CHAPTER 7 #2
Maple bristles and says, “That’s neither here nor there.
I think we should have you approve the name of our joint account, and we can move ahead with the plan.
Let’s be honest, the fact that we could get the big guy to agree on something is a miracle in and of itself.
We don’t want to lose such an opportunity over semantics. ”
Gretchen glances down at her watch, her lips pursed, and then, to my surprise, says, “Fine.”
“Fine as in we can do it?” Maple asks, looking far too excited.
“Yes, but don’t make me regret this. Anything posted must be mutually agreed upon and must show Graydon in a good light.”
“What about me?” Maple asks.
Gretchen waves her hand dismissively. “Your reputation doesn’t matter.”
Maple’s expression morphs into a deep scowl. “I beg your pardon, but I’d say my reputation does matter. I have a board of directors who’d be very unhappy with me if I showed up on social media looking like a deranged psycho bird lady.”
“Might want to cool it on the flamingo fan fiction then,” I say, taking a sip of my drink, only to have Maple whip her scowling gaze in my direction.
“I do not write flamingo fan fiction.”
“Could have fooled me with all the personality facts you were laying down the other day.” I raise a brow. “Martha Stewart thirst traps…”
Insulted, she sits taller. “Pardon me for wanting you to feel connected to the birds.”
“Yeah, not interested.”
Gretchen’s eyes bounce between us, a small smile tugging on her lips.
“What?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “Nothing.”
“You’re going to clam up now? You have an opinion about everything. So I repeat: What?”
Her smile grows wider. “You know, I don’t care what you name the social media account.” She stands and gathers her things. “I think this is a brilliant plan. Keep me updated. I can’t wait to see how this turns out.”
Then she takes off, without another word.
After a few seconds, Maple huffs out an annoyed breath. “What a waste of time. That could have been resolved over text.” She glances off toward where Gretchen retreated and then brings her attention back to me. “Why was she smiling? It seemed unnatural.”
Her assessment makes me want to chuckle, but I hold back. Don’t want to give her the impression that we can bond over someone like Gretchen.
Or bond at all, really.
No, I need to keep my distance, as much as I can afford.
“Are we good here?” I ask while her eyes dart to mine.
“Are we good here? Umm, I don’t know, are we?”
I shrug. “Seems like we got permission. Not sure we need to do much more.”
She leans forward on the table that’s between us. “Not sure we need to do much more? Um, don’t you think we need to talk this through? Don’t you think we need to come up with a plan? A schedule? Maybe limits?”
“You looking for a safe word?” I ask her, causing her to blush in embarrassment.
“What? No. I wasn’t. That’s not what—”
“You can unclutch the pearls,” I say, her flustered look nearly making me smile. “Just send me a schedule.” I start to stand, but she holds out her hand.
“Hold on a second.” Sitting taller, she continues, “Contrary to what you might think, I’m not your personal assistant, therefore I’m not going to just send you a schedule. We can sit here, look at our calendars together, and work out something that favors us both.”
That’s where you’re wrong, because the longer I sit here, smelling whatever heavenly scent you’re wearing, staring at your drop-dead gorgeous face, the more likely it is that my shields will fucking weaken.
And I can’t have that.
“I’m late for something else.”
“What can you possibly be late for when you’re the one who scheduled this appointment?”
“Dinner,” I answer.
“With someone?”
“Yeah, myself.” I stand and take down the rest of my drink before setting it in the empty dishes tray.
Time to get the hell out of here.
I move past her, but clearly not fast enough, as she quickly gathers her stuff and plasters her body right next to mine, her lavender scent wrapping around me like a vine.
I glance down at her in mocking distaste. “What are you doing?”
“I’m late for dinner too. Why don’t we just be late together?”
“I eat alone, Flamingo Girl.”
She moves around me, placing her hand on my chest. When my eyes gaze down at her touch and back up to her eyes, they widen in fear as she quickly removes her hand and clears her throat.
Nerves get the best of her vocal cords, but it doesn’t stop her from saying what she wants to say.
“Don’t…don’t call me that. My name is Maple.
Maple Baker. And I believe you should respect that, because even though you’re here to help me, I’m…
I’m here to help you too. I think there should be some respect passed between the two of us. ”
“You have to earn my respect,” I say, moving past her and out the door of the coffeehouse.
She’s trailing right behind, catching up to my long strides as I make my way to my favorite sandwich shop a few blocks down.
“Well, you have to earn mine too,” she says, her voice still shaky. “And right now, you…you deserve the same amount of respect as a…as a bottom dweller.”
“Is that supposed to insult me?” I ask as I look both ways before crossing the street.
She trips over the sidewalk, and I almost hold out my hand to help her, but she catches herself, still stumbling to keep up.
“What is your problem?” she shouts. Her voice is loud enough to gather the attention of other people. When they see who she’s talking to, I immediately notice the whispering between strangers.
Great.
“Keep your fucking voice down,” I say, just as realization crosses her eyes, an evil glint in her pupils.
Fuck.
“I said, what is your problem, Graydon St. John?” Her voice is nearly shouting again as someone takes their phone out and starts recording.
Double fuck.
I turn to her, lean in close, and whisper, “Keep your voice down and we can meet up another time to go over the schedule.”
Whispering, she says, “I want dinner tonight, you pay, and to go over schedules while we eat, or I will shout to the rooftops just how much of an asshole you are.”
I grind my teeth, irritation spiking up the back of my neck because she’s got me.
The last thing I need right now is some asshole to capture a viral moment of me on the streets of San Francisco acting like a dick to a petite blond with a charming disposition. That will guarantee me a visit to Keenan’s office, which will grant me a call from my dad.
Can’t have that.
I can’t.
Just hearing his voice makes my skin crawl.
So, I grit my teeth and say, “Fine.”
A smile lights up her face as she says, “Great! I prefer Italian.”