Chapter 19
19
Andrew
After being out of the office for most of the morning, I return to my desk before noon to find my mom’s list for me printed and lying on my desk. “Mary?”
She pokes her head in. “Yes?”
Holding it up, I ask, “Where did this come from?”
“Your brother. Nick stopped by about an hour ago. He said your mom made him do it.”
Grumbling under my breath, I sit down and stare at the list I’ve read over a million times. It’s stuck to my fridge, haunting me every night when I’m home. Glancing up, I say, “Thank you. That’s all.”
She went to the effort to put it front and center, so I’ll give her the courtesy of another quick review. Only to humor her, though.
Lie in the grass in the nearest park at 9:17 AM on a sunny weekday.
Eradicate negative vibes from the apartment on the sixth Thursday after arrival.
Perform in front of an audience. (Work doesn’t count, Andrew)
Read Shakespeare on the steps of the New York Public Library just after midnight.
I drag my pen across the first one, glad I accomplished one.
Number two: I check the calendar. That’s coming up in two weeks. I note that in my appointment software— voodoo the spirits out of the apartment.
Number three: Running a meeting doesn’t count, but what will? Does she want me to run naked through Central Park or perform at Madison Square Garden? More thought needs to be put into that one.
Number four: This is easy. Juni likes off-the-wall activities. Maybe I should get her to tag along. I doubt she’d even think it was weird.
And, of course, the ridiculously hilarious number five makes me roll my eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever read anything more outlandish than that.
This list is still a thorn in my side. With the original at home, I didn’t need the reminder. I wad this one up and aim for the wastebasket. “He aims. He shoots. He—ah, fuck.” Yep, that’s about right. After bouncing off the side of the bin, it rolls a few inches in front of my desk.
I’ll deal with it later.
Five minutes after Mary and most of the office have cleared out, there’s a soft knock on the door. Juni swings it open, and says, “Heard the big meeting got postponed?”
It’s hard to keep my eyes on hers when I want to run my gaze down her body and take her in. I manage, but it’s a struggle. That’s not something I’ve ever had trouble with prior, especially when it came to the office. “The clients moved it to Monday. They had to fly out of town.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“It gives me more time to prepare.”
“Always looking on the bright side.” Why do I detect a note of sarcasm? I’m not a negative person . . . a little irritable when I’m at the office, but I have a lot on my plate. I let the comment slide. She says, “Rumor has it you rarely eat lunch.”
Lowering my gaze to the contract in front of me, I reply, “You heard correct, but how do people know that, much less talk about it?”
“Watercooler small talk and the manual.”
“Ah, the manual.” That’s right. This mysterious manual.
“Also, I’m taking advantage of the sign posted outside your door.”
Not following, I ask, “Which sign is that?”
“That you have an open-door policy. I don’t exactly have anything specific to discuss, but I think it’s good for you to spend time with the commoners like me.” Holding up a bag, she wiggles it in the air. “Anyway, I brought you lunch. Two birds with one stone.”
I set my pen down and look up. “I don’t consider anyone who works for this company a commoner, as you call it. Every person here is talented in their field. And you didn’t have to bring me lunch.”
“I know, but I did it anyway. Do you like tuna?”
“It’s fine in a sandwich.”
“Fine?” she hums, leaving the door wide open. “What an odd answer to a fish question. Most people are less neutral on the topic.”
And just like that, the old Juni is back. “Even though you didn’t ask, I hate it.” When she sits, she pulls two sandwiches from a deli bag that look a lot like tuna. “Don’t worry, it’s chicken salad. I wouldn’t stink up your office with fish.”
“Juni, I appreciate you thinking of me, but I just don’t have time today.”
“I know you’re busy.” She stands. “I can go. Taylor invited me to eat with him in the break room.” Speaking softer, she adds, “He just broke up with his girlfriend and could use a friend.”
“He needs to get his own. You’re mine.” No one moves a muscle— not her, not me . I don’t even think either of us is breathing. Fuck. Dragging my gaze up one millimeter at a time, I finally reach Juni’s eyes. “I didn’t mean?—”
She whispers, “I know.”
The awkwardness still surrounds us. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Our words are stilted as discomfort takes hold of me. I grab the sandwich and say, “I love chicken salad.”
Her lips lift into a genuine smile. “Me too.”
Gesturing to the chair, I ask, “Will you have lunch with me?”
A gentle nod is followed by her sitting down again. Before she takes a bite, she notices the ball of paper on the floor just shy of the wastebasket. Reaching down, she picks it up. “You missed.”
“I seem to do that a lot lately.”
“I don’t know about that. I think you’re doing well.” Tantalizing pink fills the apples of her cheeks, making me want to reschedule the rest of my meetings and dedicate my time to discovering what exactly causes her to blush.
I tap my pen to a pad several times. “At least one person doesn’t think I’m failing.”
Her eyes leave mine in a flash, and she takes a staggered breath before slowly exhaling.
It’s not a big reaction, but it’s seen in the slight adjustments, her happiness disappearing in the undertow of thoughts she keeps locked inside. I ask, “Is everything all right?”
