Page 23 of Things I Overshared
I flip through my tiny, overstuffed closet to find the perfect soft, silky, tailored battle armor for my meeting. I hurry through my shower, eager to get to the office. I have enjoyed torturing my enemy and can’t wait to see what he has to say, but my urgency is more than that. I want to get to the office because I really hate living alone.
Since Skye found Matt, she’s stayed here less and less, which I understand. But multiple nights in a row on the couch with only Netflix for company have left me physically drained. I’ve added an extra weekly Zumba class, and I have Pilates, and I have my standing happy hour with Nicole. But it just doesn’t seem to be enough. And it bothers me that being alone bothers me so much.
I shake off the thought as I pile my hair into an obscenely high, bouncy ponytail. No point in fighting the way I’m wired. God made me with a battery that runs on peopling. I didn’t choose it, I popped out that way. I just have to learn to adjust for a while until I find a new roommate. And a dog. I start to think through different breeds as I go through my routine of packing my lunch, gathering my office shoes and my oversize work purse, and head out the door.
I arrive at the office just in time, noticing the pop music is turned down so low I can barely hear it. I don’t go to change it or give Marge the side-eye. I want to see how this trip itinerary meeting goes before I make my next move.
Margaret gives me a glare that could kill as I approach Emerson's door, but she nods, since it’s exactly 8:45. I knock, and I can barely hear the quiet “Come in” from inside. As I push the door in, the air from his office fills me with nerves. Because there he is, looking a little tired, a little disheveled, and still freaking handsome as ever.
Today, he looks like coffee ice cream, good enough to lick, in a crisp white shirt and cream tie under a tan suit, which I’m sad to notice doesn’t include a vest.Wait, ice cream?A vest? Focus, Sam!
I tamper down a smile that wants to erupt at the contrast of the two of us.
Because I am wearing a neon—yes, neon—pink shift dress with dark blue heels, oversize matching blue dangle earrings, and a big blue silk scrunchie around my fun ponytail. I’m glad our feud landed during the summer, or else I wouldn’t be tanned enough to pull off this look, which I am sure Emerson finds offensive to his precious eyes.
“You wanted to see me?” I say flatly.
He waits a beat before looking up from his clasped hands on his desk. This time as he looks at me, there is a tight flash of some emotion across his face, but it doesn’t read as obvious disgust. He must’ve practiced.
“Please, take a seat.” The words are slow and cold as he glances at the chairs in front of his desk.
“I’d rather not,” I slowly say right back.
“Bloody hell,” he mutters under his breath so soft, I almost miss it. “Miss Canton, I would like to call a truce.” He looks me in the eyes.
And he doesn’t look away.
And I am on fire.
His ice-blue eyes never hold mine, hold anyone’s, this long. It feels like a secret or a privilege. I guess maybe that’s why in that moment, it feels like it’s one of the sexiest things to ever happen to me. And, I mean, I go on a lot of dates. A lot.
“A what?” is all I manage to get out.Speechless? Who am I?! C’mon!
“A truce, Miss Canton. I would like to officially change my position,” he says, and I feel my eyebrows pinch together. “On workplace relationships,” he adds, as if I should have caught on to what he means by now. I decide to make him say the words, and force myself not to start smiling. He clears his throat. “I think you’re right . . . that it’d be good for us to be . . . friends.”
I let my smile take over my face. “You want to be my friend?”
He can only nod, as if speaking the last few sentences was as much work as a triathlon.
I cross my arms and shake my head a bit, and I feel words bubbling up and out before I canslow ’em and stow ’em.“Pff, I’m not sure you know how to be a friend,Mr. Clark. I kinda don’t think you’ll be any good at it, to be honest. And you know what? I am really freaking good at it. I am a great friend. I am fun and loyal and dependable, and I mean, you really missed out, didn’t you? But I guess we are going on the trip together and I don’t particularly want to travel with an archenemy nemesis quasi-boss, so . . . I’ll think about it.”
“You will?” His eyebrows shoot up.
“Yeah, maybe I can be friendly enough for the both of us,” I spit out. To my absolute shock, the corners of his mouth flinch, almost raising to a shadow of a grin. Almost.
“Maybe so,” he replies in a soft, low tone that fills my chest with frenzied butterflies.
“Do you actually want to go over the itinerary?” I ask in a threatening tone.
“No.”
“Because I slaved over it for a month, and if you think you can waltz in and change things two days before we leave, you’ve got another—” I realize he’s already said no. “Oh. Okay, good.” He gives a tight nod, with his lips in a polite, straight line. I switch gears. “So. We’re meeting at the airport Saturday. I guess I should at least get your phone number.”
“You have my number,” he says.
“What?” I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“You took my phone, added yourself, and replied to yourself, at your welcome party.”
