Merging my SUV onto Peachtree Boulevard I remind myself that at least she has my business card. Glancing at my phone on the dash I wonder how long it will take her to reach out.
Gabriella
Oliver Greene is the chief financial officer of Greene Agriculture according to his business card. A quick google search confirmed his identity, and not much else. The man doesn’t have any social media accounts. Just a few articles in the Atlanta Journal-Constitution with a few quotes about growing the company from a small family-owned business into the national brand it is now. Apparently, Oliver’s father had started cutting grass as a child and worked as a landscaper in his teens before starting the business in his late twenties. From there it was a slow build until eventually Oliver took over and expanded.
All signs point to a wholesome well-rounded family-oriented man. He had complied with my demands and been a gentleman even when I was in the wrong. Absolutely not my type. I don’t date finance guys. I don’t date nice guys. Since moving to Atlanta, I haven’t dated period. But here I was asking a random man on a date. I’m going to blame it all on the holiday spirit. It has gotten into my head and made me act like I’m in a Hallmark movie. Bunch of nonsense.
Doesn’t stop me from texting him.
I’ll be done around seven.
A few minutes later my phone dings.
I’ll be there.
One dinner can’t hurt. I owe him after all. And that button down was deliciously tight when he had twisted around to talk to me in the car. No, one dinner couldn’t hurt. I thought about texting him again but decided against it. I could properly introduce myself in person.
It’s ten after seven when I walk out of the office building. I didn’t have time to glance around before he was standing in front of me holding his hand out.
“Oliver Greene. At your service.” He says as he takes my hand in his and raises it to his lips to brush a light kiss across my knuckles.
“Gabriella Reid. Pleased to meet you. Officially that is.” I reply, cursing myself for my awkward introduction.
“I noticed you don’t have an accent.” He says as he continues to hold my hand.
“You don’t have much of one either.” I counter with a smile.
“I thought we would check out that Thai place you mentioned.” He says, “Nice public place without having to get into a stranger’s car yeah?”
I feel my cheeks heat with embarrassment. His grin says it all. He brings his other arm over our joined hands and tucks my hand into the crook of his elbow. We begin walking down the street towards the crosswalk.
“At least I didn’t kidnap you.” I say. I’m trying to play it off, but his grin sticks, and I’m beginning to feel like a mouse trapped between a cat’s paws.
“Technically I would argue that you did.” He replies.
“How did I kidnap you?” I ask as I look him over. The man stands over six feet and looks to be in good shape. Even if it isn’t all muscle, he still outweighs me. And I’m betting on the muscle. His fleece jacket fits his arms and chest snuggly, and his slacks grip his thighs like a second skin.
“I considered you to be armed and dangerous when you climbed into my car and demanded I drive you back to work. Those shoes could easily be considered a lethal weapon.” He says glancing down at my heels, “They do criminal things to a man’s body.”
“Oh shush. They’re just shoes.” I say with a smile. I love fashion and I dress to please myself. But I’m pleased by the compliment all the same.
“Said no woman ever.” He replies.
“They are my favorite pair.” I confess.
A celebratory purchase when I received my first paycheck. It’s not the price tag that makes them my favorite although they are the most expensive pair of shoes I own. They’re the symbol of my success. Black leather with that famous red makes a hell of a statement.
“I probably should have asked if you even like Thai food.” He says scratching the back of his head with a sheepish look on his face.
“There is only so much coffee and sugar I can have before I require real food, and Thai is right up there with my mother’s roast.” I say.
“Have you eaten here before?” He asks as he opens the front door that proclaims the restaurant to be namedJust Thai.
“No, not yet. My coworkers have been raving about the curry though.” I say as we queue in line to be seated.
“My guilty pleasure is peanut butter chicken.” Oliver says.
“That sounds good too.” I say.
