Chapter 16
Marco
As I sift through my emails, there is a knock on my door.
I straighten slightly in my seat, hoping it’s Erica.
I have barely seen her all morning. She told me she needed to work on her column, and since I promised she would have time to, I obliged, taking on my list of things to do solo.
I wonder if she’s avoiding me after our night alone here in my office, when we finally talked about the night we shared together. It’s nice to know I’m not crazy.
“Come in,” I say, quickly running a hand through my hair, but am disappointed when my assistant pops her head in.
“Mail day,” she says as she holds up a stack of envelopes.
“Thank you, Jessica,” I say, gesturing to an empty space on my desk.
She begins to sort through the mail, as she always does, placing the more urgent ones on top.
“Hmm, this one is postmarked from two weeks ago. It must have gotten lost.” She pulls the envelope from the pile and hands it to me. I already know what it is from my name written in smooth calligraphy.
“I was wondering about this,” I say, sliding my thumb under the envelope’s seal and folding it open.
I pull the gold cardstock from the envelope and read over the details for this year’s Conservatory Ball.
It’s one of the year’s biggest charity events, and anyone who is anyone from Manhattan’s elite attends.
It’s the perfect place to schmooze with potential business partners, and the perfect place to take Erica on a pseudo date.
I’ve been waiting for weeks for the invitation, so I could somehow convince her to join me.
“Should I RSVP for you?” asks Jessica.
“Yes, please. For two.” She nods before walking out the door, closing it behind her.
I read the invitation over again. The ball is in four days.
I have four days to convince Erica to come with me.
I know it’s not going to be easy, but I am her boss and her job does require her to accompany me to certain things.
I just have to spin this ball as a business event, rather than the extravagant affair it really is.
Ball gowns. Tuxedos. The whole nine. It’s the perfect place to see if there is still something between us.
She said she wants to leave the past in the past, but I can’t shake her.
I take the invitation and walk next door to her office, knocking on the door.
“Come in,” I hear her say.
I push open the door and see her smile falter slightly when she sees me.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say, stepping inside. Her office is now complete and it suits her so well. Everything that she picked out has a piece of her in it. Her beauty, her simplicity, her sharpness. She belongs sitting behind the big desk in the center of the room.
“How is the writing going?” I ask.
“It’s going…” she says distractedly.
“I’ll let you get back to it, but I wanted to discuss something with you.”
“Oh?” she looks wary.
“I have an event coming up this Friday. It’s the Conservatory Ball. It’s one of the biggest charity events. I go every year…”
She looks at me curiously as she waits for me to finish. I don’t know why I feel so nervous, why she makes me feel this way. I pull slightly at my tie, loosening it.
“I’d like you to accompany me,” I say.
“I’m not sure—” she starts to say.
“It’s business,” I reassure her, even though I don’t want it to be. “I have some business deals I’m trying to drum up and this is the place to test the waters with some potential partners.”
She looks thoughtful for a moment, and I know I need to seal the deal.
“There will be New York’s finest politicians, past and present there. You’d have exclusive coverage for your column.”
I know it’s a hard deal for her to turn down.
“Okay,” she says reluctantly.
“Great. That’s just great,” I say a little too enthusiastically. “So yeah, it’s Friday night. Seven p.m. It’s black tie. You can take the company card if you need to buy anything for it.”
I pull my wallet from my jacket pocket and slide over the card. I don’t want to stay any longer in case she changes her mind.
“I’ll let you back to it.” I drum my knuckles on her desk before exiting the room, leaving her with her mouth partly open as if she’s about to protest.
Turns out I didn’t need four days to convince her. But now I have four days of hoping she doesn’t change her mind.
She doesn’t though. As the limo pulls up outside her Greenwich Village apartment, I can feel my nerves starting up again, just as they always do when I know I’m about to see her.
It happens in the morning, when I come into the office.
It happens around every lunch break when she lets me know she’s going on break.
It happens when I walk by her office and the doors open. I’m not used to this feeling.
I step out of the limo and walk up to the entrance of the apartment building. I look on the intercom and scroll for her name. It simply says Erica G. No full name, probably for safety reasons. I press the button and wait.
“I’ll be right down,” she says.
I feel a sense of relief, knowing the night is here and she didn’t back out.
I go and wait by the limo, leaning my back against it.
My heart is beating in my chest quicker than normal.
Then I hear the buzz of the doors. I look up and see her standing there in the doorway and my hand instinctively finds its way to my chest. It’s like it’s hard to breathe as my eyes take her in.
She’s wearing a strapless, floor-length dress that I can’t determine whether it’s gray or blue as it drapes across her olive skin, pulling in at the waist before flowing around her.
