Page 25 of Selfie
“If there’s nothing in here you need”—he juts his thumb over his shoulder—“I believe your desk is that way. Don’t come in here again uninvited.”
He’s not screaming or cursing at me. Nothing he’s said is particularly cruel. I think the reason I’m holding back tears is because I fantasized about a fictitious character for two days straight. This isn’t the man I met at House of Blues. They share a face, but that’s all.
“Understood. My mistake.” I hang my head as I stride past him. He turns, keeping his eyes on me like he’s ensuring there’s no funny business on my walk of shame out of his office. My fingers curl around the door handle. I’m almost free of this uncomfortable interaction. My better sense tells me to walk through the damn door and let it go, but…I have to know. Releasing the handle, I pivot to face Nate.
“I’m Spencer.”
“Okay.”
“You’re Nate, right? Do you recognize me? House of Blues?” I could go on and ask if he remembers his lips grazing mine, or his eyes on my breasts.
My nerves flare up as he crosses the space between us. Now that I’ve jogged his memory, maybe he intends to pick up right where we left off.Would I let him?Here?I hold my breath as he reaches for me.
No, wait.Not for me.
Nate reachespastme, pulling the right side of the double doors open. Holding his palm a few inches from my midback, he guides me through the door without actually touching me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. “And I prefer Nathan.”
He closes the door behind me, and I hear the distinct click of a lock.
I would’ve rather watched paint dry or grass grow than pass the time trying to avoid looking atNathanthrough his large glass office doors. My L-shaped desk is positioned so I can see every move he makes. It would be ideal if Nathan would let me do my job, but he’s been in and out of his office several times and hasn’t acknowledged me once. His silent treatment is so effective, I’m beginning to doubt my own existence.
He has to remember me.Is he embarrassed? Nothing happened. It was a flirty exchange and an almost-kiss. That’s nowhere close to crossing the line. We can still be professional.
Maybe he’s pissed about his phone—which would be petty and ridiculous seeing as he could probably afford to buy a brand-new iPhone daily without putting a dent in his bank account. But I guess if we’re getting down to brass tacks, I did damage his property. I think I apologized at the club.I think.Perhaps it wasn’t enough.
Or, maybe he really doesn’t remember me. I’d like to think our little spark wasn’t that forgettable, but there’s a good chance he took another woman home after I fled the scene with Charlie. Either way, it’s not my business. He’s my boss. I’m done thinking about his piercing eyes and soft, warm lips. My bigger priority should be getting him to speak to me.
At exactly one o’clock, I peel myself out of my office chair. Dawn and Chelsea invited me to lunch and I’m looking forward to the only pleasant human interactions I have on my schedule for the day. I try to get Nathan’s attention through the glass door. I plan on using charades to let him know I’m headed to lunch, but he doesn’t look in my direction. Instead, I write a sticky note:Off to lunch. Back at two. Here’s my cell phone if you need me.After scribbling down my number, I secure the note in the center of my desk before heading to the elevators.
Chelsea and Dawn are waiting for me in the building lobby, but they already have bags of takeout in their hands. As soon as they spot me, they wave and gesture to a seating area left of the front desk.
“I’m sorry, hon,” Dawn says as I approach. “We promised lunch, but James got called to L.A. for an emergency meeting. We’re boarding the jet in an hour, so we’ll have to eat here.”
“We’re?” There’s a hint of excitement in my tone. Then I panic. I can’t leave Charlie to jet set to Los Angeles with a billionaire—even if it is for work.
“Not us,” Chelsea explains in a pretend British accent. “We’re not allowed on the jet, or the yacht. They leave the common folk behind when they travel.”
Dawn rolls her eyes. “First of all, you’ve been on the jet.”
“It was grounded,” Chelsea complains.
“And James doesn’t have a yacht.”
Chelsea squints at Dawn, calling her on her lie.
“In Las Vegas,” she adds.
Chelsea and Dawn begin to unpack the kraft paper takeout bags. We take a seat around the art deco coffee tables that are really not suited for lunch. The leather couches are too far away from the tables. It’s clear this is going to be a plate-in-lap type situation.
“We didn’t know what you wanted, so we just got a little of everything,” Chelsea says as she takes off the lids of the takeout containers one by one. The savory smell of freshly sliced pepperoni and salami fills the air. My stomach churns with desire as Chelsea pulls out the crusty, buttery sandwich rolls. “This is the best deli in the city. We got a sandwich platter so you can try everything.” She pulls out two condiment packets and waves them in my face. “Unconventional, but pair the brown mustard with the Italian dressing. It shouldn’t work, but I swear”—she pinches her fingers together and kisses them—“pure perfection.”
“Thank you.” But I stay fixed in my seat while Dawn and Chelsea build their plates.
“What’s wrong?” Dawn asks, looking over her shoulder. “Vegetarian?”
I pull my strawberry protein drink out of my purse and wave it in the air. I didn’t bother putting it in the fridge and now it’s room temperature. “I’m set.” My game plan was to chug my drink, then order a dry salad wherever we went for lunch. I wasn’t expecting this turn of events.
“That’s your lunch?” Concern washes over Dawn’s face.
