by Kelly Myers
I raise my brows at him. I’m surprised he noticed.
“What?” Michael says with a teasing smile. “I can sweet-talk and count at the same time, I’m very multi-faceted.”
I let out a huff of laughter and turn back to my notebook.
“Two,” Michael says.
“That does not count,” I say. “I barely smiled.”
“Barely still means it existed,” he argues.
I sigh and try to direct the conversation back to the job.
“That guy Lucas is gonna fight us on everything,” I say. “Just to be contrary.”
“I can see that,” he says. “He was the dark-haired one?”
I nod.
“And Bridget can’t focus,” I say. “She gets distracted.”
“Jeez, how do you know all their names already?”
“I’m very multifaceted,” I say.
Michael tips back his head in laughter. I smile again, but I keep my head down so he can’t see it. His tallying game is stupid, and I refuse to be the butt of the jokes he probably texts to his bros back in Chicago.
“Three,” he says.
Damn it, he saw.
“Stop,” I say. “I don’t care how much money is in the pool or whatever this stupid bet is.”
“It’s not a bet,” Michael says.
His voice has become deadly serious all of a sudden. I look up from my notebook and see that his brow is furrowed in concern. Or fake concern. You never can know with a guy like Michael.
“You’re tallying how many times you can make me smile to report back to your friends in Chicago,” I say. “It sounds like something people are betting on.”
I do my best to keep my voice cold and steady, but I feel a small quiver creeping in at the end. I keep my eyes steely and focused on him. I can’t afford to look weak. Not so early in the assignment.
“I didn’t say I was reporting the numbers back,” Michael says. “I never said that.”
“Well, I made an educated guess based on past behavior,” I say.
The guys in the office are always betting on things. Who can get a date with the hot new secretary. Who can have the most tequila shots on a Friday night after a long week of work. Even who can toss the most scraps of paper into the waste bin from their desks.
They were shocked when I won that one. They didn’t know that I was once the star point guard on my high school basketball team.
“Well, you’re not always right,” Michael says. “It’s not a bet.”
He sounds uncharacteristically angry, and it’s making me uncomfortable.
“So what is it then?” I snap.
I wish more than anything I could make a joke to diffuse the situation, but that has never been my way. Beatrice would make a perfect joke or sly comment that would get us all laughing again and lighten the mood. If only she was here.
“It was a personal challenge,” Michael says.
He smiles then, and the slightly crooked curve of his lips sends shivers up and down his spine.
“I like your smile after all,” he says. “Your real one that is.”
I shut my notebook with a sharp flick of my wrist. He is despicable. It’s as if he can’t help but flirt with every single woman he comes across. Even me, when I have made it very clear that I am unimpressed by his charms, and I see right through his flatteries.
He’s looking at me with a steady gaze, and I turn away. I’m not going to maintain contact with him while he’s testing out his flirting with me. No way.
The car pulls up outside the hotel, and I sigh with relief.
I hop out onto the sidewalk without even bothering to pull my light wool coat on. It’s chilly now that it’s evening, but I can tolerate the cold air long enough to get to the hotel room.
We’re only a few blocks away from Central Park, and I notice that the trees are starting to burst with fall colors. Maybe I’ll go for a run in the morning.
I focus on that instead of Michael as I stroll into the hotel lobby. Although it’s hard to ignore him. He’s very tall, and he seems to always make a bit of noise as he walks. His blazer flaps against his side or his hand fidgets with coins in his pocket.
“The park is close, and the foliage looks nice,” he notes. “We should go for a walk, maybe this evening?”
I’m surprised he noticed the park as well, but I keep my expression neutral.
“I think I’m gonna go to my room and rest a bit,” I say.
We enter the elevator. Hastings booked us rooms side by side on the same floor. It makes sense, but I wish I didn’t have to know exactly where he is at all times. It’s distracting.
I hit the button for floor 17, and we stand side by side.
“You deserve a rest,” he says. “You crushed that presentation.”
I don’t understand how he can go from talking about how much he enjoys my smile – I still want to gag at the thought of his faux flirting – to casually commenting on our work assignment, but I know I need to roll with it.
“Thanks, you did well too,” I say.
“It was all your plan though,” he says. “We make a good team.”
I nod and give him a brief smile as the elevator arrives at our floor.
I make a beeline towards my door.
“See you later,” I say.
Then I dash into my room and shut the door tight.
Alone at last. Far away from the irritating charms of one Michael Barnes.
I kick off my heels and collapse onto my bed.
I know he’s full of baloney. I know everything he says is fake.
And yet when he complimented my plan, I still got a rush of happiness. When he said we made a good team, I almost clapped with joy.
I almost believe that maybe, just maybe, he actually meant it.
6
I decide that I deserve a very relaxing night after nailing the presentation.
So I change into my pajamas, even though it’s only 7, and I settle down in my hotel bed. Maybe later I’ll even treat myself to some room service.
