I glance down at my cute red pencil skirt with white polka dots and sigh loudly as I look back up and meet his eyes. “That’s too bad, because you really don’t deserve to see these legs or this adorable skirt except when they’re walking away from you.”
And that is my new most enjoyable part of the meal.
When I walk into the office the next day wearing a new pair of black Louboutins, Matthew, my CEO, arches an eyebrow. “Dare I say, your last date was rubbish?”
I set down my bag and face him, hands on my hips. “I can’t tell if you’re being snarky or if it’s just your accent.”
“I can’t help it. I’m British.”
“So . . . a bit of both, then?” He acknowledges that with a hint of his oh-so-charming smile.
“What gave it away? The bad date?” I ask. “Or are you predicting based on my luck so far?”
“The new shoes.” He points at my feet. “I know those are your solace.”
Sighing heavily, I fall into my desk chair. “Shoes have never disappointed me.”
“Sorry you’re having a rough go of it out there, love,” he says.
I swat the whole subject away like the pesky thing it is. “Enough about my dating woes. Tell me about yours.”
He looks sheepish, spearing his fingers through his dark-blond hair. “Will it make you feel worse if I say mine aren’t woeful at all?”
“Really?” I sit up with interest. “Restore my faith in dating humanity. No pressure.”
Chuckling, he shakes his head then lets loose a bright smile. “Things with Phoebe are great. I’m very, very happy with her.”
“Oh?” I lean forward, my elbows on the desk. “You’ve seen her a lot in just a few weeks. Do you think it could get serious?”
“I think I have a seriously good time when we go out together,” he says, evading the question.
“That’s good.” If someone is going to have fun falling in love while I’m in some kind of romance torture experiment, it definitely should be Matthew. He’s a good guy, and gorgeous, and then there’s the accent.
If only I wasn’t against dating at work . . .
No. When I picture an “if only” guy, it’s not Matthew I see. It’s the San Francisco Cougar ballplayer with a crooked boy-next-door smile and let’s-get-into-trouble eyes.
3
Nadia
A few more months later
* * *
Something I love about my job?
Awards ceremonies.
Big, splashy events with red carpets, flashing cameras, and everyone in tuxes and formal wear.
I love pretty dresses, and these galas are that, dialed up to eleven. Satin or silky, floor-length and flowing or short and sassy—I like to change it up, keep the press guessing.
But for some reason, I’m having trouble picking a showstopper to wear to the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala. I have plenty of gorgeous dresses in my bedroom-sized closet, but none of them are grabbing me. As I hold one after another up in front of me in the mirror, I keep wondering what Crosby would think of them. Then I tell myself to stop trying to impress him, which only makes me think of him more.
Finally, I follow the prompt from my subconscious and call him. We exchange pleasantries like it’s been days instead of months since we talked, then I say, “Rumor on the street is you’ll be at the LGO Excellence in Sports Awards Gala.”
“The rumor, huh?” Crosby’s warm, gravelly voice, full of humor, makes me smile. “That’s me, I guess. Everyone’s favorite topic of conversation.”
I don’t know what I was worried about. Calling him was absolutely the right thing to do. My shoulders unknot, and I appreciate my clothes the way they should be appreciated.
Heading out to my living room, I sink onto the couch in my apartment, and let myself enjoy the phone call. “So, you’re going?”
“I’ll definitely be there. How about you?”
“Same.”
There’s a slight pause. “Are you bringing anyone?”
“No. Oh, well, Matthew will be there, but he works for me. Otherwise, it’ll just be me, my designer clutch, and enough cash for the bar.”
“I can spot you for a drink. Assuming it’s not an open bar. I don’t remember. Maybe that’s the Sports Network Awards. Or I’m thinking of a wedding I went to.”
“Probably the latter.” I lean back on the couch, stretch out my legs, and fold them back up, all before I ask, “Will your date mind you buying me a possibly free drink?”
“No date for me either. So no problem.”
I snort. Obviously no problem. No woman is going to tell him, “Sorry, sweetie, but you belong in the kitchen,” or feel emasculated by his salary.
My desire for companionship isn’t about the event; I like going solo. It’s my regular life that feels kind of . . . partnerless.
“What’s that sigh for?” he asks, hearing more than I wanted him to.
“It wasn’t a sigh. It was a snort.”
