Page 53 of Saved By the CEO

Oh, wait, I get it now

Thanks

:)

FOURTEEN

New York greets us with rain, traffic, and a man in a yellow cab calling another man a “fucking idiot.”

I sit in the back of the car with my laptop bag pressed against my knees, watching gray streets and blurred brake lights slide past the window. Across from me, Andrew is on the phone, which surprises exactly no one. He’s been on the phone since we landed, speaking in clipped sentences about permits, investor expectations, a revised schedule, and something called “project optics,” which sounds like a phrase invented specifically to make me want to open the car door and throw myself out.

He also looks annoyingly put together for someone who took the same early flight I did. Dark suit. Clean shave. One hand resting on his knee, the other holding his phone to his ear.

Bossy.

Yes.

Stop thinking about it, you dick.

I shift in my seat and look out the window harder, like I’m in a sad music video or something.

Our first meeting of the day is with a group of investors in a conference room with floor-to-ceiling windows and coffee that tastes like ass. I sit beside Andrew with my laptop open, takingnotes while he talks about timelines, projected returns, zoning, and revised construction phases.

It’s so fucking boring.

One man spends almost ten minutes asking questions about cost overruns, and I briefly consider just ending it right then and there.

But at the same time, I enjoy watching Andrew like this. People listen when he speaks. They lean in. They write things down.

I hate how attractive it is.

After that, there’s a site visit in the rain, where a project manager in a hard hat explains access points and temporary street closures while I try to keep my umbrella from turning inside out. Andrew walks beside me, asking sharp questions under an umbrella of steel that doesn’t seem to care about the wind.

Then there’s a lunch meeting that isn’t really lunch, because no one eats enough for it to count. I have three bites of a salad and spend the rest of the time updating notes while Andrew discusses neighborhood concerns with a woman from the local PR firm. She says “community narrative” six times. I counted.

By late afternoon, my feet hurt, my hair has given up, and my blouse is wrinkled.

Andrew, unfortunately, still looks perfect.

We’re back in the car on the way to the hotel when he finally closes his folder and exhales, like he’s allowing himself exactly one human minute before the next thing.

“You kept up well,” he says.

I turn my head. “Thanks.”

The car goes quiet again.

Outside, New York keeps moving. Wet pavement, flashing lights, and people hurrying to escape the rain. Inside the car, I sit very still and try to act cool. Like,sochill with everything.

The car brakes suddenly, and my laptop bag slides off my knees. Andrew catches it before it hits the floor. Our fingers brush as he hands it to me.

Once we get to the hotel, we take the elevator up to our floor in silence. It isn’t awkward exactly, but it isn’t comfortable either.

“I have dinner with the investors at seven,” Andrew says as we finally reach my door.

“Okay.”

“It might run late.”