Chapter 9
I’VE SPOTTED SEBASTIAN. He managed to snag a seat on the subway, where he’s now shrinking himself into the smallest possible space as he takes little sips from a paper coffee cup.
His hair is neatly parted to one side and he seems sunken in thought.
I’m once again the sad sardine squished between someone who smells like they came straight from the gym and someone who hasn’t brushed their teeth since last Christmas.
On the plus side, Sebastian’s presence is a welcome visual distraction.
In an effort to give his fellow passengers more legroom, he has his knees squeezed together like a toddler who just downed five juice boxes.
Even so, he seems relaxed. He’s wearing a fancy looking coat to keep out the October chill that’s breezing its way through New York.
His left hand is wrapped around the handle of a briefcase.
I can’t help but notice his nicely groomed hands.
No unkempt nails with grubby rings of grime.
And then he turns his face toward me. I register the exact moment he notices me. His eyes go wide in surprise, but then he sends a pearly white smile my way, lifting up his coffee cup as a greeting.
I politely return his smile, like a true professional. A professional who’s currently imagining what he looks like without his shirt on. I wonder if there’s something in our employee handbook about fraternizing with clients. I’ve never heard anyone mention it before.
When our train reaches Tribeca, we both get off at the same stop. Sebastian makes it out of the subway car before I do and just when I’m starting to think he’s long gone, I hear him call my name from somewhere off to the side. He rejoins the throng of people, walking in step beside me.
What a coincidence! he says in surprise. I had no idea this was your route, too. Where’s your place?
I’m in Greenwich, I declare, full of pride.
In the few weeks since my arrival, I’ve become more and more attached to the area.
It’s a great neighbourhood with lots of live venues and jazz bars.
I’m not necessarily big on jazz, but it’s still something I want to check out while I’m here.
You know, to get the full Greenwich Village experience.
And in the meantime, I’ll ignore the fact that my building would have been a prime location for Miley’s Wrecking Ball video.
And you? I give him a wondering look.
He checks his watch before answering. I live in Chelsea but I almost always switch trains in Greenwich. The direct line into Tribeca takes an extra ten minutes.
We’re swept along by the crowd of commuters toward the station exit and once we’re outside, Sebastian looks over at me, curiosity in his expression. How are the Christmas party plans coming along?
Great, I reply, as I gesture at the coffee shop where I get lattes every morning for Marcel and myself.
I’ve long given up on the possibility of removing my name from Patrice’s blacklist by plying her with coffee. All I ever get in return are requests to print copies or make phone calls. The coffees have basically solidified her belief that I’m here to be her assistant.
I hand the barista two five dollar bills. Staring up from the paper, Abraham Lincoln gives me his stern look, like he strongly disapproves of my caffeine addiction.
We were able to book Ed de Vries, I say, turning back to Sebastian, who’s hovering nearby.
That’s awesome! He sounds thrilled. I’ve added a bunch of his songs to my Spotify playlist. Really like his version of All I Want for Christmas Is You.
That’s my favourite one! I shout with much more enthusiasm than strictly called for in this situation.
The dimples in his cheeks appear when he smiles. “Looks like you’re as much of a nut about Christmas as I am. It’s the whole reason I like sticking my nose in the party planning. It’s obviously not billable work, so I do most of it on my own time, but I love it so much that I don’t really care.
The side part, the solid job, and he loves Christmas. Oh, he’s definitely my type.
I hum in agreement as the barista hands me the cardboard tray.
Sebastian glances at the two cups. Who’s the second one for? he asks with a grin.
That one’s for my overly energetic coworker, I chuckle. And then I realize in embarrassment that I didn’t offer to get Sebastian a drink. Shoot, I forgot to ask if you wanted anyth—
Don’t worry about it. I just finished a double espresso. He waves off my apology as a twinkle appears in his eyes. I do think I’d like to have coffee with you, though. He gives me a crooked smile and an inquisitive look.
I furrow my brow and I’m about to turn around to order an extra coffee for him, but he stops me with a chuckle and a knowing look. I blink a few times as I try to decode his expression.
Ohhh . . . He didn’t mean right now. Another time.
My lips mouth along with my train of thought and Sebastian chuckles again. I’ve always been terrible at detecting the signs of flirting.
I just scored myself a coffee date. And not just any coffee date, no sir. A coffee date in New York with a guy who’s entirely my type. And my client. But what’s the harm in grabbing coffee with a client. He didn’t call it a date. Maybe he just wants to discuss party plans. Who’s to say.
Uh . . . yeah. Yes. That would be lovely, I flounder, fidgeting with the drink tray.
In the silence that follows, I shift my weight from one leg to the other as Sebastian continues to look at me expectantly. I’m about to launch into a monologue of everything I know about African coffee bean varieties when he breaks our silence and puts me out of my misery.
It would be a lot easier to plan a coffee date if I had your number, he says with a smile. Nothing against these spontaneous encounters, but—
Oh! Of course. Hang on. Scrambling around in my purse—just like movie characters do in these situations—I manage to come up with a pen. I can’t seem to find any paper . . . I mumble, still grabbing around between candy wrappers, keys, and hair ties.
