“I am having a private conversation,” I say archly.
“About Hot Guy,” Greg says, poking his head in my doorway. Now all three of them are staring at me.
“Hey!” Who knew private was code for everyone flood Shannon’s office and turn into MI5 spies?
Carol is laughing hysterically on the phone.
“You can talk about Hot Guy whenever you want on company time, Ms. Three Point Seven Million,” Greg croons. Eww. It was so much better when he made us reuse plastic silverware and groaned about toner ink costs.
“What does he mean, three point…huh?” Carol asks as I wave Josh and Amanda off like they’re evil spirits. Greg hovers. I pull a tampon out of my purse and he scurries off like a vampire walking past an Italian restaurant in Boston’s North End.
That trick works every time.
Carol’s words sink in. Discomfort slams me with full force. “Oh, uh…Declan’s company gave our company a multimillion-dollar account.”
“Because you slept with him?” Carol gasps.
“I did not sleep with him!” I shout.
“Good girl,” Greg calls back.
“Did you seriously just call her a ‘girl’?” Amanda says. I hear hushed arguments through the thin walls as Carol emits a long stream of words that sound like my mother, minus the rabid need for billionaire grandbabies named Thayer Spotterheim “Scoochy” Mayflower Vanderbilt Kennedy III.
“—and you don’t need to give it up for a business colleague just to land an account!” Carol finishes.
“You take after Dad,” I mutter. “Because Mom seems to think I should give it up so she can have her Farmington Country Club wedding.”
Carol snorts. “She didn’t like the fact that I eloped with Todd.”
“‘Eloped’ sounds so elegant. You ran off to Vegas and got married by a transgendered Elvis impersonator who moonlights as Elvira. Those pictures were…um…” I shudder.
“I know,” she sighs. “Thank God you and Amy haven’t been as stupid. Yet.” She sounds so beaten down that a wave of guilt hits me, even as I stare at the clock. 4:29 p.m. Should I be a good, supportive little sister or fake another call so I can get her off the phone and rip out of here to get home and look better for Declan?
Amanda solves that dilemma for me. “Is Carol still on the phone? And talking about her wedding?” she shrieks as she walks up behind me. “The word ‘Elvira’ must mean yes.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell her you have to go for your hot date! You have a billionaire to boink.” She makes a shooing gesture toward my door. Carol and Amanda adore each other. They have a mutual interest in mocking me endlessly whenever they’re together. I’m so glad I help people bond.
“Go! Boink! I’ll call Amanda and trick her into babysitting for me,” Carol says.
“Ooooh, good one!” I hang up before Carol changes her mind, and grab my purse. Amanda’s phone is ringing before the outer door closes behind me. I walk down the concrete hall bathed in blinking fluorescent lights and look toward the main door’s blast of sunlight through the window, the way a tiny vegetable shoot searches for the sun after it breaks through the outer shell of a seed.
And then—
I’m free.
My stomach flips like it’s an Olympic diver, and my eagerness drains as I reach my car because…this is real. Serious. I have a date with a man who wouldn’t have noticed me if he hadn’t found me hiding in a men’s-room stall with my hand down a toilet.
And yet…he’s an intelligent, respected, gorgeous man with eyes that go hot when he looks at…me? I steady my breathing and let the rush of warmth fill me.
Even as I thrust the screwdriver into the lock and turn the car on, the burst of excitement that comes from knowing that he really wants to get to know me better turns into a tingling anticipation.
Because.
Because.
I’m free.
Chapter Seven
I’m not five minutes into driving home when my phone buzzes with a text. A few months ago I decided not to answer my phone while driving, so I ignore it like Simon Cowell at a preschool holiday choir festival. Driving with a cell phone pressed to your ear isn’t illegal—yet—in Massachusetts, but I can’t climb into a limo without ripping my skirt, or walk across a room in heels taller than a grasshopper, so should I really try to manage a two-ton vehicle and a mobile call at the same time?
My hands feel like bricks—white-knuckled bricks—by the time I pull into my parking spot and ding a plastic trash can as I slam the car into park and grab the phone. Three messages.
All from Steve.
“Blah,” I say, tossing the phone back in my purse. As if I have time to even think about Steve right now. Somehow, in under an hour, I have to go from an ogre to a princess. And I’m no Cameron Diaz. No amount of effort is going to transform me from Plain Old Shannon to Imaginary Perfect Woman when it comes to this date with Declan.
Deep breath.
My mind seems to know this. I am enough. I—as I am—can have a wonderful time with a man a few years older than me, considerably more sophisticated, excessively more successful, and I can go toe to toe with him in the boardroom and the bedroom.
My entire body tightens. And not in the good way.
Can I?
Twelve deep breaths. That throat-tightening feeling, the ribcage that is a little too small, the spacey eyeball-floating thing—all of it recedes a bit. I am freaking out in my crappy car with minutes ticking away before Declan will show up, and somehow the only thoughts I can experience are those that undermine me. Ridicule me.
Invalidate me.
Who do I want to be? This? Quivering Shannon with insecurity issues, stuck in some kind of purgatory from Steve and filled with his ideas about who I am? Goofy Shannon with a hovermother and two sisters who view me as comedic relief?
How about I start seeing myself as Declan sees me. But what, exactly, does that mean? He’s funny, intense, handsome, accomplished, and interesting. The only way to know what he thinks about me is to spend more time with him and to experience it. Tonight I will do exactly that. We’ll talk, we’ll walk, we’ll dance that careful dance that crosses boundaries between our distinct selves as we perform a ritual.
For millennia men have pursued women with varying signals and women have responded with a plethora of replies. We’re just a man and a woman with a spark between us. Whether it lights something on fire depends entirely on how strong that connection really is.