Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Raya
It worked.
I’m not sure what I was expecting from my post, but twenty-two resumés in six days wasn’t it.
Eight of them were an instant NO, with the NO capitalized for effect.
Another seven went into a Not Likely pile, five went to the Maybe category, and two were very promising. And while I’ll leave the post active a little longer, I’m not wasting any time getting on with the interviews—the holidays are right around the corner.
It would be really great not to shoulder those alone.
Judging by the keepers in the stack, it’s refreshing to know I’m not the only professional, goal-oriented person who doesn’t have time for niceties. I’m not looking to be swept off my feet here. I just need someone to be a plus-one for the events I have to attend, whether social or professional.
And later down the line, someone who pays enough attention to change the oil in my car when it needs it.
I think our ancestors were onto something with arranged marriages.
Got some cows? I’ve got a daughter! Boom. Done.
The only unfortunate thing here is the timing—because I’m absolutely slammed at work. The Denim and Diamonds fundraiser is set for the week between Christmas and New Year’s, and since I volunteered to take it on, I’m handling all those details on top of my normal day-to-day.
Essentially, I asked them to hand me another full-time job for a few months because I love to stay busy. I also love that feeling when something I’ve planned goes off without a hitch.
Never mind that I’m only sleeping about four hours a night.
It’s worth it. Once the fundraiser is over, I’ll get back on schedule.
I walk into Meg’s, my favorite little café and coffee shop, order a latte, and find a table in the back corner. I’m early, which is good, because I’m unexpectedly nervous to meet the two most promising candidates who replied to my ad.
I shift things around on the table to make room for Candidate One.
Eric. I created a filing system on my iPad to keep track of resumés and responses, giving promising candidates their own folders.
I pull up my settings and navigate over to Eric’s folder.
I click it open, thankful I gave myself a little extra time to review his details before our meeting starts.
The barista calls my name, and I stand to pick up my drink, returning to my seat just as the door swings open and a man I recognize from his photo walks in. Our eyes meet, and he lifts a hand in a polite wave. I watch as he makes his way back to the table.
Eric is tall and lean, with sandy-blond hair and glasses. He’s three years older than me, graduated from the University of Illinois, and now works as a financial planner at a firm in the city. He’s not handsome or unattractive, and judging by his reply to my ad, he has a limited sense of humor.
Those things aren’t deal breakers for me. He doesn’t need to be the life of the party or look like the book covers in the Romance section at Barnes and Noble.
He just needs to be reliable. Stable. Good. Someone with a strong moral compass and limited baggage.
When he reaches the table, I extend a hand. “Eric. I’m Raya. It’s nice to meet you.”
He slips his hand in mine. Zero sparks. Perfect.
“Nice to meet you too,” he says.
“Please, sit.” I motion to the booth, and he slides in across from me.
“Thanks for taking the time to respond to my ad,” I say.
“I thought it was well written, and I like that you took the initiative to change your circumstances. Honestly, it’s a clever approach to a common problem. Most relationships don’t work out because there’s too much emotion.”
I nod and force myself to smile, feeling a little pathetic, though I’m not sure why.
“I agree. It’s why I put it out,” I say. “I’d rather find someone without the mess.”
One quick, decisive nod. “Let’s get into it, shall we?”
I pull up his resumé on the iPad so I can refer back to it if needed. “Sure. First, I’d love to get to know a little more about you—”
“As you can imagine, I don’t have a lot of free time,” he says with a quick look at his watch.
“So, while I am open to the occasional social function, there would need to be substantial advanced notice. I’m currently up for a promotion, and if I get it, my time will be even less, which is obviously why dating is so challenging. ”
I absently wonder if that’s the only reason dating is challenging for Eric.
He folds his hands on the table, and something in his posture makes me feel like now I’m the one in the hot seat.
I’ve seen this before—many times—in the office.
I straighten and lean in, countering his body language with my own. “I understand, and that’s exactly why I took out the ad. In my experience, dating brings with it a lot of expectations that I simply cannot meet at the moment.”
“What do you propose?” he asks.
“An initial two-week period of getting to know each other,” I say. “Three dates each week, with an agreed-upon length and location, while we decide if we’re compatible.”
“Two dates per week,” he says. “I’m a good judge of character.”
“So am I,” I say. “Done.”
“Good. What else?”
“Exit strategy. After the trial period ends, we have the option of cutting ties and going our separate ways—or continuing the arrangement, potentially introducing each other to our work circles. Social and professional.”
“Agreed,” he says. “Drinks twice a week after work.”
“One night for drinks. One for dinner.”
He nods. “Very good.”
I draw in a quick breath. So far, so good.
“What else?” he asks again.
“The only caveat here would be the holidays,” I say. “They’ll interrupt our schedule, but I assume you have a function or two, and so do I. I propose two holiday-related work events and one personal.”
“Personal meaning—?”
“Thanksgiving,” I say. “Christmas. One family dinner for each holiday.”
“No family,” he says, briskly.
“It’s the holidays,” I say. “At some point, family will be involved.”
He gives his head a quick shake. “I don’t do parents.”
I frown. “Is that negotiable?”
“No,” he says. “Is it negotiable for you?”
“No.”
He sticks out a hand. “Well, we tried.”
I shake his hand. “I appreciate your time.”
“Good luck on your search.” He stands, and as he starts for the door, my gaze catches on a familiar face seated at another table.
Of all people.
My shoulders drop, and I blow out a breath. Finn watches Eric as he walks out of the café, then saunters over to my table, like he has a secret he can’t wait to tell me.
He doesn’t, of course. That’s just how he looks. Unbothered. Easygoing. Unruffled. I would be annoyed if I weren’t so jealous. I could use a tiny dose of nonchalance every once in a while.
