Chapter 3
THREE
A little light stalking never hurt anybody.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I wait to hear Quintin’s front door shut, knowing he’s heading out at his usual time.
I’ve clocked his comings and goings in the week and a half since vomit-gate—the day we met—just to make sure I don’t see him.
I wonder if it’s considered stalking if it’s to avoid running into him.
Either way, I’ve done the reconnaissance, and I know he’s due to walk out any moment now.
Sure enough, I hear the telltale rattle of his shaker bottle as he shakes it past my door.
I’m peeking through my peephole when I catch the way he glances in my direction, like he knows I’m standing just on the other side, creeping—or like he’s hoping to catch a glimpse of me.
If I have my way, that won’t be happening. At least until the memory of it doesn’t cause me to squeeze my eyes shut with a groan.
I wait a few minutes before I gather my bag, straighten my coat, and open my front door. As quickly as I can, I lock up my place before glancing at my phone to check the time. Waiting on Quintin to leave this morning has me running late for a meeting with my newest client.
“Are you avoiding me?” a deep voice rumbles behind me.
Surprise has me clutching my chest, my heart racing as I turn to face the man I had indeed been avoiding.
He’s in different tennis shoes this time, plus basketball shorts and a dark hoodie, the hood pulled up over his head.
The shaker bottle in his hands is no doubt chock-full of pre-workout.
I try not to glance back down at his legs, knowing if I focus on the coarse sprinkle of hair on his shins and calves, it will be my undoing.
“What?” I drop my hand, willing my heart to slow. Bitch, if you don’t pull yourself together… I try for indignation, for a righteous tone, tipping my chin up and meeting his stare. “Of course not.”
“Hm.” He nods as he regards me, those hazel eyes still glittering with that fucking amusement I can’t quite decipher. What the hell is so funny?
“Did you wait here for me to walk out of my apartment?” I pivot, pulling at the lapels of my wool coat. I glance past him at the stairs, knowing I was supposed to have been on my way out ten minutes ago.
“Forgot my phone,” he says, this time wearing a grin. Before he can say anything else, I offer a nod and walk away. The click of my heels on the hallway tiles mocks me, the uneven sound filling the fresh silence.
Embarrassment is turning me into an asshole.
I make it a few steps before I stop and call out, “Thank you for the soup.” Then I make my way onto the carpeted steps, not waiting for his response.
He doesn’t need to know it was the best chicken noodle soup I’ve ever had. He certainly doesn’t need to tell me if he actually did make it. I’d likely end up knocking on his door for a fresh batch to last me through the harsh winter.
The Chicago air is uncharacteristically brutal this morning, and I wonder how he can be outside in shorts. But as soon as I get in my car, I will myself to focus on getting where I’m supposed to be as quickly as possible.
For once, the universe is on my side as I park my car outside the coffee shop thirty minutes later.
After I pay for parking on my phone, I take a deep breath and reach for the door, donning the mask of professionalism.
I’m not the awkward, perpetually single Daniela with a knack for picking men who respect my space a little too enthusiastically.
I’m Daniela Figueroa, event planner extraordinaire, and I’m about to meet one of my biggest clients.
With that reminder, I stand tall, maneuvering through the morning crowd.
I enter the coffee shop, loving the nods to Latin America, and catch sight of my boss, Remi, sitting next to the client in question.
I’m convinced Paula Ruiz is the woman of my dreams: Latina , owner of a skincare line that she started in her home and is now taking the world by storm. She is every inch the bad bitch I hope to be one day.
Remi smiles when she sees me, tucking her chin-length auburn hair behind her ear as she stands to greet me. She’s shorter than I am, but that does nothing to dull the command in her stance. She is a force.
“There she is,” Remi starts, a smile morphing her features.
The dusting of freckles on the bridge of her nose makes her appear younger than her forty-three years.
She gestures toward the empty seat across from them, and it feels like I’m finally being offered a seat at the proverbial table, like this is the start of the next chapter of my professional career.
Now, I just have to make sure I don’t vomit all over the table.
It’s just nerves , I try to tell myself as I approach them.
Paula glances up from her phone, her own smile just as warm. I try to opt for an easygoing greeting, but nothing passes my lips as I reach to shake her hand. The room feels hotter, and I try to ignore the way my stomach flips. I remove my coat, folding it over the back of the closest empty chair.
