34. Rosy
THIRTY-FOUR
ROSY
Walking into the office this morning, I have a pep in my step, wrapped in a protective “no bullshit will penetrate” feeling. Because Noah asked me on a date after dinner last night, for tonight.
Don’t ask me when I last went out on a date with someone, because it’s embarrassing that I can’t recall when it last was.
Wandering over to my desk, I relax into my seat, letting my laptop load whilst I tug out the pastry I’d grabbed from the bakery on my way in. Maple and pecan Danish; honestly, it’s heaven wrapped up in a flaky, buttery pastry. It’s obscenely good.
Licking the remaining sticky, sweet residue from my fingertips, I get to work, sorting through and replying to some of the urgent emails that have come through since Friday.
There are a lot, but am I stressed about it?
Nope, because I’m still in the bliss bubble, cocooned and protected; nothing is getting through.
Happy thoughts only.
“Rosy,” Julia calls out, her heels clicking loudly on the wooden flooring as she approaches my desk.
We’re only a couple of years apart in age, but we couldn’t be any more different.
With her auburn hair slicked back into a tight ponytail and her flawless face, perfectly contoured and highlighted, she radiates a confidence I could only dream about.
I couldn’t even successfully fake that, as it’s so embedded into her skin, nothing could penetrate through and tear her down. In a male-dominated office, she’s managed to push her way to being one of our top-earning agents, and I can’t help but respect that.
I just wish she wasn’t so…
“I have a potential client I need you to meet with.” She pauses, tapping her sharply pointed burgundy nails on my desk.
“It was the only time they could meet, but I have another meeting beforehand that slightly overlaps. So you need to meet with them and start running through the usual process before I get there.” She looks at me expectantly, her features effortlessly smooth and sharp.
“Yes, I can do that. If you can send me the details?” I ask, politely of course, even if I’d rather say no.
“It’s on Wednesday, 11:30 at the Coffee Bar. I should be there no more than ten minutes after, so you just need to cover until then,” she advises, her speech slower, as if she’s unsure I’m able to remember all the details or how to attend a meeting.
A bubble. I’m in my happy bubble.
“Sure, no problem. I’ll be there,” I promise, offering her a warm smile in reassurance.
Her brow raises ever so slightly, then she spins and strides off, her black pinstripe pantsuit gliding around her legs.
I slouch when I’m finally alone, her brash confidence no longer holding me up, and sink into the feeling of inadequacy.
I think she pierced a tiny hole in my bubble, her sharp claws striking through the shield.
“Are you sure you don’t mind hanging out with him? He’s doing so much better, but maybe I should stay home? I can let Noah know I can’t make it,” I say, my lower lip rolling between my teeth as I teeter back and forth in my indecision.
Now that I’m faced with the very real idea of going on a date with him, I’m shitting myself. Why can’t we just stick to oversized comfy clothes and dinner at theirs? That’s easy; it feels safe.
But the idea of going to dinner, in a restaurant full of strangers, sitting across from one another as we have to maintain eye contact, watch each other eat, and try to ensure the conversation is going without any awkward silences… Cue the stomach churns, clammy hands, and spiralling thoughts.
“Nope, you’re not cancelling. You’re going to dinner.
You’re going to have a nice time, then you can come home and tell me all about it.
Moshi and I are going to binge-watch some trash TV, eat takeaway, and hang out.
You’re not invited to our slumber party,” Steph says, pointing a finger at me to show she’s serious.
We both know she’s not. If I really couldn’t face going, I know she would be on the phone making up the best excuse as to why I can’t make it. Instead, she’s firmly telling me I can do it.
So that means I can, right? If someone else says it, then it’s true.
Pushing back my shoulders, I stare at myself in the mirror, ignoring Steph sprawled on my bed as she types away on her phone.
Nothing feels right. Tugging at the sleeves of my red polo, I give up and whip it off, discarding it onto the pile at her feet as I stand frustrated in my underwear.
“What about that denim shirt? The one with the embroidery?” Steph suggests, her head tilted to the side as she watches me.
“Denim? Isn’t that too casual for a dinner date?” I huff, not being able to decide what feels comfortable yet smart enough to go out with Noah. He’s always so put-together, so cleanly dressed that I don’t want him to be disappointed.
“Excuse you. You’re dressing for yourself and no one else. That shirt looks super cute on you, so if you want to wear it, then do it. If you want to wear anything from your wardrobe, then you can do that too,” she admonishes, leaving no room for me to disagree.
Reaching into the wardrobe, I tug the shirt she mentioned from the hanger, sliding my arms through it and pulling it on.
She’s right, I do love this shirt. It's a soft, mid-blue denim with washed-out areas and a flattering V-shaped collar.
Scattered across it are tiny, embroidered lemons, limes, and blueberries.
Choosing a pair of tailored blue trousers, I tuck in the shirt and check my reflection. I feel good, and I feel like me.
