The One I Want

by Scott, S. L.

  “No. Forever.”

  “Depends, I guess, on if you choose to break the pinky promise.” She tears a piece of bread and eats.

  Sighing, I say, “Not you too.”

  “Oh, there are others?” she asks, too entertained for my liking.

  The sandwich is practically calling my name. I take it in hand, ready to stuff my face, but first say, “My brother, Nick, has joined in the fun. Any chance to tease each other and we take advantage.”

  “Speaking of Nick, we’ve never really talked about that relationship.”

  “There’s not much to say. We get along better than most and have the good fortune of working together.” I’m starved, so I take a bite so big that I have to cover my mouth.

  “You’re very lucky to have a sibling. I don’t have any.”

  My chewing slows as we dip into heavier territory. When I finally swallow, I then ask, “Do you mind me asking what happened after your parents passed?”

  Although I prefer the joy she seems to live in, I’m wondering if some of it is a façade. She mentioned protecting her heart, from me, from life, from everyone. The ex sounds like a distant memory, but he left her more damaged than she lets on.

  Tugging the crust from the sourdough, her eyes stay focused. “I lived with my grandmother at that point already, so not much else changed.”

  Her parents passing away must have had a bigger impact than she’s letting on. I have a feeling the time we have left of lunch isn’t enough time to dig that deep. Although, I can’t help but feel that we shouldn’t be having this impromptu lunch at all. Not at work. Not when I’m CEO Andrew. When I’m not Ice Cream Drew. But how do I stop this? Especially when I like her company.

  She’s smart to leave the door open and disguise it under policy. I know the truth, but thankfully, it’s not obvious to anyone else.

  When she holds up the list again, I let her change the subject, knowing she needs to. She says, “I could help you with this list. Well, everything but the last one, of course. That one you have to figure out on your own.”

  Why does accomplishing these tasks sound more intriguing when she offers? “I’m not doing any of them. It’s not a priority of mine.”

  “It is of your mom’s, it sounds like.”

  “Well, yeah, but she’s fixating on something that doesn’t need fixing. I’m focusing on a billion-dollar company.”

  “You’re right. They’re both equally important.”

  “Wait, that’s not what I meant.”

  “We should jump on number two tomorrow. Meet me at nine in the lobby.”

  “N-No. That’s not what I have planned.”

  “What do you have planned on a Saturday at nine AM? Work?”

  “Yes. I was planning on coming into the office to get a few things wrapped for this week and make headway on my research for the meeting on Monday.”

  “As thrilling as that sounds, this,” she says, waving the piece of paper in front of me, “is important. You know what this list really is?”

  “Punishment for the time I told Mrs. Whipple that my mom didn’t like her prized fruit salad?”

  “Prized?”

  “She won the Women’s League Cold Salad Division two years in a row with that fruit salad. She pinned her blue ribbons to her Louis Vuitton, so everybody knew she’d won.” Only in Beverly Hills . . .

  Setting the list down, she finally picks up the sandwich and says, “I’m going to need more details. Go on.” She takes a big bite, keeping her eyes on me—wide and intrigued.

  Why’d I open this can of worms? “After Mrs. Whipple found out about my mom’s dislike of her salad—”

  “Because of you.”

  “I was nine,” I say, begrudgingly, “but yes, because of me. Seeking revenge—”

  “The plot thickens.”

  Lowering my voice and telling the rest of the story like there’s a campfire between us instead of a solid mahogany desk, I say, “Mrs. Whipple told the entire country club that my mom had paid for me to win the science fair that year.”

  Juni gasps. “She didn’t?”

  “She did. Well, Mrs. Whipple did. It was a low blow. I remember how mad my mom was, but how it felt like a reflection on me. I had done the work on my own, but with one cruel attempt at revenge, that was put into question.”

  Reaching over, her hand covers mine, making me wonder if the hurt feelings remain evident on my face. “I’m sorry, Drew.”