I pull out my phone and start scrolling through my Instagram.
Contrary to popular belief, I do sometimes stop working. I know that if I worked nonstop, I would get burned out. So I really like to laze about and stare at funny memes every now and then.
Most people at my office would never believe it, but it’s true.
After I mess around on my phone for a bit, I decide to call my dad. Besides my friends, he’s my biggest fan.
Growing up in the suburbs of Indianapolis, he always told me that if I kept working hard and getting good grades in school, I would go far. And I believed him. Now he celebrates all my professional accomplishments.
He picks up on the third ring.
“Hi Dad,” I say.
“Hey, sweetie,” he says. “How are you?”
“I’m in New York,” I say. “I landed a massive client.”
He doesn’t need to know that technically I’m sharing the massive client. I don’t even know if I can form the words to describe Michael without cursing his name right now.
“Oh, honey, that’s great!” my dad cries.
I describe the new assignment to him, and I go out of my way to stress how important the whole thing is. He’s overjoyed.
I’m the oldest of three, so I always felt like I didn’t get a ton of attention. My little brother and sister were always taking up my parents’ time. I love both my siblings, but I still have that old habit of trying to overcompensate and grab back the spotlight.
When I’m done summarizing the presentation, my dad congratulates me again. Then he pauses in a way that I know means he has something to say. I sigh and wait for him to speak up.
“Now, honey, your mom is worried,” he says.
I roll my eyes. My mom is always worried about something. That I’m not eating too much, that I’m going to get robbed on the Chicago L, that my apartment could get infested with bed bugs. Every month it’s a new thing.
&nb
sp; “What is it this time?” I say.
“Your birthday,” he says.
I laugh out loud. My birthday isn’t even until February.
“What?” I say. “How is that a big concern for her?”
“You’re turning 27,” he says.
I squirm a bit. It is a big age. I’ll only have 3 years to complete everything I want to get done before 30. But still, why should that upset my mother?
“So?” I say.
“She’s got it into her head that it’s a problem if people don’t start to settle down by 27,” he says. “She thinks it means you’ll keep putting it off.”
“Oh my god dad,” I cry. “This isn’t the 1800’s, I’m not quite an old maid yet.”
“But you do want a family, right?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say. “But I’m not worried about the clock ticking, geez, I’m still young.”
I hear the defensive note creeping into my voice, but I can’t help it. If I were a man, they wouldn’t be pestering me about focusing on finding a family. Men don’t have deadlines for that.
Plus, it’s not like I’ve totally eschewed all romance. I’ve tried. But dating is tough. It’s not my fault I have high standards. I’m not going to get married and have kids with whoever comes along just because I’m almost 27.
“We know, we know,” my dad says. “It’s just something your mother is worried about, and I don’t want you to work too hard, you know.”
“Ok, dad, I get it,” I say. “But I’m fine, I promise.”
“Just don’t work too hard,” he says again.
It’s his way of telling me to go out and party. Or at least find a date.
It’s sweet because I know they’re coming from a place of love.
I tell my dad to have a good night, and we hang up.
My parents don’t understand. They think I’m married to my job and working all day and night when in fact I’ve been trying. I don’t want to be alone forever. I’ve dated plenty of guys, and it’s not my fault everything always fizzles out.
I can’t pretend to be someone I’m not, so most guys don’t even want to date me because I’m too intense. They don’t like that I take control of situations, they don’t like that I enjoy intelligent conversations, and they definitely don’t like that I make more money than they do.
It’s sad but true. Even the most enlightened and modern men give me a look when they hear what my job is.
And even if a guy still wants to go out with me despite all this, things never last.
It’s always the same thing: I’m too intense.
They figure it out in different ways. Maybe one guy doesn’t like that I wake up early to work out, even on weekends. Another guy thinks it’s rude how I stay late at the office and postpone dates. And they all hate how I have to plan everything. Sometimes I try to reign my controlling side in. I let them pick the movie or the restaurant. But one way or another, I always have to express my opinion. And I refuse to apologize for that.
One guy ghosted me after six weeks of dating because I dared to give him advice on his job. It was good advice too, and I wasn’t rude about it. He just didn’t like me weighing in.
In the last ten years, every single guy has used the word “intense” with me in an unflattering way.
Once I turned to my friends since I was at the end of my rope. After another relationship sputtered to an end, I asked them if it was true. Was I too intense?
I remember they all looked at me for a second. And then Elena said: “Yes.”
My heart started to sink, but she reached out and grabbed my hand.
“It’s a good thing,” she said.
Beatrice and Marianne had agreed. They told me my intensity was my greatest strength. It was what made me such a loyal friend and a successful person.
They may have been just bullshitting me because they’re my friends, but I’ve clung to that over the years.
I can’t tone down my intensity, and I don’t want to.
