a million years would I have believed that image would be more appealing than my current situation.

However, as I drag myself back out to the dining room, I find my date more heated than ever, his conversation taking a turn for the violent as he slams his coffee cup down on the table.

I sigh, and continue my march toward the front door. I’m still hungry, and the dessert menu looked decadent, but it’s going to have to wait. Even seven layer chocolate cake isn’t enough to convince me to stay.

Our waiter catches me on my way to the door. “Are you looking for something, ma’am?”

“Actually...” I turn, an idea popping into my head. “Can I get an order of the chocolate cake to go? Put it on our bill.”

“Of course,” he says. “Right away.”

When my order arrives a few minutes later, my date is sitting in his chair, ordering another glass of whiskey and not even realizing he’s alone.

I hug my dessert and my purse to my chest and climb into a waiting cab. Maybe tonight wasn’t so bad after all, I think. I spoke with Boxer and scored award-winning chocolate cake.

Things could be worse.