Um, Emma . . .
I look up to see Sebastian, phone in hand.
I can just add you to my contacts, he says, straight-faced. No need for pen and paper.
He hands me his phone with a slight laugh and I feel my cheeks flush. Biting my lip, I tap my number into his phone, then hand it back to him. He tucks the device back into his briefcase and gives me a wide smile.
See you soon, Emma, he says brightly. He turns to leave the shop, heading toward his office—in the opposite direction of where I’m going.
What’s with the glow? Marcel asks when I put his coffee down in front of him. He gives me an intrigued look from behind his round hipster glasses.
Over his shoulder, I notice how Patrice takes a quick glance at the two cups before returning her focus to her screen. A moment later, she gets up and starts scraping together the papers on her desk, lips pursed and a steely expression on her face.
I’ve had a lovely morning so far. Grinning, I sit down at my desk.
Marcel squints at me with suspicion as he sips his latte. What do you m— he says, quickly interrupted by Patrice’s icy voice.
Why are you bringing Marcel coffee every morning anyway? She ignores my shocked expression at her sudden appearance and continues. You’re hiding something, aren’t you? You’re bringing him coffee so he won’t get suspicious and pry, right?
I let out a deep sigh. Good morning to you, too, Patrice, I mumble, massaging my forehead with my thumb and index finger.
Patrice walks past me to find a spot at the edge of Marcel’s desk. I just binged the first season of Dexter, she tells him in a conspiratorial tone.
Dexter? Marcel looks confused.
Dexter.
She throws a stealthy glance my way and I feel like dumping the entire contents of my cup over her head because I know exactly where she’s going with this. Patrice is lucky these lattes are so delicious—it’s the only reason she doesn’t smell like premium roast right now.
It’s about this serial killer who works for the cops.
Every morning, he shows up to the station with a box of donuts to share.
It’s how he keeps up the appearance of being the perfect coworker .
. . She hops down from the desk, tilts her head a little, and gives me a knowing look.
I’m just saying . . . Things aren’t always what they seem.
And with a sly grin she makes her way over to the copier.
Marcel is still shaking his head as he takes a sip of his drink. You didn’t put any cyanide in this, did you? he asks in mock concern.
Definitely not, I laugh. But if I were Patrice, I wouldn’t take a chance on any coffee I bring in, I add with a grin.
Marcel chuckles as he dives back into work. He’s incapable of sitting still. With his eyes on his screen, he taps a foot on the laminate floor as he incessantly twirls a pen between his fingers.
I turn my attention back to my computer, too, ready to go over the catering quotes.
The event briefing called for an upscale dining experience, so really any of these caterers would work within the budget.
That’s definitely the upside of working for such a high-profile client: their budget is in line with their vision.
Back home, I frequently deal with companies demanding front-row seats on a back-row budget.
Scrolling through the quote sent in by The Catering Company, I glance over their proposed menu.
Turkey, caviar, and . . . My eyes go wide in disgust. Foie gras.
I rush to close the proposal. This caterer might have rave reviews, but I refuse to play any part in the force-feeding of geese.
And it doesn’t seem like something Sebastian would support either.
By the time lunch rolls around, I still haven’t been able to get Sebastian out of my mind.
This morning at the café, blinded by my attraction to the gorgeous man in front of me, a date with a client didn’t seem like that big of a deal.
Who am I kidding, though? Dating someone I’m working for would be foolish and unprofessional.
I stab at my poké bowl with my chopsticks.
Are you okay? Mariana—still looking like she spends her nights at an army bootcamp—gives me a concerned look. You’re so quiet today.
Patrice was giving her a hard time again, Marcel jumps in, before sinking his teeth into a sandwich.
I do get why she’s pissed. I mean, your job was promised to her first, he continues, turning to face me, but it’s super immature of her to take that out on you.
If anyone’s deserving of her wrath, it’s Karen.
Then again, her attitude does kind of prove that Karen made the right call putting you in charge.
I can’t believe she’s being this unprofessional.
Mariana nods in agreement, putting a hand on my arm. Patrice will come around in the end. She just needs some time. We should have each other’s backs as women. Especially at work. Things are hard enough as it is.
This doesn’t feel like the right time to ask about our employee conduct policies around dating clients, so I just give her a smile and mumble my appreciation.
You know what you need? Marcel’s expression tells me this is going to be a terrible idea. A night out drinking. It’s Friday and I don’t have any plans. Are you in, Mariana?
Mariana sulks at the lunch on her plate. That sounds incredible, she murmurs. But I’m still nursing Rory . . . She lets out a deep sigh, then takes a hopeful glance at her phone. I suppose I could ask Sean how he’d feel about solo-parenting tonight . . .
Marcel claps and looks delighted. Girl, it’s about time you get those hips back into action—and I don’t mean more child-bearing. You used to be our company-wide dancing goddess any time we went out. Don’t let all that Latina DNA go to waste.
He gives his proclamation a little extra flair by adding a Beyoncé-style finger snap, sending Mariana and me into hysterics.