Page 54 of Written By a Woman

Eloise was older than me, in her late thirties or so, but I considered Eloise St. James my only close friend outside of the workplace. We could go months without hanging out in person, but as soon as we did, things picked back up again just like they did last time we got together.

Eloise and I were also at very different points in our lives. She was married, and had a cute little girl with a second kiddo on the way.

Whereas I researched how difficult it would be to take care of a goldfish over the weekend. Then I decided I didn’t want the responsibility of taking care of a goldfish.

Regardless, I loved her daughter and was excited for her second kiddo to be born so I could soak up all the baby snuggles I wanted.

As I finally made it to my desk, pondering on whether my life would ever turn out like Eloise’s has in the next ten years or so, I heard the elevators ding.

In walked Jacqueline, with her earbuds in her ears as she gently bobbed her head from side to side. She was typing something on her iPad, completely focused as she mouthed something that looked a lot like lyrics to a song.

“Good morning,” I grinned, my eyes widening when Jacqueline startled at my greeting as if she wasn’t aware that I was already here and watching her vibe to her music.

“Oh,” Jacqueline placed a hand on her chest, a nervous smile on her lips as she replied, “Good morning.”

“What are you listening to?” I asked as I clicked my monitor to life.

“Huh? Oh. Um,” Jacqueline lifted a shoulder as she continued to march towards her office, “Just a podcast.”

I hesitated, before nodding and letting her continue with a wave of my fingers.

She was listening to music just then.

Why Jacqueline felt embarrassed by the music she listened to piqued my curiosity. What music could she possibly feel embarrassed about? I thought everyone was openly admitting how much we all lied and secretly loved Nickelback in the early two thousands and I wasn’t sure what other well-known disliked bands there were.

I was going to figure this out, one way or another.

Then the elevators dinged again, and in walked the man of my dreams.

Zaid.

“Nice sweater,” the CTO nodded his chin towards me as he shouldered his laptop bag and stopped at my desk. I glanced down at my cream-colored long-sleeved sweater that said “I’m a delight” in a black serif font.

“Thank you,” I posed with my hand under my chin in a cutesy anime way I had seen Mary do many times. Zaid chuckled at my antics, “I saw on your schedule that you’re going to have a meeting at a fancy Italian restaurant today, so feel free to order me some pasta to-go.”

Zaid raised his dark eyebrows at my request, “Are you a fan of Italian food?”

“I’m a fan of food,” I corrected before nodding, “But yes, Italian food is like, a comfort food for me.”

“Then you’ll probably like the food from this place,” Zaid smirked, “I know the chef, and I can personally confirm that all the dishes are excellent.”

I widened my eyes, “Say less, but I’ll need to taste test myself just to be sure.” I thought about the restaurant some more, turning to my computer and typing in the name of the restaurant in the shared calendar, and noticing that there had only been one time Zaid had taken a lunch meeting there. Today.

“What is it?” Zaid asked, lingering at my desk.

“You know the chef, but you haven’t taken a meeting here before,” I pointed to my laptop, “I mean, I usually schedule the reservations for these fancy business meetings, but I haven’t scheduled one for this restaurant before today.”

Zaid nodded once, before lifting a self-deprecating shoulder, “I actually have taken meetings there before, if I know the person is partial to Italian cuisine. But I don’t normally need to make a formal reservation to go. Brandon just asked that I make a formal reservation for this one so it would align with the company books.”

I widened my eyes, “Wow, you and the chef must be real homies to be able to just walk in.”

“Yeah,” Zaid smirked, “I’d consider my dad and I to be homies.”

I stared at him for a moment, having already tasted his mother’s delicious cooking. Zaid must have grown up with the fanciest, tastiest home-cooked meals if his mother’s food was already that delicious, and his father was a professional Italian chef as well.

“What?” Zaid asked after a moment of my stunned silence.

“I’m just picturing what your childhood was like,” I said, resting my chin on my fists and forming a dreamy expression on my face, “You probably never had to heat up a hot pocket once.”

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