  “In my mom’s defense, not only did she not pay for my project to win, but Mrs. Whipple refused to get her eyes checked and often confused the salt canister for the sugar one. We learned the hard way when she tried to teach my brother and me how to make sugar cookies.”

  “Yuck.”

  “You’re telling me. To this day, I can’t look at a sugar cookie without feeling dehydrated.” I clear my throat. “Would you like a bottle of water?”

  Lifting in her seat, she eyes behind me. “You hiding goodies back there?”

  “I sure am.” Waggling my eyebrows, I swivel around and open one of the console cabinet doors to reveal bottles of water and an entire tray of snacks and candies. “I never know if I’m going to need a sugar high or host a client who wants something stronger.” Handing a bottle of water to her, I also take one for myself. Remembering the taste of those cookies like it was two minutes ago, I down half a bottle before taking a breath.

  “Thanks for the bottle and the stories, but you’re not going to distract me with cute childhood memories.”

  I furrow my brow. She might be the weirdest woman I’ve ever met. “What exactly is cute about salt cookies?”

  She snaps twice. “We’re not talking about cookies. We’re talking about this list and what it is.”

  “What is it?”

  Her expression anchors sideways. “Nice try, Christiansen. You know but let me remind you.” She holds it up and waves it. “This is a list of life or, more importantly, getting one.”

  “I have a life, a very full life, I might add.” I take hold of the sandwich again, ready to devour the rest.

  “You, sir, have a life full of work.”

  I’m never going to finish this sandwich at this rate. I set it down and sit back, preparing to be here a while. “And the problem is?”

  “You need a personal life.”

  “You’re assuming I don’t have one already. We’ve spent time together outside of this office. That’s called a personal life.”

  She slow blinks, not amused by my sad attempt to convince her otherwise. “If spending time with me is the only fun, and yes, I know you had fun and will take full credit for said fun, but if that’s it—”

  “I went out with my brother and Jackson,” I reply pointedly. “You saw me that night. I was out with the guys for hours.”

  Appearing to concede, she nods. “That is true. I’ll grant you that time as well.”

  “And we made plans for this weekend. It’s like my whole life is one big party. Anyway, what are you doing when you’re not here or with me?”

  “Okay, settle down. Let’s not get carried away.” Sitting back in her chair, she says, “My point—”

  “Ah. I see your point. What’s good for the goose—”

  “Is not good for the gander.” Placing her hands down on my desk, she stands. “We can play cliché games all day, but wouldn’t it be more fun, and productive, I might add, if we just do what your mom wants and complete the list?”

  Now I’m rolling my eyes. “My mom would have me running around this city if she has her way, and then my dad would serve my ass on a silver platter to the next guy in line for this job.”

  “What kind of dad do you have that serves asses on platters, much less uses the good silver? Your family’s weird. No offense.”

  We’re the weird ones? I scoff, but a chuckle comes out after, sounding more like a mutated bark. Trying to play it off, I cough. “None taken.”

  Concern threads through her forehead. “Are you okay?”

&nbs
p; I clear my throat again. “I’m fine. Just a little chicken stuck in—” I cough again for added effect.

  “You’re good. You’re fine,” she sing-songs. “Are you ever great? Like top of the morning, kick your heels in the air great?”

  “Like a leprechaun? No. But I am great at my job. Yes.”

  Her eyes glide toward the windows, and she says, “At least one of us is,” sounding distracted.

  “Probably not something you should admit to your boss. Anyway, you’ve proven otherwise to everyone at CWM.”

  I see a smile settle in place before she waves me off, embarrassed. “I have a proposition for you.” The queen of sidetracks strikes again.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

  “It’s easy, no worries.”

  “Last time I was told not to worry, I was flying across the country to save a merger. So you’ll have to excuse my concern when someone says not to worry.”

  “I’ll let it slide. Look, you’re new to New York. I’ve been here my whole life. I can help you check each one of these oddball requests off your list in no time. You’ve already done number one. And quite honestly, I’m glad to find out this is what you were doing and that you’re not just some nutball with a grass fetish.”

