Page 87 of Whispered Promises

ROSY

Walking into the office this morning, I have a pep in my step, wrapped in a protective “no bullshit will penetrate” feeling. Because Noah asked me on a date after dinner last night, for tonight.

Don’t ask me when I last went out on a date with someone, because it’s embarrassing that I can’t recall when it last was.

Wandering over to my desk, I relax into my seat, letting my laptop load whilst I tug out the pastry I’d grabbed from the bakery on my way in. Maple and pecan Danish; honestly, it’s heaven wrapped up in a flaky, buttery pastry. It’s obscenely good.

Licking the remaining sticky, sweet residue from my fingertips, I get to work, sorting through and replying to some of the urgent emails that have come through since Friday. There are a lot, but am I stressed about it? Nope, because I’m still in the bliss bubble, cocooned and protected; nothing is getting through.

Happy thoughts only.

“Rosy,” Julia calls out, her heels clicking loudly on the wooden flooring as she approaches my desk. We’re only a couple of years apart in age, but we couldn’t be any more different. With her auburn hair slicked back into a tight ponytail and her flawless face, perfectly contoured and highlighted, she radiates a confidence I could only dream about.

I couldn’t even successfully fake that, as it’s so embedded into her skin, nothing could penetrate through and tear her down. In a male-dominated office, she’s managed to push her way to being one of our top-earning agents, and I can’t help but respect that.

I just wish she wasn’t so…

“I have a potential client I need you to meet with.” She pauses, tapping her sharply pointed burgundy nails on my desk. “It was the only time they could meet, but I have another meeting beforehand that slightly overlaps. So you need to meet with them and start running through the usual process before I get there.” She looks at me expectantly, her features effortlessly smooth and sharp.

“Yes, I can do that. If you can send me the details?” I ask, politely of course, even if I’d rather say no.

“It’s on Wednesday, 11:30 at the Coffee Bar. I should be there no more than ten minutes after, so you just need to cover until then,” she advises, her speech slower, as if she’s unsure I’m able to remember all the details or how to attend a meeting.

A bubble. I’m in my happy bubble.

“Sure, no problem. I’ll be there,” I promise, offering her a warm smile in reassurance.

Her brow raises ever so slightly, then she spins and strides off, her black pinstripe pantsuit gliding around her legs.

I slouch when I’m finally alone, her brash confidence no longer holding me up, and sink into the feeling of inadequacy.

I think she pierced a tiny hole in my bubble, her sharp claws striking through the shield.

“Are you sure you don’t mind hanging out with him? He’s doing so much better, but maybe I should stay home? I can let Noah know I can’t make it,” I say, my lower lip rolling between my teeth as I teeter back and forth in my indecision.

Now that I’m faced with the very real idea of going on a date with him, I’m shitting myself. Why can’t we just stick to oversized comfy clothes and dinner at theirs? That’s easy; it feels safe.

But the idea of going to dinner, in a restaurant full of strangers, sitting across from one another as we have to maintain eye contact, watch each other eat, and try to ensure the conversation is going without any awkward silences… Cue the stomach churns, clammy hands, and spiralling thoughts.

“Nope, you’re not cancelling. You’re going to dinner. You’re going to have a nice time, then you can come home and tell me all about it. Moshi and I are going to binge-watch some trash TV, eat takeaway, and hang out. You’re not invited to our slumber party,” Steph says, pointing a finger at me to show she’s serious.

We both know she’s not. If I really couldn’t face going, I know she would be on the phone making up the best excuse as to why I can’t make it. Instead, she’s firmly telling me I can do it.

So that means I can, right? If someone else says it, then it’s true.

Pushing back my shoulders, I stare at myself in the mirror, ignoring Steph sprawled on my bed as she types away on her phone.

Nothing feels right. Tugging at the sleeves of my red polo, I give up and whip it off, discarding it onto the pile at her feet as I stand frustrated in my underwear.

“What about that denim shirt? The one with the embroidery?” Steph suggests, her head tilted to the side as she watches me.

“Denim? Isn’t that too casual for a dinner date?” I huff, not being able to decide what feels comfortable yet smart enough to go out with Noah. He’s always so put-together, so cleanly dressed that I don’t want him to be disappointed.

“Excuse you. You’re dressing for yourself and no one else. That shirt looks super cute on you, so if you want to wear it, then do it. If you want to wear anything from your wardrobe, then you can do that too,” she admonishes, leaving no room for me to disagree.

Reaching into the wardrobe, I tug the shirt she mentioned from the hanger, sliding my arms through it and pulling it on. She’s right, I do love this shirt. It's a soft, mid-blue denim with washed-out areas and a flattering V-shaped collar. Scattered across it are tiny, embroidered lemons, limes, and blueberries.

Choosing a pair of tailored blue trousers, I tuck in the shirt and check my reflection. I feel good, and I feel like me.