Page 27 of Engineering a Love Story

The late afternoon is left for small meetings between Aurelian and its customers, prospects, and analysts. Evan is set up with his own meetings, and I try not to stress about that as I settle at my small table. I meet first with Aurelian’s head of product management, ask a few PayNow follow-up questions, and pass an easy ten minutes.

Next, Manish appears at my table with Jack Meckler. I stand to greet them, a quick panic rushing through me. I haven’t prepped to meet the CEO. Jack Meckler is just a guy, I know, like all these other guys. But he’s a sleek, older man with a career in Silicon Valley behind him—Siebel or Adobe or someplace, I can’t recall. He has a soft hand and a practiced smile. They sit across from me.

In moments like these, when I’m nervous and blank, wondering how I ended up sitting at this sort of table at all, I often think of my father—all his years at the toothbrush factory and the degree to which he would have clammed up (a rarity for him) if the CEO appeared. Does ProBrush even have a CEO? Or would it be the CEO of the company that owns the factory? I don’t have any idea how things work at Prophylactic Brush—and neither does my father, I’m pretty sure. Whoever the big boss is, my father would be extremely uncomfortable meeting him. Just as I’m uncomfortable with Jack Meckler now.

But I have to come up with something. I rally with a few questions about investments the company is making in the customer service group to support the growing base of customers. Any plans to expand internationally? I muddle through. I’m happy when Jack asks me what Gilroy clients are most interested in, answers I can easily recite. Manish appears to be on his best behavior; he says almost nothing at all.

When the formal sessions end, we’re escorted to a cocktail reception at the Top of the Mark, which takes up the top floor of the hotel and includes a restaurant and bar. A small section has been cordoned off for the Aurelian function, and a few round tables are piled with cheese and other appetizers. Stunning views of San Francisco, the sun beginning to lower in the sky, sweep around us on all sides.

There are fewer people here than in the earlier meetings. Evan has gone already to collect his rental car and begin his drive to Santa Cruz, and most locals are likely heading home-–it’s a Friday night after all. But many of us are stuck for the night or at least until the red-eye. I’m booked on the first flight home in the morning, same as my last trip. Claire has arranged a dinner for those of us who are staying.

I drink a glass of white wine and chat a little with Claire, who flits around, checking on analysts, introducing us to customers or to other Aurelian staff, prepping us for dinner. I fill a small plate with cheese and crackers, then struggle with how to eat from it, the plate in one hand and my wine glass in the other. There’s never enough space to put anything down at these things.

My bare arms prickle in the bar’s over-chilled air, and I’m aware of Seth, even as I try to avoid looking his way. I give up a passing idea to concoct a not-so-chance meeting near the restrooms. He seems settled at a table with the same group of gray-haired men he’d been with at lunch, all of them looking warm in their suit coats. I should’ve known better. Reined in my expectations. Not been so vain about my dress. Brought a sweater.

Eventually, I squeeze to stand at a high-top with Paul Igo. With the city out the windows, Paul tells me about living here with his partner Toby, noting that he could’ve skipped all this, but the restaurant Claire booked for dinner is fantastic and he doesn’t want to miss it.

After an hour, Paul says he’s going to run home, drop his stuff, and meet us at the restaurant. Our section of the bar has cleared, though the restaurant itself is filling up. The table where Seth sat earlier with the other men is empty.

A swing quartet begins to play in one corner and a lone couple moves onto the parquet floor. Her loose bun of white hair is stark against the red of her dress, while his head is bald. He holds her close, and they do a slow, formal foxtrot.

When I next glance around, the function space is nearly empty. Crumpling my cocktail napkin and tossing it onto a plate, I resign myself to making an appearance at this dinner and retiring early to my hotel room, where I’ll attempt a decent night’s sleep before my early flight. I bend to retrieve my bag, which I stowed earlier beneath the table.

When I straighten, Seth is before me.

“Hello,” he says, placing a cocktail glass with ice, a muddled lime, and a drink stirrer on the table. He rests his hand next to it. “How are you?” Heat rises from my chest and squeezes the words in my throat. “I was happy to see you on the attendee list.” Seth’s voice is low, but he’s smiling, a dimple denting one cheek.

“I was happy to attend.” I shift the weight of my bag from one hand to the other. “It was a great event.”

Seth raises an eyebrow. I know he hasn’t come to ask my opinion of the customer event. I peer around the room again, checking for Manish, whom I do not see, though Claire is still there at a table with Greg Kielty and another man. She doesn’t seem to notice us.

Seth watches me. Then he leans forward and I catch his spicy, cinnamon scent. “If there is any way you might be up for seeing me later, I’d like that.” He stands straight again, lifts his glass from the table, and tilts ice into his mouth. His eyes move around the room.

I also scan the bar and the restaurant beyond. Despite my earlier chill, now a light layer of sweat has popped onto my skin. It’s as if I’m standing in the heat of a bright-white spotlight, and it’s glaringly obvious to anyone who sees us that we are not discussing online banking. One look and I figure even that old couple would know what we’re up to. I glance back and hold Seth’s eyes for a moment, until he looks down and messes with the stirrer in his glass.

Reckless, that’s what this is. A single night—delightful as it was—that’s one thing. Repeating that behavior steps into dangerous territory. I could get in trouble at work. And, looking at Seth in his pink shirt, I suspect there are other concerns.

But the tension of being so near him all day, unable to touch or even speak to him, has built up inside of me. I’m not used to recklessness, but that other night with Seth felt like a reward I earned by taking a risk. Can I let myself take another? My gaze goes to the windows, absorbing the view in one frame and the next. The Transamerica building, the lights beginning to twinkle in the bay, a bridge in the distance. All of it too beautiful and dramatic to be real.

I hear the crunch of ice as Seth watches the dancing couple. Then he puts his eyes back on me, and I can’t suppress a smile. I nod, a wobbly laugh tumbling out of me.

Seth presses his lips together and leans forward again, his tie brushing my arm. “Do you want to give me your room number?”

My mind is empty. I’m unsure of my name in this moment, never mind my room number. I look at Seth blankly, and he waits, a questioning crease in his brow. Then I picture it, the gold embossed on the heavy white door. I say the number, and Seth toasts me with his empty cocktail glass, sets it on the table, and is gone.

Sixteen

I’m jittery all through dinner, which is, as Paul predicted, delicious. Or at least it might be; my stomach flutters insistently and I’m so distracted by the idea of seeing Seth later, I barely eat anything.

There are only eight of us at the long rectangular table. Paul and I, a few guys from the smaller firms, Greg Kielty. Manish is there for part of the meal. He sits at the other end with Claire and Greg. He says hello to me early in the evening and goodnight when he leaves.

Back in my hotel room, I pace, my bare feet sinking into the carpet. At least two hours go by. Eventually I curl on the bed, a stack of pillows beneath my head.

It’s after midnight when I hear a soft knock. I startle, sit up, realize I’d dozed. Crossing the plush carpet, my body is tingling before I even open the door.

Seth enters quickly, the edge of his suit jacket bumping against my arm. He stops, a smile breaking across his face. “I’m sorry it’s so late. These guys we had from Houston, they wouldn’t go.” I put one foot on the other, aware of my bare arms and legs. Seth steps closer. “It’s good to see you,” he says. Bending, he gently kisses me.

“You too.” I grab his tie, his lips are on my neck, his hands on my arms, he’s removing his coat.