She looks up, and a long pause keeps our eyes connected. For a moment, I think I might be able to read her thoughts, or maybe it’s her heart that I’m tuned into. But then she says, “Yes,” breaking the spell. She holds the paper in front of her. “May I?”
“It’s nonsense. Just something frustrating I have to deal with.”
Unwrapping the paper, she then flattens it on top of her thigh. “So says you.” Her voice calming as she begins to read. I just took a bite when her gaze lifts to mine again, and she asks, “What is this?”
I swallow the food down, my stomach begging for more of the delicious sandwich. A little embarrassed, a lot feeling the need to justify, I set the sandwich down. “I’m just going to preface this by telling you that not only will this sound crazy but it’s utterly ridiculous.”
A grin tickles her lips. “I’m prepared. Now tell me everything.”
“My mom made me pinky promise.”
“You pinky promise with your mom?”
I’m not sure how to respond. Bashful takes the lead for how I’m feeling. At this rate, I’m probably turning pink. “I do.”
As if the sun embodied her, her whole expression lights up. “That has to be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard, Drew.” It’s foreign, the twist I sense in my chest every time she calls me that name. I just feel different, exposed in a good way, like she’s taken a shovel and discovered a buried treasure. She says, “I love that you’re so close to your mom. Says a lot about the bond you have with her.”
“She’s pretty great.” Eyeing the crumpled paper, I add, “Unless she makes me do embarrassing things.”
“Is that what this is? A list of ways to humiliate you?” I can hear the teasing in her tone.
Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be. “She doesn’t want to humiliate me. She’s created a list of ways for me to step out of my comfort zone. I was given the assignment before I moved to New York.”
Curiosity keeps her eyes on mine as if this is the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard. “Why would she do that?”
“Because she knows if I have my way, I’ll work twenty-four seven.”
“Your mother knows you well.” She reads over the list again, pausing on the last one. Pointing at it, she asks, “Number five?”
“We’re not discussing number five.”
Her hands go up in surrender, and she giggles. “Fair enough. For now.”
“No. Forever.”
“Depends, I guess, on if you choose to break the pinky promise.” She tears a piece of bread and eats.
Sighing, I say, “Not you too.”
“Oh, there are others?” she asks, too entertained for my liking.
The sandwich is practically calling my name. I take it in hand, ready to stuff my face, but first say, “My brother, Nick, has joined in the fun. Any chance to tease each other and we take advantage.”
“Speaking of Nick, we’ve never really talked about that relationship.”
“There’s not much to say. We get along better than most and have the good fortune of working together.” I’m starved, so I take a bite so big that I have to cover my mouth.
“You’re very lucky to have a sibling. I don’t have any.”
My chewing slows as we dip into heavier territory. When I finally swallow, I then ask, “Do you mind me asking what happened after your parents passed?”
Although I prefer the joy she seems to live in, I’m wondering if some of it is a facade. She mentioned protecting her heart, from me, from life, from everyone. The ex sounds like a distant memory, but he left her more damaged than she lets on.
Tugging the crust from the sourdough, her eyes stay focused. “I lived with my grandmother at that point already, so not much else changed.”
Her parents passing away must have had a bigger impact than she’s letting on. I have a feeling the time we have left of lunch isn’t enough time to dig that deep. Although, I can’t help but feel that we shouldn’t be having this impromptu lunch at all. Not at work. Not when I’m CEO Andrew. When I’m not Ice Cream Drew. But how do I stop this? Especially when I like her company.
She’s smart to leave the door open and disguise it under policy. I know the truth, but thankfully, it’s not obvious to anyone else.
When she holds up the list again, I let her change the subject, knowing she needs to. She says, “I could help you with this list. Well, everything but the last one, of course. That one you have to figure out on your own.”
Why does accomplishing these tasks sound more intriguing when she offers? “I’m not doing any of them. It’s not a priority of mine.”
“It is of your mom’s, it sounds like.”
“Well, yeah, but she’s fixating on something that doesn’t need fixing. I’m focusing on a billion-dollar company.”
“You’re right. They’re both equally important.”
“Wait, that’s not what I meant.”
“We should jump on number two tomorrow. Meet me at nine in the lobby.”
“N-No. That’s not what I have planned.”
“What do you have planned on a Saturday at nine AM? Work?”
“Yes. I was planning on coming into the office to get a few things wrapped for this week and make headway on my research for the meeting on Monday.”
“As thrilling as that sounds, this,” she says, waving the piece of paper in front of me, “is important. You know what this list really is?”
“Punishment for the time I told Mrs. Whipple that my mom didn’t like her prized fruit salad?”
“Prized?”
“She won the Women’s League Cold Salad Division two years in a row with that fruit salad. She pinned her blue ribbons to her Louis Vuitton, so everybody knew she’d won.” Only in Beverly Hills . . .
Setting the list down, she finally picks up the sandwich and says, “I’m going to need more details. Go on.” She takes a big bite, keeping her eyes on me—wide and intrigued.
Why’d I open this can of worms? “After Mrs. Whipple found out about my mom’s dislike of her salad?—”
“Because of you.”