  That’s what she assumed? “As much as I appreciate the offer, who says I’m even finishing this ridiculous list?”

  “We met because of number one. I’m sitting here now because—”

  “A temp agency placed you.”

  “You can say that all you want, but I’m not convinced that we weren’t supposed to meet on purpose.”

  “Everything happens for a reason.”

  “See? You do believe.”

  “I believe in what’s right in front of me. I believe the tangible and seeing things with my own two eyes.” Not letting her get out of this without hearing what’s on her mind, I loop back around, and ask, “What’s the proposition?”

  “A date.”

  20

  Juni

  True colors don’t stay hidden for long.

  “I thought you were going to come see me at lunch?” Taylor leans against the high counter of my desk like it’s his job to support it.

  Did I miss something? Why does he sound annoyed with me, as if he wrongly presumed our lunch in the break room was a date? “Sorry, Taylor. I had other plans.” It’s not a lie. I ended up with plans in the end.

  Tapping the counter to an annoying beat that doesn’t have a predictable melody, he says, “A lot of us are going to The Watering Hole after work. Do you want to join us?”

  Wonder who ‘a lot’ is? Drew? Laurie? Mary? Or Joseph? Suddenly, I’m caught in what sounds like a nativity scene. Or The Wizard of Oz—oh my!

  Not wanting to pursue a religious avenue or Hollywood classics, I consider the invitation. I’ve not spent time with many others, but I wouldn’t mind getting to know most of them better. I can practically see Gil high-fiving me for getting involved and developing more relationships. Completing my office supplies order, I finally give Taylor my undivided attention. “I’ll pass. Thank you.”

  Baby steps.

  He checks his watch and then starts to leave. “Too bad. I was looking forward to talking with you.” I guess he’s not familiar with what we’re doing now. “It’s five o’clock. Time to blow this joint.”

  I’m no empath, but that guy comes off like an asshole. What is it with accountants in this company? I answer the last call of the day and then place my order online for a delivery on Tuesday. Melissa had her way of doing things, but I’ve already formed a few habits of my own. I don’t use the clip-on box and answer calls while assisting others. I’ve found that although I can multitask that aspect of my job, it’s disruptive to others when I’m walking around answering calls. So if I need to leave my desk, I send the calls to the service.

  I like to get to work early as well. Not only is it peaceful but I also have time to organize the coffee supplies before they get messed up by the zombies showing up needing a first cup.

  At the end of the day, it’s nice to say good night to everyone. Well, everyone who leaves before five thirty. That never includes Andrew and only occasionally includes Nick. The Christiansens are all workaholics from what I’ve witnessed.

  Though sometimes they surprise me . . . while other employees pass by, saying good night as they head home, Nick Christiansen stops by my desk. We haven’t spoken much in these past few weeks, but it’s enough to be on a first-name basis. He says, “Hi Juni, some of us are going to The Watering Hole. It’s a place around the corner.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it.”

  “Oh, good. Laurie and Joseph went early to grab some tables. It’s a last-minute plan, but will you be able to join us?”

  He’s very good-looking, strikingly so, tall like his brother, dark hair, similar soulful brown eyes. His wife is a stunner herself. When his assistant was out sick, I was asked to take notes. That’s when I saw a photo of his wife on his desk.

  But he’s no Andrew . . . I think it’s best if I don’t dwell on something more potentially happening there. I’ll only end up disappointed.

  I drag my purse from the drawer. “I appreciate the offer, but—”

  “I’m ready,” Andrew says, filling the doorway. Not bothered by the witnesses waiting for the elevator or that his brother is standing there, he adds, “I hope you’re coming to the happy hour, Juni.”

  “Absolutely.”

  Nick carries forward, chuckling, and we both follow. “It will be good to unwind and visit with everyone outside the office.” There’s a similarity in how the Christiansen brothers make you feel special, like no one else is around when they’re talking to you.

