Page 15 of Meet Stan

I pulled up outside the restaurant in a cab, trepidation mounting in my chest. I began to feel like I’d made a mistake, like I should have insisted he make his proposal at work. The last thing I wanted to do was put myself in a vulnerable position with the firm when I was on the cusp of really making my mark.

But I had to find out what Stan wanted. I was dying of curiosity. Like as not, I was sort of into him, and I got the feeling he was sort of into me, too.

Or maybe I was a lot more than sort of into him, and that was the real reason for my trepidation. Would it be worth my career just to be close to a one-night stand I’d started to get the feels for?

“Hey, lady,” the cabbie said. “I don’t have all night. Are you getting out or what?”

He had a point. I was going to have to make a decision. Have the cab turn around and leave—

Or stay, and find out just what kind of proposal Stan intended to make.

Chapter Seven

Stan

I sat at the table of the fine dining restaurant, sipping water from a five-hundred-dollar crystal glass and wondering if she was going to show up or not.

I may have been too enigmatic. Who knew what she was thinking about me at that point? Did she think I was out for something lascivious? Or larcenous, for that matter?

I began to worry that I’d gone too far. I took my phone out and sent a text, asking if she was still coming.

For a long moment, nothing happened. I started to put away my phone in disgust, but then the three undulating dots appeared on the screen.

They hung there for a long time. Either she was typing a long message, or she was editing a message heavily, or she couldn’t figure out what to send. I waited with mounting impatience until suddenly she replied in the affirmative.

I turned my gaze toward the front entrance, and saw Ivy come in. Her eyes seemed haunted, her hair attempting to escape the tight bun at the back of her head. She smiled warmly at the hostess and soon the two of them made their way over to my table.

I stood up at Ivy’s approach. I couldn’t help but remember that one fiery night when she was mine, all mine. I fought that instinct down. Right now, I needed to convince her to play along with my plan.

“Ivy,” I said, going in for a side hug. She accepted it readily enough, though she carefully held her face away from my own. “So glad you could make it. Sit down. Are you hungry?”

“Is the pope catholic?” She stared at the menu. “What the fuck is this? Mongolian?”

“It’s French. I can ask for a translated menu—”

“Nah, just—whatever this is, it looks good.”

“What? Oh, the Coq Du Vin. If you like chicken.”

“Everybody loves chicken. Have you ever noticed how the chicken is a sacred animal in zero religions? Nobody wants to give up eating chicken.”

I laughed, and sat back in my chair.

“I guess I never thought of it that way before.”

I ordered a fish stew I’d grown fond of, served with crusty toasted bread. While we waited for the food to arrive, I attempted to make small talk. Emphasis on attempted.

“Okay,” she said, rolling her eyes as I made a comment about the ambiance. “Let’s stop pussy-footing around here, all right? You asked me here for a specific reason. You said it had nothing to do with what went down the first time we met.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she rapped her painted nails on the table in a rapid tempo.

“So what is it you want with me, exactly? Because if you’re expecting me to help you embezzle money, you can forget it.”

“What?” I shook my head. “No. That’s not—I would never—no, I’m not trying to enlist you in anything illegal.”

“That’s good to know.” Ivy related, though her dark brown eyes continued to smolder with suspicion. “Then what are you trying to enlist me into?”

“I need your help to prove a point to my fellow board members in the firm. A point I think they really need to learn posthaste.”

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