“I was nine,” I say, begrudgingly, “but yes, because of me. Seeking revenge?—”
“The plot thickens.”
Lowering my voice and telling the rest of the story like there’s a campfire between us instead of a solid mahogany desk, I say, “Mrs. Whipple told the entire country club that my mom had paid for me to win the science fair that year.”
Juni gasps. “She didn’t?”
“She did. Well, Mrs. Whipple did. It was a low blow. I remember how mad my mom was, but how it felt like a reflection on me. I had done the work on my own, but with one cruel attempt at revenge, that was put into question.”
Reaching over, her hand covers mine, making me wonder if the hurt feelings remain evident on my face. “I’m sorry, Drew.”
“In my mom’s defense, not only did she not pay for my project to win, but Mrs. Whipple refused to get her eyes checked and often confused the salt canister for the sugar one. We learned the hard way when she tried to teach my brother and me how to make sugar cookies.”
“Yuck.”
“You’re telling me. To this day, I can’t look at a sugar cookie without feeling dehydrated.” I clear my throat. “Would you like a bottle of water?”
Lifting in her seat, she eyes behind me. “You hiding goodies back there?”
“I sure am.” Waggling my eyebrows, I swivel around and open one of the console cabinet doors to reveal bottles of water and an entire tray of snacks and candies. “I never know if I’m going to need a sugar high or host a client who wants something stronger.” Handing a bottle of water to her, I also take one for myself. Remembering the taste of those cookies like it was two minutes ago, I down half a bottle before taking a breath.
“Thanks for the bottle and the stories, but you’re not going to distract me with cute childhood memories.”
I furrow my brow. She might be the weirdest woman I’ve ever met. “What exactly is cute about salt cookies?”
She snaps twice. “We’re not talking about cookies. We’re talking about this list and what it is.”
“What is it?”
Her expression anchors sideways. “Nice try, Christiansen. You know but let me remind you.” She holds it up and waves it. “This is a list of life or, more importantly, getting one.”
“I have a life, a very full life, I might add.” I take hold of the sandwich again, ready to devour the rest.
“You, sir, have a life full of work.”
I’m never going to finish this sandwich at this rate. I set it down and sit back, preparing to be here a while. “And the problem is?”
“You need a personal life.”
“You’re assuming I don’t have one already. We’ve spent time together outside of this office. That’s called a personal life.”
She slow blinks, not amused by my sad attempt to convince her otherwise. “If spending time with me is the only fun, and yes, I know you had fun and will take full credit for said fun, but if that’s it?—”
“I went out with my brother and Jackson,” I reply pointedly. “You saw me that night. I was out with the guys for hours.”
Appearing to concede, she nods. “That is true. I’ll grant you that time as well.”
“And we made plans for this weekend. It’s like my whole life is one big party. Anyway, what are you doing when you’re not here or with me?”
“Okay, settle down. Let’s not get carried away.” Sitting back in her chair, she says, “My point?—”
“Ah. I see your point. What’s good for the goose?—”
“Is not good for the gander.” Placing her hands down on my desk, she stands. “We can play cliché games all day, but wouldn’t it be more fun, and productive, I might add, if we just do what your mom wants and complete the list?”
Now I’m rolling my eyes. “My mom would have me running around this city if she has her way, and then my dad would serve my ass on a silver platter to the next guy in line for this job.”
“What kind of dad do you have that serves asses on platters, much less uses the good silver? Your family’s weird. No offense.”
We’re the weird ones? I scoff, but a chuckle comes out after, sounding more like a mutated bark. Trying to play it off, I cough. “None taken.”
Concern threads through her forehead. “Are you okay?”
I clear my throat again. “I’m fine. Just a little chicken stuck in—” I cough again for added effect.
“You’re good. You’re fine,” she sing-songs. “Are you ever great? Like top of the morning, kick your heels in the air great?”
“Like a leprechaun? No. But I am great at my job. Yes.”
Her eyes glide toward the windows, and she says, “At least one of us is,” sounding distracted.
“Probably not something you should admit to your boss. Anyway, you’ve proven otherwise to everyone at CWM.”
I see a smile settle in place before she waves me off, embarrassed. “I have a proposition for you.” The queen of sidetracks strikes again.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”
“It’s easy, no worries.”
“Last time I was told not to worry, I was flying across the country to save a merger. So you’ll have to excuse my concern when someone says not to worry.”
“I’ll let it slide. Look, you’re new to New York. I’ve been here my whole life. I can help you check each one of these oddball requests off your list in no time. You’ve already done number one. And quite honestly, I’m glad to find out this is what you were doing and that you’re not just some nutball with a grass fetish.”
That’s what she assumed? “As much as I appreciate the offer, who says I’m even finishing this ridiculous list?”
“We met because of number one. I’m sitting here now because?—”
“A temp agency placed you.”
“You can say that all you want, but I’m not convinced that we weren’t supposed to meet on purpose.”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
“ See? You do believe.”
“I believe in what’s right in front of me. I believe the tangible and seeing things with my own two eyes.” Not letting her get out of this without hearing what’s on her mind, I loop back around, and ask, “What’s the proposition?”
“A date.”