A soft smile looks back at me, agreeing.
“I love it,” Steph says with a smile, sitting up and swinging her legs off the bed.
“Thank you,” I smile back. “I just need to put on a bit of makeup, then I’m ready. How much time do I have left?
She checks her phone. “Fifteen minutes, but I can message for you if you need more time?”
“No, that’s plenty. Thanks,” I say, rushing into the shared bathroom.
I was only planning to top up what I’d already put on this morning for work, but as I open my makeup bag, I snag the eyeshadow palette.
It’s rarely used and still mostly full. My typical go-to is tinted moisturiser, mascara, and some brow gel.
But I’m feeling good, and that feeling is pushing me to add in some eyeshadow too.
Selecting a cool grey, I brush it onto my lid, buffing and blending…pretending to know what I’m doing, before selecting a darker shade and adding it to my crease. Lastly, I dab on a little silver, then swipe on some more mascara.
The final look is…better than I expected.
My stomach flutters and twists as I wash my hands and walk back into the open living area.
A wolf whistle startles me.
“Looking stunning,” Steph praises, handing me my coat and bag. “Promise to enjoy yourself? Unless he starts being a dick, then you can hate it and come home.”
Tugging on my coat and buttoning it up, I chuckle, rolling my eyes but still appreciating her. “Enjoy myself, got it. I can do that. Wait, what if I forget my small talk questions to fill any silences?”
She blinks at me, rolling her lips in as she sniggers. “You just talk about whatever you feel like. You’ll have thoughts in your head, and you can just roll with it. But if in doubt, ask him something about his job. Or his interests.”
Crapsicles. Why am I this awkward?
The doorbell rings, and I squeak. A moment passes, and Steph and I still face each other, motionless.
“Are you going to answer it?” she asks, brow rising expectantly.
“Oh, yeah. I got it. I’ll see you later? If you forget anything, or if anything happens, call me? Moshi will need his dinner in a few hours, but I should be home in time.” I frown, worried in case I’ve missed anything.
“Yup, you’ve already said all of this. Stop stalling, I’ve got this. Now, go.” She pushes me to the door, opening it so I’m faced with my date.
“Hi.” I smile, feeling some of the worry ease and ebb away at his smile. It’s just Noah, not a stranger.
“Hi, Rosy. Are you ready to go?”
“Yes, all set.”
“Here, let me,” Noah offers, and tugs out a chair, waiting for me to sit at the small, square two-seater table we’ve been guided to.
“Thank you.” I smile up at him as he walks around to his seat, embracing the small flutters at his sweet gesture.
“Good evening. My name is Matteo, and I’m your server this evening. Here are the menus, and our specials are here.” He points to the small, separate card with a handful of options. “I’ll be back shortly to take your drink order.”
We both mutter our thanks, and I drop my head to read the meal options, a little unsure how to start the conversation now that we’re alone.
Alone as you can be in a restaurant. Even though there are other diners here tonight, it’s still oddly intimate.
Noah’s chosen a quaint Sicilian place; it’s warm and welcoming.
As soon as we walked in, we were greeted with open smiles, and our coats were taken.
The walls are an embracing, earthy cream with shelving containing an array of pretty bottles, vases, and plants.
Scattered lighting hangs low over the tables; curved wooden chairs and terracotta-coloured tiles line the space.
“You look beautiful,” Noah says, pulling me from my wandering interest.
I duck my head, and a flush warms my cheeks. “You do too.”
Which he does; in a deep navy shirt that complements his dark brown hair, smart camel-coloured trousers, and a pair of brown brogues.
He reaches across the table and places his hand over mine, then squeezes gently.
“Thank you. This is just us, though, Rosy. You don’t need to be nervous or unsure.
It’s just us eating dinner together. But if you’re uncomfortable, we can go back and eat at home.
” Even though there’s no frustration in his tone, my shoulders slump.
“I’m not doing a good job at being relaxed, am I?” I reply, my confession surprising me. I’d usually try to hide it. Apparently, my mouth is becoming less and less able to hold in my thoughts around them.
He chuckles, and his thumb rubs circles over my skin; the touch eases me more than he probably realises.
“No, but that’s okay. I’d rather you be honest with me, so I can help you.
I always want to know how you’re feeling, and we’re human too.
Those emotions aren’t always going to be happy, positive ones, but regardless of what they are, you’re always able to share them,” he promises, his gaze holding mine.
My chest swells, feeling full to bursting.
“I… Thank you,” I say, blinking quickly. “I want to stay, and I’d like that, but only if you’re the same for me too.”
Tugging my hand up, he drops a kiss on my knuckles, then rests our hands back on the table…still intertwined together. “Deal.”
I smile. It’s wide and toothy, but it’s the only way I know how to respond to the giddiness he’s evoked inside me.
“So what do you fancy having?” he asks with a wink, glancing down at his menus.