  The elevator opens, and as soon as the door closes, Nick adds, “I’d like you to meet my wife.”

  Oh great! No pressure. Just me and Natalie St. James, now Christiansen, former Manhattan socialite who never much cared for the spotlight. I’ve read Page Six a few times over the years.

  I’m close to asking why he wants me to meet his wife, but with eight people standing like sardines in this tin can, I think silence is best.

  The doors open, and a guy announces, “You can fit two more,” before he and another guy push their way onto the elevator. The rest of us take a step back, making room we didn’t have to spare.

  I hadn’t wanted to look around. Making eye contact in a confined space is one of my least favorite things. It becomes awkward quickly. Do I make small talk? Or pretend the other person doesn’t exist? Acknowledge them and then move on like they’re dead to me? Elevator etiquette is so confusing.

  But in this frenzy of what to do, I hadn’t noted that Drew was behind me, taking up the back corner. Until now. One step back has my back pressed to his chest, his body so close that I can feel him breathing, almost certain that his heart is pumping as hard as mine.

  When the elevator jolts to a stop on the eighteenth floor, it causes us to shift with it. Sometimes, I regret wearing my nicest heels, four and a half inches of black leather Louboutins. Not today. When I’m thrown off balance, his hand catches the underside of my arm, and his other hand steadies my hip closest to the wall. No one knows. No one but him and me. My arm is released although his other hand lingers a few seconds longer.

  My heart’s been racing since the moment I touched him, and my body’s temperature is rising. It’s stuffy in here. Just me? I run my finger under the collar of my sweater and look around.

  Everyone looks uncomfortable and ready to be out of this hot box. I’m not sure most of their faces would be any different if we were in the fresh air. Dipping my head forward, I swipe the hair from my neck, pulling it over my left shoulder. I close my eyes and swear I feel the ghost of his hand caressing my skin.

  The pressure of his fingers dragging straight down my spine. His lips a breath away. “Ahh.” The sound escapes without permission, and my eyes snap open again.

  Nine sets of eyes are staring at me. I’m feeling confident
to include Drew, though there’s no way I’m turning around to verify. I find my safe place in Nick when he grins sympathetically. The doors open to the lobby, and then he moans loudly. “Thank God we’re here. I hold my breath, too.”

  While I stand in awe of what he just did to cover for me, a few chuckles are heard. But the rest rush forward. Only the three of us are left then, and Nick and Drew both wait for me to exit first.

  I want to thank him, but Julie from the brokerage division says, “I was the new girl until you arrived. How are you settling in?”

  “I think I’m mostly settled.” As we walk, we talk, our large group scattered in the horde of other New Yorkers just getting off work. I only glance back once to see Drew, Nick, and Jackson St. James talking as they walk together.

  It’s then that I notice Drew isn’t wearing a suit jacket. He’s rolled up his sleeves, exposing his forearms and the Rolex I remember from the park. His tie is loose and hanging slightly askew on his chest. Basically, the man’s trying to kill me, or at least weaken my knees.

  And he’s succeeding.

  Inside the bar, Julie introduces me to many of the employees from the brokerage. Joseph is trying to handle his second beer and failing. Lightweight. And I’ve had this weird feeling that Drew is avoiding me, which causes me to hesitate before approaching him. But every time I find him in the crowd, his eyes are on me.

  Half the bar’s eyes are on him. Understandable. But after he staked claim to me when it came to Taylor earlier, I’ve been motivated a few times to stake claims of my own.

  That would be wrong.

  So wrong.

  I’d lose this job, a job I wasn’t even sure I wanted to keep a week ago. Here I am, trying to figure out which department I want to join when Melissa returns.

  It was one mental reference to Taylor, nothing even spoken out loud. And there he is, coming toward me with a shit-eating grin and a beer in hand. “Thought you were passing?”

  Not that I feel the need to justify my change of mind to him, but I say it anyway, hoping it satisfies his curiosity, “I got talked into it.”