As he gets onto one knee beside our table, my chest constricts, and my vision becomes blurry.
"Zandra Nowak," he says, loud enough for everybody nearby to hear him. "I know we haven't known each other for long, but you're a spectacular woman and I know we're going to have a great future together. I love you and I'd be honored if you'd become my wife."
My vision clears. I stare down at him as he sways uncomfortably because his knee isn't touching the floor.
"Zandra?" he says. "Did you hear me?"
"I'm going to San Francisco," I say, the words running out before I can catch them, but I don't regret a single one.
His expression changes, his lip curling up in a snarl and his nostrils flaring, but it disappears as quickly as it came. He knows he has an audience. "I understand." He stands up. "But you'll have to come back. I won't follow you there."
"I don't want you to."
He snatches the cupcake, squashing it in his grip. "Forget it. Call me when you're not being melodramatic." He storms out of the restaurant.
The other patrons in the restaurant are quiet, allowing the distant sound of pots and pans crashing against each other to permeate the room.
A couple of minutes later, the waitress sneaks the bill onto the table.
I can't save Thomas Fleming. Hell, looking at the bill, I can barely save myself.
Chapter 1:
Zandra
“Miss Nowak,” John says. “Why did you choose to become a graphic designer?”
John looks like the type of man who has never left his neighborhood but insists that he knows everything about the world. It could be because he’s sitting behind a massive desk in an office with only glass walls, but I’m fairly certain it’s the way he peers at me over his rimless glasses with a level of disdain reminiscent of old British monarchs. He also disturbingly reminds me of Tom.
I glance through the glass wall to my right. A long cherrywood table takes up most of the space, though only three people are sitting down at it, working on their laptops. One of them is wearing a t-shirt that has a t-rex chasing after a strip of bacon on it. It’s absurd and I love it.
“Miss Nowak?”
I turn back to John. He’s staring at me like he can sift through my thoughts, which would be unfortunate because most of my thoughts center around bacon now.
“I love art,” I say, sitting up straighter. I have no idea how John maintains such great posture when he works in front of computers all day. “I know everyone says that, but it’s true. And in graphic design, a lot of people get to see what I create. And everything has a purpose. I’d compare it to Thanksgiving.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Thanksgiving?”
I lean forward. “Because I drink a lot during both.”
He doesn’t even smile. I lean back into the chair.
“I’m sorry. That was a joke. I definitely won’t drink while I’m working—if I get the job here. I won’t drink while I do any work.” I take a deep breath. “I meant that during Thanksgiving, everyone—or a lot of people—they make this great meal that you’ve been planning for a while. And eating it on your own is great, but it’s better when you can share it with other people because it’s not just about eating—it’s about getting together. It’s about being together. That’s what graphic design is like. I’m sorry. I’m not making any sense.” His face expresses nothing. I might as well be conducting my job interview with a sculpture. Or an android. Or a sociopath.
“In your portfolio, I saw that you designed the latest user interface for the BodyBook,” he says, his hand barely raising to indicate his computer. “Did you come up with the concept on your own or was it a collaborative effort?”
“I came up with it on my own,” I say.
He clasps his hands together. “All of it?”
“Yes,” I repeat. “I know I was just an intern, but my boss—Caitlyn Rowe—took a chance on me and she loved it, so we—"
“Do you think the fact that she didn’t have you collaborate indicates that you’re not a team player?”
“I can be a team player,” I say quickly, though I’m not certain if it’s true. It’s not that I have a problem with people but once I get involved in a project, everything else becomes insignificant and other people become intimidated. Maybethatmeans I’m not a team player.
He looks out his window, which takes up his whole eastern wall, where he can see all of the other glass, steel, and stone buildings of Silicon Valley. It should make the area feel cold and uninviting but the unique architecture, the various gardens, and the people strolling around humanizes it in a way I haven’t seen since I was in Paris.