I roll onto my side and stare out the window at the bright city skyline. What do my parents know anyway? I don’t even turn 27 for months and months.
It’s possible, I have to admit, that I’ve been dating the wrong men. That’s what Beatrice says anyway. She says I go for Beta Types because I want to be the Alpha. I want to boss them around, and since I date guys who let me take charge, no one ever stands up to me.
“I love you,” Beatrice once said. “But you need to be knocked down a peg, every so often.”
It’s true I like to be in charge. But it’s also true that I like a good challenge. And maybe subconsciously, I’ve been choosing guys who aren’t up to challenge me. They just get overwhelmed by my intensity and walk away.
I sigh and stand up and walk towards the window. It’s stupid to stress about this right now. It’s not like I’m going to go out and roam around the streets of New York to find my soul mate.
I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the window. Far below, the people look like miniature dolls on the sidewalk.
I need to stay focused. I should only be worrying about my job this week. I can fret over my impending spinsterhood next week. Or three weeks from now. We’ll see.
I just need to get through this New York trip with Michael.
I frown at the thought of him. I had assumed I had him figured out, but he threw me for a loop in the car.
I’m still not sure if he was telling the truth about the whole making me smile situation. It could still very well be a running bet.
But something about his face made me think he had been telling the truth when he said it was just something he was counting for himself. He had looked so serious. He was always laughing about something or the other, I wasn’t used to seeing his face in such a somber expression.
I suppose it’s good to know that he can be serious. I might need him to be again if we’re going to work together.
Not that I hate his laughter. He has a nice laugh, objectively speaking. His humour certainly has its time and place. Today for example, during the presentation, it was a useful weapon in our arsenal.
God, I sound like the most serious person in the world. I do have a sense of humour. I really do.
Michael Barnes just makes me nervous, that’s all.
Like when he complimented me and said we made a good team. That had definitely thrown me off.
In a bad way. I don’t like being surprised by people.
But also in a good way. It had felt nice to be praised by him.
Not that I was going to start mooning over Michael Barnes. No way.
I may pick the wrong guys, and maybe my usual type hasn’t worked out in the past, but I know my type is not Michael Barnes.
He’s too mocking and too suave. I need someone who is honest and upfront. And if this ideal life partner must challenge me as Beatrice suggests, he needs to challenge me in a respectful way. Not a teasing way. I can’t stand being teased.
Which is why Michael Barnes is not for me.
I scoff. Why am I even considering whether he is dateable or not? We are not even in the realm of possibility. Not even in some bizarre alternate reality where we weren’t co-workers, would Michael and I even have a chance of happening.
But that doesn’t even matter, because there is no alternate reality. We are in this reality, and in this reality, we are co-workers. Which makes any and all personal or intimate attachments completely inappropriate.
It would be against the rules. I say “rules” plural, because it would be breaking multiple of them. The Hastings rule about not secretly getting romantically involved with co-workers and never dating anyone who has an inferior or superior job position. And also the Zoe Hamilton Rule about not being an idiot and screwing anyone in your office. As well as the Zoe Hamilton Rule about having some self-respect and never crushing on douchebags.
So those are at least three rules.
I’m startled from my very upsetting thoughts by my stomach growling. I need f
ood. Preferably a lot of it.
I walk over to the nightstand and start flipping through the room service menu.
I’m just weighing the virtues of a blue cheese burger versus pork chops when there’s a knock at the door. I jump in surprise and drop the menu.
I furrow my brow as I tiptoe over.
“Zoe, you in there?”
My heart starts racing as I peek through the spyhole.
Because it’s Michael Barnes.
Michael Barnes is knocking on my hotel room door.
7
I shake my head and order myself to calm down. We are on a work trip, and he probably just wants to go over some things.
I glance down at my pajamas. At least I’m wearing the classy blue striped set.
I open the door but I don’t move. He’s not invited inside.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Are you in your pj’s?” he asks.
I frown as he gives me a once over and grins. How dare he laugh at my adorable pajamas?
“I thought I might turn in early,” I say.
“Oh, no way, Zo,” he says. “We’re in New York, and I found this awesome restaurant, it’s just a few blocks away.”
I doubt it’s that awesome. I pride myself in being excellent at choosing restaurants because of all the thorough research I do before making a selection. He probably just clicked the first thing that popped up on the map.
“I’m tired,” I say. “You should go ahead though.”
“Come on,” he says. “It even got a write-up in the New York Times, and it’s been around for years. Family owned.”
I pause before shutting the door. A rave review in the Times doesn’t always mean a restaurant is amazing, but it’s still something to consider. I’m shocked he even read the review. And I do have a soft spot for family-run restaurants.
“5 stars on Yelp,” Michael says. “Great wine selection, and it’s all on Hastings dollar, so we can splurge.”
“That does sound good,” I murmur.
“Great,” Michael says. “Go get ready, I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“You need thirty?” he asks. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who needs a whole hour?”