We’re all seated when I start to pull my tablet and planner from my bag, ready to get to work.
The women in front of me are exchanging small talk as I get myself set up.
There’s a stiffness in my shoulders I can’t quite shake yet.
The pressure of this meeting makes small talk impossible for me.
The wave of nausea that ebbs and flows makes it hard to trust another accident won’t happen.
Holy shit, puking on my neighbor was embarrassing. Puking on Paula would be a fucking disaster.
“Did you want to order anything?” Paula asks, lifting her fingers to get a waiter’s attention.
I shake my head, but she’s already spouting off an order.
Then she looks at me, her mouth slightly open, the ends of her lips lifted in an almost smile.
“Please tell me I’m in the presence of a woman who can appreciate good cafecito . ”
Is this a test? Just how Latina are you?
Within the Latin and Hispanic diaspora, no matter where you’re rooted, there’s plenty of that. Are you Americanized? Or did your family steep you in your culture the way they were supposed to?
Do you even speak Spanish?
But I’m a chameleon. I have to be in order to work with so many different kinds of people.
Honestly, I’ll drink dirt water if it means I get to handle this woman’s holiday party, but a cup of Cuban coffee, strong as it is, should be safe on my stomach that still hasn’t quite recovered from the stomach bug.
I nod with a small smile, and when I glance at my boss, her pinched expression has me explaining what cafecito is and insisting she try a cup.
“If we’re going to plan your holiday party, we’re starting a little late, so we’ll have to nail down your absolute must-haves.
” I’m determined to get started, not wanting to waste any more time.
My boss’s presence here has less to do with my work and more to do with how high profile this client is for us.
And with the talks of partnership between the two of us finally being on the table, I’m happy to show her how capable I am.
Paula is by far the richest client Remi’s firm has ever snagged, and I will forever be grateful she happened to be at a quinceanera I handled a few weeks ago.
“Oh,” she starts, licking the corners of her mauve-painted lips after taking a healthy gulp of coffee. “There’s this new chef. He just opened a restaurant and catering company—Menagerie—and it’s uptown. I need him.”
I try to keep my face expressionless, knowing it may be hard to book this guy if he’s already made enough of a name for himself that Paula wants him.
“What’s his name?” I ask as I take a sip of coffee, loving the rich deepness of it.
“No clue,” she tosses out, reminding me it’s my job to figure this all out.
I pull my phone out and search for the place so I know what I’m dealing with. I jot down the name of his restaurant, making a note of how close his shop is to my place, and debate on stopping by before heading into the office.
The rest of the meeting feels like I’m wrangling teenage besties, with me trying to pin down details between moments of Paula and Remi finding overlaps in their respective social circles.
Remi pats my hand when I try to steer the conversation back to work, and between my queasiness at the overwhelming scent of coffee and my annoyance with the lack of direction, I decide to pack my things and give Paula my personal contact information.
We set a date for another meeting when I can offer my suggestions, and as I leave, I decide to head to Menagerie.
If there’s one thing I absolutely need to get done, it’s booking this coveted caterer. I have to start off strong so I can keep Paula as a client and finally prove to Remi I’m partner material. That I can handle a larger workload.
I toss my bag onto the passenger seat, and when I slide into my car, I sit there for a moment, breathing in air that doesn’t smell like an overwhelming Bath & Body Works candle.
When I pull up, looking for parking outside where the GPS on my phone directed me, I try to shake off my nerves, telling myself I will book this company. Manifestation is real, right? Isn’t that what Oprah would have us believe? That if I put it out into the universe, it’ll happen?
My mother would have me think manifestation is akin to brujeria . Santana would tell me manifesting is a waste of time and you have to go out and bust your ass.
For good measure, as I circle the block, I keep repeating myself.
I’m going to book him. I’m going to book him.
And when I find an open space just in front of the building, I grin.
“See?” I tell myself. “All good signs. You’ve got this, Dani. You’re about to walk in there and book this guy, and Paula is going to hire you for all of her events.”
I unclick my seatbelt and decide not to bring my work bag.
Without a moment to second-guess myself, I exit my car and make my way to Menagerie.