Chapter 15 #2
He looks over his shoulder and parrots an ineffectual quick “Hey” back. But then quickly does a double take and smiles, the
look in his eyes shifting away from disinterest. “Hey.”
He twists around to face me, studying my dirt-covered outfit and ignoring the continuous string of metallic beeps blasting
from his phone. “Did you crawl here?”
“No, I’ve actually gotten into mud wrestling since I last saw you. How the hell did you get here?” I take the opportunity to check him for mud, my eyes running up from his perfectly spotless light brown brogues
to his charcoal-gray trousers and crisp white shirt and thick gray wool coat hung over one arm.
His eyes glint, flicking from my leggings to my lips to my eyes. “I used the hotel’s car service . . . like a sane person.”
I nod. “Ah, so you didn’t take the scenic route through the swamp?”
One side of his mouth turns upward. “I’m saving it as aa special treat for the weekend.”
“Oui?” a bald man with a thick beard asks from behind the counter.
Oliver clears his throat—“Bonjour, je prends un café noisette, deux cafés américains, et un thé au citron, s’il vous pla?t”—before turning back to me.
“French too?” I ask.
“Croissant, foie gras, coq au vin . . .” He checks off the words on his fingers. “Do you need a ride back?”
Before I can reply, his phone starts dinging again. He rolls his eyes and starts to furiously type.
“Sure,” I answer. “Thanks.”
While I make my order in an accent that would make my year nine French teacher roll in her tombe, Oliver’s focus is set on his phone, his brow set in a deep furrow.
I tilt my head, looking up at him. “Everything okay?”
“Huh?” he says monotonically.
“Le chat got your tongue?” I tease, my brain firing on all cylinders to regain his attention.
“Sorry, no.” He sighs, slapping the phone against his open palm. “But Jocelyn has my balls.”
He catches my demeanor shift. “No, uhhh, not like that. I’m just dealing with a minor crisis this morning.”
“What’s going on?” And why is my instinct to help fix it for him?
He lets out another long breath. “There’s this dinner tonight for the executives. One of Dominic’s guests, Jocelyn Peters . . .
her luggage got lost on the flight over from New York. She doesn’t have anything to wear for dinner, but she also doesn’t
have time to go shopping and—” He stops mid-sentence, scanning my body. “Actually, you might be able to help me with . . .
What are your measurements?”
“Excuse me?” My eyes widen as I scoff, defensively wrapping my arms around my waist.
He lowers his voice. “If you’d prefer, I can guess based on memory . . .” He flashes that boyish smile, which really shouldn’t
do to my core what it’s doing right now.
The man places both of our orders down on the counter with an acknowledging grunt.
I huff out a laugh. “Regardless of that, you seriously think I own something fancy enough for a high-powered executive to borrow?”
He leans over me, picking up a stack of napkins, wooden stirrers, and the four-cup holder. “Of course not. I have to find
her something from one of the rich lady stores in the main town, but she’s going to have me murdered and buried in a lavender
field if I don’t find her something nice.”
I let the smooth velvety coffee hit my tongue before I respond. “So you want to take me shopping?”
Oliver cracks a smile, tilting his head. “As much as that sounds appealing, I’ve already sent one of the interns out with
her credit card to just buy whatever expensive work-appropriate dresses she can find in Jocelyn’s size. She’ll be back in
a couple of hours.”
I shift onto one leg, placing a hand on my hip. “So what do you need me for?”
“I’ve been attempting to arrange a time for Jocelyn to try on the options, but she’s completely booked all day.” He lifts
an eyebrow at me. “What I need . . . is a mannequin. I obviously can’t ask any of the interns to try them on for me; that’s
an HR violation waiting to happen.” He begins to relax, his shoulders lowering as a plan begins to form in his head.
I scoff with faux outrage. “And it wouldn’t be if you get me to do it?”
His hazel eyes slice right through me. “If putting clothes on you is a HR violation . . .”
My cheeks flare. “And here I was thinking you ‘just got the coffees,’” I say, mimicking his former statement as I swirl my stirrer around in the white foam.
“In Dominic’s words, I’m his bitch who can be replaced whenever he wants.” He says it like he’s repeating it. “So are you
interested in helping a poor guy out?”
