His dimple appears. It gives him away even when he’s trying not to smile or show his amusement. “Okay.”
“I mean, shouldn’t we?” I ask. Or have I invented the entire undertone to the way his hands lingered on my face and neck outside Andalo?
“You’re right,” he says, voice rough. “We should clear the air.”
I nod once. “I don’t want us to be a distraction for each other.”
Will slips his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He laughs briefly, bites his lip, and asks, “Do you plan to stop existing?”
I was wanting you.
My heart shouldn’t be singing. “If it makes you more comfortable, we could move most of our meetings to be virtual.”
He stares at me, his lips slightly parted. “Do I makeyouuncomfortable?” The question sounds genuine, like he really wants to know.
“No,” I jump to say. “It’s not—it’s notmyproblem. I just don’t wantyouto feel like you’ve gotten yourself into a situation you’d rather not—”
“Being around you doesn’t make me uncomfortable either,” he says, cutting me off. “You’re…” Will presses his lips together. “Warm. You’re a very warm, caring, hardworking person. Being around you makes me feel pretty good about myself, actually.”
His words inflate me until I’m lightheaded. Nobody has ever phrased something that way about me before. The idea that being in my presence could make another person feel better about themselves. That my presence has that kind of positive impact.
“I don’t want to go virtual,” he says, taking a measured step toward me. “Frankly, that would look bad to my boss, and I just don’t think it’s necessary. I’m a professional, and I’ll act like one. No distractions, business only.”
He watches me, waiting for my input.
“What about standing when I enter or exit a room? Can you stop doing that?”
His head cocks. “Why, specifically?”
I panic and change my mind. “No reason.”
“Then no,” he says, biting on a smirk. “That I can’t stop, or my mother might kill me.”
“So, we’re negotiating,” I say.
“Mm.” The dimple again.
“No more personal favors.”
He nods. “Agreed.”
“We should avoid talking about our personal lives.”
“Okay. What else?”
I consider. “I think that covers it.”
Will’s eyes cut from mine, and he twists back. “In that case.” He reseats himself in one of the chairs, and I walk around to my side of the desk, taking a seat. There’s an entire panel of wood between us, but somehow, it still doesn’t feel like enough distance.
“I have two things for you.” Will leans forward and slides two folders across the desk. “The first is an action plan for B Corp Certification. The second is research on how to open your physical stores in alignment with your B Corp strategy.”
I whip open the first folder and parse Will’s research. It’s meticulously organized, typed, graphed, printed.
“How long will it take?” I ask.
“Typically six to eight months. But I swore I’d work harder for you than I’ve ever worked on anything, and I think we could get the assessment filed in three months. After that, B Lab will review your information, and you’d need a score of eighty or higher to pass.”
“Eighty or higher,” I repeat, my eyes tracking across the paperwork.