As she walks toward me, the silky fabric catches the light and continues to dance a fine line between colors, though any color would look good on her.
Her hair is piled into a bun on top of her head, dark, wavy tendrils framing either side of her face as a simple pair of pearl earrings peek through.
“Wow,” I whisper more to myself than to her.
She must hear me because she says a quiet “thank you.”
“You look…” I struggle to find the words. “Beautiful.”
It seems too simple a word for the vision she is, but I say it anyway, and I see her cheeks turn a deeper shade of red at the compliment.
The driver of the limo has quietly come around the car and opens the door for us.
I hold out my hand and she hesitates before taking it, allowing me to help her slide inside the car.
I follow in behind her, and wonder what seat to take in the large, empty interior.
I test my luck and sit beside her. I feel her tense, and I wonder if this was a good idea.
I wonder if she will ever let me in again.
“Champagne?” I ask, pulling a bottle from the ice bucket beside me.
“Sure,” she says.
I hope the bubbles will help ease the tension.
I pour two glasses and hand her one. She takes a sip, my mouth drawn to the rosy shade of lipstick painted on her perfect lips.
I want to kiss them again. I want to bring her back to my place.
I’ve tried to deny these feelings, but sitting here now, breathing her in as she sits here looking absolutely delectable, there’s no denying how badly I want her.
She catches me looking at her and clears her throat nervously.
“Is there anything you’d like me to focus on tonight?” she asks.
I look at her confused.
“For my column…”
“Oh, just coverage of the whole event is fine. Who is there. The speeches. Quotes from the who’s who of New York. Anything you’d like.”
She nods and takes another sip of champagne. I down mine, realizing this night is going to be torture standing next to her and knowing I can’t have her. Maybe this was a bad idea.
It’s even more torturous as we enter the event, and all eyes are on Erica.
Men’s eyes follow her as she walks into the room.
It’s as if the fresh flowers hanging from the ceiling and the chandeliers dripping in crystal roses don’t exist in her presence.
I’m jealous of anyone who looks at her, and there’s nothing I can do to even pretend she’s mine.
My hand wants to cradle her lower back as we walk through the party, but I keep it held tightly in my pocket.
She stays next to me for most of the night as I make my rounds, talking business and about my latest acquisition.
She keeps up with my conversations, her wit and intelligence only making her more desirable to me and the men I’m talking to.
I see her every so often jot down notes in a notebook she has in her small purse.
I smile, watching her focus as she does so.
Always so serious about her work. I love that about her.
Toward the end of the night, she excuses herself to talk to a few acquaintances she says she knows through her father.
I watch her go before finding a cocktail table to settle in at.
I spot Jacob across the room and he makes his way over with two amber-colored drinks.
He hands me one and follows my gaze toward Erica, who is laughing about something as she talks to another woman across the room.
I wish I could hear her laugh again. I wish I could be the one who made her laugh.
“Who is she?” asks Jacob curiously.
“She works for me.”
“Is that all?” he chides.
“She’s been helping me with the acquisition.”
“She must be doing an incredible job for you to look at her like that.”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t blame you. Every man in here has been sneaking glances her way, but you, my friend…you have it bad for her.”
I take another sip of my drink, trying to ignore him, even though he’s right.
I can’t help the way I look at her or what I feel when I’m around her.
I’m not myself. I’m nervous and jumbled.
I’m jealous as hell. I can’t seem to think straight when she’s next to me or when she’s across the room now in that dress.
I want her so badly, and this pining stays with me until we leave the event and get back in the limo that signifies our night is almost over. My time is almost up.
“Thank you for coming tonight,” I say, looking at her, the lights of passing cars bouncing off her perfect face. I just want her to see me, to look at me like she doesn’t hate me.
“It was a beautiful event,” she says, her eyes remaining locked on the window, watching the city go by.
“ You’re beautiful,” I say softly, brushing a tendril of her hair back so I can see her face.
She turns to look at me and I can’t help it. She’s right here and so close. I lean in and watch as her eyes flutter closed. I feel her breath hitch against my lips, but before I can feel them against my own, she quickly puts her hands to my chest and pushes me away. I look at her confused.
“This can’t happen,” she says, shaking her head. She looks like she might cry or curse me out. I don’t know what happened. We both felt something just now. Didn’t we? But she looks so upset that maybe I imagined it.
“Driver, let me out here!” she says loudly.
“Erica!” I say, trying to stop her. We are nowhere near her apartment.
“Don’t!” she says shrilly, pointing at me to stay where I am as the limo stops.
She clambers toward the door, pulling her dress behind her as she steps out onto the sidewalk, slamming the door behind her. I know stopping her is futile, but it’s late and I wait in the limo to make sure she gets in a cab.
I watch as she drives away, wondering if I just blew it.