“Well, well, well,” he says, sliding into the booth across from me. “I didn’t know you liked this place.”
I press my lips together and pin him with a look. “I come here almost every day.”
“Interesting.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, starting to get a little nervous that Candidate Two is going to show up before I can get rid of him.
“I heard they have good iced chai.” He holds up his cup, a rich, caramel brown color swirling with white, but doesn’t look away. “Who’s the suit?”
“The suit?” Playing dumb might buy me time, but I know it won’t matter. I’m a terrible liar. I cannot let Finn—or anyone at work—find out about this plan.
“The stiff guy who looks like he applauds when the plane lands,” he says.
I let out a laugh, and do my best to stifle it.
“You’ve got a pretty smile, Hart,” he says. “You should use it more.”
At that, I stiffen and look him straight in the face. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Happy,” I say.
“You say that like it’s a disease.” He smirks.
“No, I say it like it doesn’t feel real,” I say. “Nobody is happy all the time.”
“Well, I’m not happy twenty-four seven.” He pauses, then adds, “Only like seventeen seven. The other seven I’m asleep.” He pauses, and it’s like I can hear the gears turning in his brain. “But I usually have great dreams, so maybe, yeah—like twenty-four seven.”
He holds up a pinky as he takes a loud sip of his drink.
“Something is definitely wrong with you,” I say.
His eyes narrow slightly, like he’s thinking about that, but then he shrugs and nods in agreement. “Eh. You’re probably right.” His face settles, and I’m struck by how easygoing and self-deprecating he is. It’s different.
It’s nice.
But I don’t want to be thinking nice things about Finn Holbrook, so I say, “Are you still dating the yoga instructor?”
“No,” he says, and I admit, I’m surprised.
“You got bored of her already?” I shake my head. “Wow.”
“We were never serious,” he says.
I smile. “Oh, I know.”
His face darkens as he looks away.
Strange.
His gaze drops to the iPad on the table in front of me, and I quickly close the case.
He frowns. “Wait. Are you looking for a new job?”
Is that concern on his face? Why would he care?
“What? No.”
“That looked like a resumé.” He reaches for the tablet, but I smack his hand away.
“Would you get out of my business?” I say, exasperated. “I’m not looking for a job.”
“So, who was that?” He glances back toward the door. “Was it his resumé?”
I scramble to tell a fib that’s close enough to the truth that I won’t get caught. “Yes, I’m looking to hire someone,” I say. “To . . . help out with a few things.”
There. Hopefully it’s enough to make him go away.
But nope. He’s like a puppy who thinks you dropped a peanut in the couch cushions.
“What kind of things?” he asks.
“Finn.”
“Because if you need stuff done around your house—you’re looking at the wrong demographic.”
I frown. “That’s very judgmental.”
“No way that guy has ever used a drill,” he says.
“I don’t need someone who can drill,” I argue, and I can see the cogs turning in his expression. I immediately cringe at my accidental innuendo.
I shoot him a look.
“What?” He feigns innocence. “I didn’t even say anything!”
I pick up my iPad and aimlessly scroll.
“What’s the job?” he asks, nodding toward my tablet. “Maybe I can do it? I’ll save you some money.”
I sigh with a slight laugh. “You can’t.”
“Says who?”
I level his gaze. “Says me.”
He drops his voice. “I have a certain set of skills.”
I give an incredulous look, which seems to be my resting face around him, then stiffen when I see the door to the café open.
Thankfully, it’s two old women—and not my next candidate—who walk in. Eric was here and gone so quickly that I’ve got a bit of time before the next one, but if he’s at all as punctual as his resumé indicates, he’ll be a good twenty minutes early.
“You need to go.”
Finn follows my gaze to the door, then back to me. “Oh. You have another person coming in. I could stay, maybe help with the vetting process.”
I’m starting to get really antsy.
“Finn,” I say, slightly more exasperated.
“I’m a great people person.” He smiles and shrugs his shoulders in a give-me-a-shot look.
I know what he’s doing, because he’s Mr. Nice Guy who wants to help, but in this moment I just need him to go. “You really can’t.”
“You sure? I’m not bad with—”
I rub my temples and squeeze my eyes shut. “Can’t you just leave me alone?” I groan.
I open my eyes and find Finn’s smile has vanished. His whole demeanor and body language have changed.
Crap. That was too far. He looks wounded.
My mind races, trying to think of a nice way to backpedal.
And then, like a window opening back up after the winter, he brightens. If he was at all injured, he quickly recovers, painting a broad smile back on his face. “All right, Hart. I get it. I’ll go.”
I blow out a breath. “I’m—” I start to apologize, but he holds up a hand.
“Say no more. Sometimes I’m a lot.” He smiles, and I see no manipulation or insincerity in that smile.
It makes me feel worse.
I’m searching for the right words—as if “I’m sorry” won’t suffice—when the door opens again and a man I recognize from a photo in my inbox walks in.
Finn scoots out of the booth, notices the man, stands to his full height, and looks back at me.
“Looks just like the last guy.” He holds up his cup like a toast and says, “Good luck, Hart.”
He makes his way to the door. I watch him walk through the restaurant, past the next candidate—Justin, who I quickly turn my attention to.
I stand and he greets me with a friendly smile. “Raya?”
He leans for a hug as I go for a handshake.
I recalibrate and wrap an awkward arm around his back, and as I do, Finn turns back and looks right at me, a weird expression on his face.
Our eyes meet, and for a flicker of a moment, I can’t look away.
A years-old image I thought I’d erased flashes through my mind—a dark room, his hands on my hips, and a long, lingering gaze that held me captive, just like this one seems to be doing.