Chapter 13 #2
“I hate him,” I stammer. “No I don’t.” I don’t hate anyone. “I like him, not like like him. I mean, he’s okay, sometimes, nice, gorgeous in a suit, out of a suit.” I fall over my words some more. “And he has this aura about him. He’s… nice.” Hot. Gorgeous. Sexy.
“You stutter when you lie. Admit it, you’re attracted to him.”
Heat floods my cheeks as I bury my face in my hands. “This is terrible. He’s terrible, and set in his ways, austere, taciturn…” I muffle into my hands.
And yet I can’t stop thinking about him.
Over the last few days, I’ve thought a lot about how he behaves around me. He gets flustered easily; he often stumbles over his words, and I think I throw him off. I believe he likes me too, but I might just be imagining it, trying to convince myself that his feelings are mutual.
Mistee adds yet another blow. “And he’s as sexy as hell.” Her tone ripples with a familiar teasing note. “Those are the words you used to describe him last week.”
Did I? Shit.
I remove my hands from my face then confess, “I invited him to go on a retreat with me this weekend.”
“Why?” Mistee shovels the last slice of her pizza into her mouth. Where she’s putting it all, I have no idea, as I couldn’t possibly eat another thing.
I justify my invitation. “To mess with him. I thought he’d say no.” It was a moment of insanity that backfired. I can’t bring myself to book the damn thing. “Also he thinks what we do is flaky and stupid. He thinks we’re too mystical.”
“He never said that.” Mistee shakes her head while mumbling around her food.
“He didn’t have to. It was written all over his face. He said Roger from accounts would never choose dance therapy or meditation as a breakout option.”
“Do we have any of the employees’ completed forms yet?” Mistee asks coyly. I know that tone. It means she’s gearing up to prove Eli wrong.
“Over half have completed it.”
“Has Roger responded?”
“I don’t know.” Now that is a great point.
I sit forward in my seat, back straight, ready to join Mistee and debunk Eli’s claim and pull up the software we use to collate workshop options and feedback.
Scrolling through the list of names at Hart Law, I focus in, quickly searching for Roger’s and hold my breath when I click on his name, then exhale as I read his choices. “He picked kindness adventure, fight, flight or freeze, and, drum roll please.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Dance therapy.”
Mistee pumps her fist in victory.
I finish the last of my dry wine, letting the flavor linger on my tongue, then swallow loudly and hum contentedly as the liquid slides down my throat. “It sucks to be right all the time.”
The pair of us burst out laughing like a pair of teenagers.
We know this stuff, we know people, and we know they want to step outside the norm and try something different.
Unlike Eli, who thinks trying a matcha latte is worse than dripping hot sauce into his eyes.
His disgusted face said it all. I laugh a little louder this time, remembering how over the top he was about it.
“So, you’re taking Eli to a retreat?” Mistee circles back to that terrible suggestion of mine. It’s worse than when I did a DIY haircut inspired by a social media trend that left my hair uneven on both sides. Never again.
Grumbling, I reply, “Someone should gag me.” Sometimes, my mouth gets ahead of me and I say the wrong thing.
Foot-in-mouth syndrome, my mom calls it; something she suffers from, too, so I guess it’s hereditary.
“I was thinking of booking Rooted in Trust.” Reluctantly.
I’m secretly hoping there are no available spots because it’s last minute.
And I’ve only thought about it. I haven’t done anything at all to check and see if they still run it.
I thought Eli would give me an outright no there and then, like he does with everything else, but he didn’t; instead, he said he was game.
I called his bluff, and it backfired like a bitch, blowing up in my face and double-bluffing me instead because I’m sure he was messing with me.
He’s an alpha-hole who needs a schedule and to know what he’s doing every single second of every day.
There’s no way he won’t fall apart from an unplanned weekend.
Not only that, but on every level, I’m professional and never cross relationship boundaries in my business, and that’s why I thought I could screw with him.
I had no intention of going, not even at all.
I’m hoping he has something come up, although, knowing him, he’ll know exactly what he’s doing this time next year.
Pushing my laptop away, I fiddle with one of the many bracelets I wear, rolling the rose quartz beads between my fingers, searching for the calm that crystal lore says they bring.
“He makes me nervous.” It’s not a feeling I’m familiar with.
“What happens to you when you see him?” Mistee asks, leaning forward in anticipation.
I shake my head, then let out a sigh and tell her, “I get this weird feeling in here.” I lay my palm against my stomach. “Like knots winding tight, and sometimes when he looks at me, which is often, and the eye contact is wild, he steals my breath. It’s weird.” That’s never happened before.
“Mm-hm.” My gorgeous friend throws me a knowing smile, drops her feet to the floor, stands to her full height, stacks our pizza boxes into a neat pile, then walks to the trash can on the far side of the room and places them on top.
Exasperated, I ask, “What does mm-hm mean?” I watch her as she brushes past me and leans in to whisper in my ear, “You’re really good at reading people and knowing what they need, but you’re terrible at reading your own body, Sapphy.
” Then she walks out of the conference room, blowing me a kiss as she says goodnight.
“Don’t work too late, you have an early start tomorrow,” she calls, picking up her bag from under her desk to leave.
Cynthia, our cleaner, steps into the huge glass conference room located in the center of the office, and I miss my chance to tell Mistee that I know what that feeling in my stomach means.
It means I like someone who is the opposite of me.
He’s a dark cloud, and I’m someone I hope brings light and joy and spreads positivity around like confetti.
“Make sure she leaves here before ten, Cynthia,” Mistee instructs, her voice traveling from the office.
“You betcha,” Cynthia replies, winking at me because she knows I’ll stay here later than ten.
“And make sure you get a cab home. It’s too late to be cycling at this hour,” Mistee adds, unlocking the door with her keycard. “And you’ve been drinking.”
“Yes, Mom,” I shout back, mock-saluting her bossiness, adoring how she cares about me and my safety more than my actual mom does.
“Love you.” Her faint voice disappears as the door shuts behind her, and I chuckle to myself as I reread Roger’s choices that are still sitting open on my screen.
Quickly closing his form down, I pull my laptop toward me and get to work finishing tomorrow’s presentation.
Cynthia polishes the upcycled storage unit we painted neon yellow on the far side of the conference room then busies herself, lifting the glass jug and glasses off the unit to take away and wash.
“That twisty-knotting feeling in your stomach means you like this Eli fella you were talking about,” Cynthia says unexpectedly. She has clearly been eavesdropping.
“I know.” I nod, feeling my cheeks fill with color. “But we’re nothing alike.” It makes no sense.
With that, Cynthia vanishes out of the boardroom to the sound of clinking glass with parting words of wisdom.
“You know what they say, Sapphire, opposites balance each other out.” Even I know that; it’s what makes great love stories: Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy, Beauty and the Beast, Buffy and Angel. I could go on.
I facepalm my thoughts because we’re not a great love story.
Not even close.