“If we could get back to business,” James says, motioning all of us to sit at the large oak table. It easily seats twenty and has carved legs thicker than my thigh. And let me tell you, that means it’s nice and big, like something from the Teddy Roosevelt administration.
The entire office reeks of man. Thick, brown leather couches and pub chairs. Ornate Persian rugs bigger than the entire footprint of my parents’ house. Heavy wood fixtures and Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired glass lamps.
Make that original Frank Lloyd Wright designs, most likely.
My face on fire, among other body parts, I sit at the table. Declan takes a seat across from me. My view faces the window, and it’s amazing. And the sky is damn nice looking, too.
Greg rambles for five minutes about marketing crap that used to be important to me, but now all I can do is sneak looks at Declan and wonder how on earth I can put the genie back in the bottle. I don’t want to be attracted to him. I don’t want to be attracted to anyone.
My good nights involve cuddling with Chuckles on the couch while I binge watch seasons of television shows on Netflix with my favorite crab rangoon and hot ’n’ sour soup takeout from the place down the street. The guy knows me so well he lets me tip him an extra $3 to hop over to the convenience store and get my favorite pint of ice cream.
Now that’s love. Even if you have to buy it.
This kind of interest in and from a man is deadly. It kills hope. Because here’s how it works: I like him. He likes me. We bump uglies in bed. I want to talk about emotions. He wants to talk about anything but. I want a future.
He wants another girlfriend.
See? I can write the script and deliver it done. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Steve dumped me because I wanted a future and he wanted the female equivalent of a hood ornament. Which, as I smooth my shirt over my ample hips, I am not—in Steve’s eyes. The woman he turned to after me is poised, well-coiffed, has a master’s in public health from Harvard, and comes from a family that was among the original Mayflower descendents.
My Mendon roots can’t compete.
Why am I thinking about Steve right now? I wonder, though as I take in the surroundings as Amanda steps up and recites statistics about new product testing and upselling by clerks in the Anterdec fast-food chains, I realize why.
Because Steve should be sitting at a table like this. Probably is, right now, in fact. Negotiating some business deal with a group of smirking suits who view every woman they work with as a coordinator.
I watch Declan watching Amanda, and really look at him. He’s serious now, eyes tracking the PowerPoint slides as she clicks through, graphs and charts aligned beautifully to nail the entire point of this meeting:
We know our stuff.
You want to improve customer service, cut down on employee theft, help raise retention, and grow your customer base?
Let me lurk in your men’s rooms and report back what I see.
What I saw this morning is suddenly staring back with a wolfish look so deep that I feel raw and vulnerable, like our suits, the rugs, the business paraphernalia is all just a prop to cover up the fact that we’re primal beings who simply want each other.
This is new.
This is too much.
Someone says my name. They say it again. Then I feel a massive pain in my ankle.
“Ow!” I utter. Amanda’s glare is even sharper than her ankle as it crashes into mine again. She’s kicking me.
“It’s your turn, Closer,” she whispers. I look around the table. James, Andrew, and Greg look at me expectantly.
I stand, completely rattled. The deck I prepared is on the same laptop Amanda’s been using, but it’s like I’ve lost all organizational capacity in my mind. Declan won’t stop looking at me like that.
Like that. Like he’s watching me na**d and he’s nude and rising up to meet every square inch of my…
James starts to frown while Andrew gives Amanda a knowing look. I clear my throat, but before I can say anything, Declan interrupts.
“We have another meeting to get to,” he says.
“We do?” Andrew interrupts, then, “Ow!” I get the impression Amanda’s not the only one kicking ankles, because Declan gives his brother a fierce look.
“We do. And as the new vice president of marketing, I’m the decision maker here, right?” He looks at James with a hard stare.
All the friendliness drains out of the room. Greg looks like he’s about to throw up, then pastes on a sad smile.
“Is there a reason why you won’t have me finish the presentation?” I ask, my voice spiked with ice. If he’s going to be an ass**le and cut me short, and this has all been some kind of game, I’m not leaving without having my say. I’ve been through enough presentations like this to know that if you can get the senior executive on board, even if the other two don’t like it, you have a fighting chance.
“Oh, you’ll finish it.” Declan's voice is dismissive. It makes my jaw ache, and I bite my tongue. “But I can’t now.” He becomes a smartphone zombie, avoiding eye contact. He’s blowing hot and cold like the old heater in Greg’s office.
James stays quiet. I get the sense it’s not his normal state. His eyes flick over me, then back to Declan. “Of course, it’s your call.”
“But my presentation has some hard data that could really affect your decision,” I say. I’m not going without a fighting chance.
“I’d like to reschedule your presentation,” Declan says as he strides toward the door. Andrew follows him, slowly and with the stance of someone who is not accustomed to being the follower.
“When?” Greg asks.
“Tonight. Shannon and I will have a dinner meeting. Seven. Wear something nice,” he says over his shoulder as he walks out.
Fury washes over me and I stand, crossing the big room in seconds. My hand reaches out for his shoulder and he turns around, eyes cold, looking down on me.
“You can’t just order me to go on a date with you!” I cry out. The receptionist cocks her head, listening.
“Who said anything about a date?” His face is inscrutable. “It’s a business meeting. Leave your address with Stacia and she’ll have a driver sent to your home.”
And with that, he stalks out. I start to follow him, but Amanda and Greg appear.
“He can’t do that!” I sputter to Greg. Back me up, dude, I think.
James McCormick comes out, a bemused look on his face as he stares at me. “Ms. Jacoby, I assume you can give a good show for Declan tonight?”