“After,” I continued to tell my tale, “he drives me home, asks how the date went. When I tell him my complaints, he makes a vague noise to let me know he heard me. I didn’t bother clarifying whether he understood me. But when we get to my apartment—get this—he tries to kiss me at the door!”
This comment led to a slight snicker from Colin, which he quickly recovered from. His eyes were bright as he listened, waiting patiently for me to continue.
“Of course, I didn’t kiss him. I actually… well… I pulled my head back and gave him a face like, ‘Are you kidding me?’” I made the same face and gesture I’d made that evening a few years ago. “Anyway, that was the end of our date, and we’ve been strictly coworkers ever since. Though hedoeslike to try my patience.”
“Because he’s into you,” he said, sounding more convinced than ever. “He just doesn’t know what to do with it.”
“Well, if he is, it’s his problem. I’ve made my indifference to him clear,” I said, now focusing on the drink in my hand and taking a large sip.
“He’ll keep trying,” Colin said, voice low. “I would.”
My eyes flew to meet his, where they lingered far longer than they should have. I had to pull my gaze away, my heart suddenly racing wildly.
Was he trying to flirt with me?What the?—?
I looked back at him, and he was now staring at his phone, leaning forward and crafting a text message with a concerned look on his face.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he said.
He was soformal. Was it a requirement to be so buttoned-up at all times as a VP?
I kept trying to decipher him as I cradled my glass. Everything about him was measured and deliberate. He clearly didn’t let emotion crack through easily.
When he returned a few minutes later, I still had not come to any conclusion, nor had I decided what my behavior should be.
Was I out of my mind?!
My own behavior, of course, would remain professional. Buttoned-up. Like him. Except I wouldn’t be teasing out information about his dating habits.
His was not a happy face. Not that I knew what a happy Colin Slade would look like. The closest had probably been today as I recounted the story of my date with Grant.
Weird.
“They canceled,” he said. He began to pace back and forth.
“What? How can they cancel? We’re supposed to meet in fifteen minutes,” I said, checking my phone for the time.
“I know.” He looked at me, tensed his jaw, and paced again. “There’s nothing I can do, they said. They are signing with another firm as we speak.”
“What the—” I started, and then stopped myself, closing my mouth firmly as if I had uttered the four-letter word.
“Fuck. What the fuck,” he finished my sentence in a quiet but commanding way.
“Yeah,” I said, dazed from the realization that the entire trip was a waste and that my careful and calculated boss was cursing.
The next moment, he reeled himself in, sat down again and took the last swig of his drink. He held the glass idly, lost in thought.
I waited, my hands settled in my lap, not knowing what to do.
“Let’s eat,” he said, stood up again, and placed the glass on the small table.
“I guess we do still have to eat,” I said mindlessly as I got up and moved toward the hostess.
When we were shown to the table in a softly lit corner of the restaurant, he pulled my chair out.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice meek and unsure. I told myself to snap out of it.
He’s just a man. Probably a very rich man. Definitely formidable. But all the same, he eats and goes to the bathroom like any normal person.
