Chapter Four Throw Your Expectations Out the Window
Chapter Four
Throw Your Expectations Out the Window
Two days later, I’m sitting in my office trying to figure out a way to extend our outreach program in Indonesia when there’s a knock on my office door.
“Come in!” I call out, tapping my pen against the desk.
Joslyn opens the door. She looks excited about something. Almost nervous. “You have a visitor,” she says hesitantly.
When the door opens completely, I see Hart standing behind her.
His presence here in my small office is a surprise.
He’s tall, masculine, and overwhelmingly attractive.
He’s dressed in black jeans and a black button-down shirt open at the collar.
No tie. My gaze comes to rest at the small triangle of skin showing at his throat.
I rise to my feet. “Hart. Please come in.”
I’ve heard nothing since the presentation, and I imagined one of their financial gurus would be the one to deliver the news about their investment, but it seems Hart is here himself.
He drinks me in, slowly, as though savoring the moment.
The sleeveless black linen dress and sky-high nude heels are recent purchases from Bergdorf Goodman, pieces that my best friend Scarlet helped me select for my trip.
Pieces meant to help me feel confident and put together for my donor-pitch meetings.
Instead, I feel unsteady under his watchful gaze.
“I wasn’t expecting you, was I?”
“I can’t stop thinking about Kibera.”
I nod in understanding, my eyes latched on to his. His eyes are not quite brown, but not quite green. They’re hazel, and very striking.
“I know I’ve seen it with my own eyes, but I still can’t make sense of how twenty minutes outside of one of Africa’s richest cities exists Africa’s largest slum.”
I meet his eyes. “There are a billion people in the world without access to financing or a bank account, let alone water, medicine, education ...”
He shakes his head. “It’s hard to fathom. I know how privileged I am, or at least I thought I did. Visiting Africa was more enlightening than you can imagine.”
I’m pleased that he seems to understand his privilege, but I sense there’s something more at play. “Is that all you came to say?”
“No.” He gazes down for a moment before giving me a look that’s filled with boyish charm and a bit of mischief. “I brought you something.”
Part of me wondered if I’d made the whole thing up in my head—invented the chemistry I’d felt stirring between us.
I hadn’t.
I feel frazzled around him. I’m never frazzled.
He’s holding something, I realize. A red tin box. He gently places it on my desk between us.
“What’s this?” I reach for it, running my thumb over the gold lettering. It’s written in Dutch.
“Chocolate chip cookies. I had them overnighted from Belgium.”
In my line of work, I’m not often stunned, but that’s the emotion I feel when I realize that my complaint about missing chocolate chip cookies has been answered with Belgian chocolate.
“That was way too generous.”
He shakes his head. “Believe me, it was nothing. Have one.”
I pry open the lid, and tucked inside individual red tissue sleeves are the most mouth-watering cookies I’ve ever seen. They smell divine.
“Only if you join me.” I gesture for him to help himself, but he shakes his head.
“They’re a gift.”
“Well, thank you for the gift. I didn’t expect you’d still be in town.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow. My parents are staying to enjoy the wildlife reserve. But I have the jet if you’d like a lift to London.”
“I’ve already booked a flight, but thank you. You can sit, by the way.” I motion to the chairs in front of my desk.
He lowers his tall frame into the chair while I select a cookie from the tin. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I’m still surprised to see him here, and not quite sure what to say.
I settle on “Tell me about the art exhibit.” The National Gallery is a very big deal, one of the best museums in London, if not the world.
And as he does, I take a bite of the most delicious cookie I’ve ever tasted. Vanilla. Brown sugar. Flecks of sea salt. Dark chocolate that melts on my tongue. “These are dangerous,” I moan.
He smiles. “The art on display is from the personal collection of my great-aunt Edith, who passed away last year. It’s been donated to the museum.
She was known for having an impressive art collection—it’s a bit of everything.
Chinese pottery, postimpressionism, some photography.
I believe there are about sixty pieces in total.
My favorite is an early Jean-Michel Basquiat. ”
His eyes travel around my small office, taking it in.
The wall behind me is painted black and decorated with pieces of colorful art I’ve collected on my travels—string art from Nepal, a red tapestry from Thailand.
There’s a potted plant in the corner, with a photo hanging above it—me at the Marcus Center, an orphanage here in Kenya, two years ago.
I’m holding a precious set of newborn twins, one in each arm, with a huge smile on my face.
My desk, which is littered with papers, folders, books, and memos.
I would have cleaned up a little if I knew I was going to have a guest today.
“Be worthy of love and love will come,” he reads from the framed quote sitting on my desk.
“It’s a quote from the novel Little Women , one of my favorites.”
There’s another one, in a larger frame on the wall, from John Steinbeck’s East of Eden , about how you don’t have to be perfect; you can simply be good.
“You’re missing out. You have no idea how good these are.” I hold up the half-eaten cookie.
“I’ll take your word for it. What else do you miss while you’re here?”
“My family,” I admit. “But now that my father has retired, my parents have more time together, which is a good thing. They’ve gotten into playing pickleball. I also miss my best friend, Scarlet.”
“What’s she like?”
I take another nibble from the cookie. It’s the best cookie I’ve ever tasted.
“She’s married with two kids ... and has another on the way.
She desperately wants me to come home for the baby shower.
I miss lots of important milestones when I’m away, but she’s always been very supportive of my career. ”
He nods. “That’s nice.”
He’s asked me all kinds of questions, and I realize I really haven’t asked him much about himself. It wasn’t by design, but I don’t want him to think I’m self-absorbed. “Do you have a best friend back home?”
“I do. My closest friends are Whit and Isaac. And my cousin Hayes, though he’s a bit of a handful.” He pulls out his phone and shows me a picture of him with a group of guys his age at a picturesque golf course.
A group of good-looking rich boys ... a handful ... you don’t say. I smirk.
“Where was that photo taken?”
“Scotland. Boys weekend last year after we graduated.”
“From?”
“Yale.”
“Impressive.”
“If you change your mind about the flight, it’s wheels up at three tomorrow.” He stands and borrows a pen from my desk and writes his phone number down on a Post-it note.
“I won’t. But thanks again for the cookies.”
“Till next time, then.”
I give him a quizzical look. “You think there’s going to be a next time?”
“You don’t?” he asks, smiling. The intensity of his gaze makes me feel uncomfortable, and I look away first.
Joslyn’s words come rushing back to me. I think he has a crush.
I watch his retreating form as he exits. The width of his shoulders. His casual stride.
Then I help myself to another cookie and contemplate which is more dangerous—Hart or these cookies.