The response is sitting on my lips. How would a successful CEO use the assistant of the big-time investor who’s asking them for a favor to their advantage, rather than just helping a peer out in a tough situation?
Every conversation is a negotiation.
I cross my arms. “What would you do for me in return?”
His eyes crease as he steps in closer, a smirk creeping along his lips. “What would you like me to do?”
I swallow, heat rising up my neck. “No, I mean what am I going to get out of helping you?”
“The pleasure of my company?” he offers, voice still low and smooth. “And I would be very, very grateful.” His persuasive eyes twinkle at me before his phone starts to vibrate against the wood. “Car’s here.”
I suck my teeth, running through my options while he packs up his things.
He looms over me as he takes a final sip of his coffee. “Still need that ride? I have to go now to get these delivered for
a meeting.”
Ignoring him, I say, “I want you to ensure Spencer gets twenty minutes to talk with Dominic at the investor drinks reception
tomorrow night, alone.”
His eyes widen as he chokes on the hot liquid. “I can’t promise that.”
I press a finger into his chest, eyes flicking up to meet his as I say slowly, “I think . . . you can.”
Oliver lowers his chin, his face contorting into a look that screams, “Are you fucking serious?” But he doesn’t say anything, just slides his coat over his shoulders with graceful ease, maintaining eye contact with me the entire time.
I imagine him placing the coat over my shoulders, his smell enveloping me as he uses the lapels to pull me in, before quickly snapping out of the daydream.
We’re in the middle of a negotiation—stop objectifying him.
My brain urges me to fill the silent gap as we head out the door toward the waiting black Mercedes. I’m desperate to bridge
the conversation, but I hold steady, maintaining eye contact and not flinching when he shifts, rolls his eyes, and says, “I
could probably do, like, five minutes.”
He grasps the cup holder in one hand and opens the car door for me with the other.
My fingers wrap around the car door as I step around him. “Twenty,” I counter, slipping into the warm seat.
He rounds the car, opening the opposite door and sliding into the backseat before looking at me with a playful smile. “You
know that’s not how negotiating works, right? You can’t just say the same thing.”
We speed down the winding roads past the massive pools of muddy water I just familiarized myself with.
After a few minutes of admiring the lush scenery, I turn back to Oliver who is doing the same.
He shifts before turning his face toward me. “I can do five minutes.”
We stare at each other, both too stubborn to give in. The car screeches to a halt, and before I know what’s happening, Oliver’s
arm springs out over my clavicle, stopping me and my drinks from flying forward into the seat in front.
“Merde!” we hear the driver shout as he jumps out of the car onto the road.
“You okay?” Oliver asks, slightly out of breath, his hair disheveled over his forehead.
Before I can answer, a cacophony of baas reach the backseat of the car. We glance out the windows, then at each other.
I unclip my seat belt, put my coffees next to his in the holder, and open the car door before saying, “Ten minutes.”
He follows me out, watching as I join the driver in trying to usher an entire flock of sheep around the car and off the road.
“What are you doing?” he shouts over the ruckus.
“Helping,” I grunt as I run after a lamb who is happily trotting in the wrong direction and herd it back toward the group.
I lift my chin and shout across the herd, “You have to get back in time for your meeting, right? Come on!”
“This way,” Oliver says to one of the sheep; it stands still chewing on a small tuft of grass.
I cross my arms and try to subdue a smile. “They probably only speak French.”
He laughs at me, a full-bodied laugh, and guides two annoyed sheep off the road. “You are ridiculous.”
It takes the three of us a few more tries to completely move the sheep out of the road into the valley’s field. By the time
we get back in the car, Oliver is almost as covered in mud as I am.
“How are you going to explain this”—I gesture a finger up and down his outfit—“to Dominic.”
He considers for a few seconds. “I got into a very heated negotiation about a one-to-one.”
“A negotiation which I obviously won,” I announce, folding my arms and relaxing back into the seat. “Because you’re going
to give Spencer the fifteen minutes?”
He straightens out his hair, trying and failing to hide his amusement. “Maybe I can stretch it to ten.”
I beam at him triumphantly. “Deal.”