Page 20 of Resisting the Temptation
“Trilingual, nice. I took German in junior high, but I don’t remember anything useful. I tried to learn Spanish but kept getting it mixed up with German, so I stopped. I should probably try learning it again considering the field I work in.”
“German and Spanish aren’t even that similar.” I don’t even know what we’re talking about right now. I’ve never just… offered up information about myself like that. Does she do this often?
Emma shrugs. “Maybe not, but my brain doesn’t understand that.”
Then we continued on as normal, no more conversation about the languages I speak, and she hasn’t mentioned the club or the nickname again. I thought for sure she’d at least ask me what it means or allude to the night to get a rise out of me, but she hasn’t. She barely talks to me unless it’s work related. It’s like she’s truly forgotten about it, and even though I’m mostly relieved, a small part of me is upset I have no valid reason to be irritated with her sunshiney presence.
If she kept bringing it up or vying for my attention, I’d have a reason to be on edge when I hear theclick clackof her heels on the floor as she comes into the office. I’d have a reason to dread being stuck in the truck for hours while we make our rounds to job sites. But I don’t have a good reason because she’s beingprofessionaljust like I wanted.
Everyone else in the office adores her, and she’s so goddamn friendly with everyone when we’re out in the field. Even our most misogynistic superintendent, Ralph, isn't immune to her charm. I’ve been working with Ralph for almost ten years and have barely seen himcrack a smile, but he always has one at the ready for the bubbly blonde. He hasn’t even said anything negative about her working for us.
Most Barbie-esque women would be intimidated by the men on our crews—burly, sweaty, and some heavily tattooed—but not Emma. She treats everyone as if they’re important and tries her best to make everyone feel welcome.
Even though a majority of our crews speak primarily Spanish, and she doesn’t understand most of what they’re saying, she’s always polite and tries to communicate as best she can.
If I’m not translating for her and the crew, she’s asking me about all of their backstories and their families, but I don’t know them that well. I’m not their friend, I’m their boss.
Through her interactions with other people, I’ve reluctantly learned a lot of information about her. Turns out, shedoesjust offer information about herself to people. Something I still don’t understand.
I know she’s originally from Utah, she loves pink and purple—that one was obvious—and she likes to read. I know she loves the beach but not when the sand gets stuck to her body or between her toes. She’s never broken a bone, but she did have her gallbladder removed. She hates the feeling of the microfiber cloths we use to clean our computers, and she prefers fruity gummy candies to chocolate. Her comfort meal is sesame chicken, but she has a difficult time with reheated meat.
I hate that I remember these things. It’s taking up space in my brain I should be using for other, more important things.
We’ve seen an influx of salesmen from different vendors in the last three weeks which grates on my nerves. Apparently, word got around about our new PM, and now the reps are intent on introducing themselves to Emma.
Currently, she’s talking to two reps from a waterworks supply company who brought her donuts as a “welcome gift.” It doesn’t sound like they’re talking much business though, if her repeated giggling is any indication.
Ishouldclose my office door so I can get the rest of these invoices approved, but I can’t seem to make myself do it. I want to make sure they aren't selling her some bullshit just because she’s new and a woman they think they can manipulate.
She’s already proven to be more than a pretty face, though. With her knowledge of the computer systems and her organization tactics and ideas, she’s demonstrated herself as an asset already. She’s quick to pick up on what’s needed at which job sites and knows what vendors have the cheapest options available. She’s quick with her paperwork and is firm in what she wants. She’s easily picked up on the software we use and has already placed a bid for a city recreation center.
She’s memorized the names of the salesmen and vendors, and I’ve seen her jot down little tidbits of information about them, as well as some of the contractors and developers we work with.
It vexes me that she’s so good with people.
Today, much to my annoyance, we’re meeting with Derek Allridge to attempt to win a bid for another job. I don’t know why my dad insists on schmoozing the asshole, but he’s adamant. Instead of sending Alex orDrew, he’s sending me and Emma.Papàthinks it will be good for her to talk to him, give Derek a fresh face to work with.
I think it’s going to be a train wreck.
Small talk and ass kissing—not the fun kind—make me itchy. I don’t fucking care about the weather or what sports team is in the playoffs. I just want to talk about business and be done. I don’t get why we have to make a big deal of it.
“Well, gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure chatting with you, but Ben and I have a lunch date with a developer, so we have to cut this meeting short.” Emma’s saccharine voice floats into my office.
“Of course, it wassogood to meet you, Emma. I hope to see more of you from here on out,” Salesman One practically purrs.
“Let us know if there’sanythingwe can do for you. Day or night. We’ll give you our personal cells in case you need us.” Salesman Two pulls his card from his pocket, scribbles something on it, and hands it to Emma.
Ialmostroll my eyes at the pathetic attempt at flirting.
“Thank you, I’ll be sure to let you know if there’s anything I need.”
The salesmen leave, and I watch Emma tape their cards into her notebook, scribbling something down next to them, then she closes the book, puts it in her purse, and knocks on the open door of my office. She’s wearing a pink checker print mini skirt with a white shirt under a matching pink checker print blazer and white heeled booties. Her curly hair is held back by a light pink headband. Her lips are shiny with some type of gloss—not that I’ve wondered what it is.
If Mattel had a project manager Barbie, she would look like Emma.
“I’m ready to go when you are. I’ll be waiting down in the lobby,” she says before I hear theclick clackof her heels disappear down the hall and down the stairs.
I really, really don’t want to go to this godforsaken lunch, but I refuse to give my dad any reason to think I can’t handle it, and I won’t let Emma meet with Derek alone.
