Page 47 of Things I Overshared
No need to apologize.
Shall I order what you had last time? Extra fries?
No thanks.
I pat myself on the back for my restraint. Because I want togo offon this jerkwad. But coworkers do not go off. They remain professional.
I text my new pal Trina to see if she can do dinner, but she can’t. I debate going exploring again, but my feet are killing me and my body is still unsure of the time. A bit sad, I decide I need some comfort food. I change into comfy joggers and an old Dunder Mifflin T-shirt and head out into the common area. I spot a speaker in the living room, which I grab on my way to the kitchen.
Emerson is in his room, I assume, as I try not to care. I connect my phone to the Bluetooth speaker, launch the next song on my London playlist, and head to the fridge, finding the groceries I ordered. I pull out the ingredients for my grandma’s garlic butter chicken. I get out a pan, and I’m not gentle about it. I’m going about my business, but it’d be a fun bonus if my business happened to irritate Jack Frost on the other side of the wall.
Emerson emerges sans vest, tie, and jacket. If I hadn’t seen him in nothing but exercise shorts this morning—no! Block it out!—I’d guess he sleeps, works out, even swims in a dress shirt and slacks.
“Are you . . . cooking?”
“They don’t call you a genius for nothing, huh?” I snort, not looking in his direction. He stands there, aghast. “It’s one of the few things I’m good at,” I say with a laugh. It stings, my comment about myself. Doesn’t mean it’s not true, though. Emerson is still standing, staring, his mind clearly blown. Is it that hard to believe that Silly Sam cooks? Jeez.
“People,” he finally says.
“What?”
He takes a half step forward. “You’re good at people . . . you’re amazing. With people.”
“Pff, not all of them,” I say, gesturing at him.
He nods. “Quite.”
No argument, no laugh, no insistence that we’re friends. Nope, he just turns and goes back into his room, which is where he stays for the evening aside from the brief break to get his room service order and tip the attendant.
Coworkers. That’s all we are. I remind myself as I eat my delicious, comforting meal, as I sit and watchLove Is Blindon Netflix, and as I crawl into bed. Even as I fall asleep, I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that it’s just a few weeks with a cold, quiet boss. I have plenty of friends back home, plenty of exciting things to look forward to on this trip.
So why am I so sad?
Chapter 14
The next two days are an almost carbon copy of our day with Julie, minus Emerson’s episode. And without the early morning sweaty nudity, fortunately and unfortunately. I hear him return from the gym in the mornings, though, knowing he’s out there glistening, and force myself to wait for coffee until I’ve heard his bedroom door shut. Since I’m awake and . . . inspired . . . I have been doing my Zumba workouts on YouTube at the same time.
We spend the days wowing our buyers with our respective talents. Emerson is downright mesmerizing. It’s not just his mind at work—it’s his quiet confidence, the ease with which he works. And talks. He talks with ease about his work. And damn if I’m not a bit jealous of numbers and clients and spreadsheets. Why can’t he talk to me like that? I am the easiest person to talk to ever.
We end the days with fancy dinners at two of the most exclusive restaurants in London. I delight with questions about children, spouses, and hobbies. Emerson orders wines that I’m sure cost as much as a used car, a talent that seems to make up for his overall silence throughout the social portions of our days. He also quietly takes care of everything, as if, while the rest of us are chatting, he’s anticipating our needs: the next round of drinks, a huge sampler of desserts, the bill already paid for, the cars already waiting at the curb.
For both days, even while I notice him more and more, I try harder and harder not to show it. I focus my attention and conversation on anyone and everyone except Emerson himself.
I give Charlie detailed recaps of our triumphant meetings, not speaking to the man in the seat next to me on the drive home. Ignoring him is getting harder, though, not only because he is brilliant and unbelievably gorgeous, but because he’s becoming increasingly mysterious. Why the bright ties, which have continued the last two days? Why hasn’t he gone to see his family in the six days we’ve been here? He could’ve met them for dinner or dessert multiple times. What does he do holed up in his room? Is he texting Miranda?
Last night we got in late, so I retreated to my room, where Netflix was waiting. Tonight, though, I need to brush up on Thomas and Timothy, the brothers we’re meeting with tomorrow. I set up with my binder and a snack at the table, playlist engaged at the speaker.
“All right.” Emerson bursts out of his room. “This supposed ‘London playlist’ is pitiful. Where are the Beatles? The Stones?”
It’s the most expressive I think I’ve ever seen him.
“‘Here Comes the Sun’ is on there. I just haven’t gotten to it yet, I guess.”
“That’s it?”
“I don’t know, there are like a hundred songs. I’m sure there’s more Beatles on there. Do you mind? I’m studying here.”
“You cannot possibly study with that on.”
