Page 40 of Return on Love

“A no show will be worse. Trust me.”

I look at his furrowed brows and his lips set in a straight, determined line. I can see he really cares for Bernard, and somehow it makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.

I stand up to leave. Normally I would’ve shaken hands with a client, but I don’t think he’d like to touch my hand, given his reaction when everyone was leaving, so I keep my hands beside me. That’s when I see that he’s spread his arms. Is that for a hug? I wouldn’t mind it. I’m sure my cheeks are turning redder by the minute. As soon as I spread my arms, I notice his have come down, and he’s extending one hand for a handshake. It’s totally weird and awkward—like twelve-year-old kids. We both give out a laugh like two hyenas, and I just walk out without even a handshake.

Throughout the rest of the day, everyone in the office is super-busy. Someone orders pizzas for lunch for the entire team. Gabriel and I have been working on the financials. We’re sitting in his office, because that has a little more room than mine. And he’s finally sent me the latest numbers on the correct email id.

“Are these final?” I ask him.

“Not really. Well, you know your boss, Weber? Well, obviously you know him. So… he might’ve said we need to send him first. And we might’ve, y’know, like agreed.” The simple question has clearly weirded him out. He looks at me as if expecting a backlash of some sort.

“It’s okay. If I were in your position, I’d have done the same. Weber is more senior, and it’s natural to follow what he’s told you.”

The relief is evident on his face. “Thank you. I didn’t like it. Neither did Ryan. In fact, Ryan had even asked Weber about the logic. He gave some round-about answer and said he was changing a few things, and it made little sense for you also to be repeating the same work.”

“So these numbers are what he has sent you?” If that’s the case, I know I want to look at the original file as well. I don’t trust Weber any more.

“No. He still hasn’t sent us. These are the original files. That’s why I’d said not really to your first question.”

I nod. Weber, what games are you playing, I wonder? I study the files, and seek clarifications from Gabriel. It’s good to see that he’s completely on top of every line-item in the file.

Gabriel’s office is closer to Ryan’s, and I can’t help my eyes from roving in that direction every so often He’s busy too, sometimes on the phone, sometimes on his laptop and at other times with a member of his team. When he’s working on his laptop, his brows furrow a little, but there’s a tiny smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes, as if they, too, are laughing, enjoying. It’s quite clear he gets a buzz doing what he’s doing.

I feel a tinge of pain in my heart. I’d love to experience this bliss when I’m working. When I was helping with the storyline of his games, I felt it for a few days. Don’t get me wrong. I like excel sheets and playing with numbers. You won’t believe the fiction you can create just with excel sheets. A minor change in some assumptions can change the course of the story. The story that sells in boardrooms. And I like it. I mean, talk about the bestsellers that are created in excel sheets every quarter, and it might just put authors to shame. But I like the other stories, the real ones, more. Anyway, that’s not gonna happen, so I’ve gotta keep enjoying the excel stories.

Suddenly, the door opens, and Ryan is standing right in front of me. “Oh. Hey. Hi.”

He smiles. “Tarts?”

I realize my stomach is rumbling. How did he know? Before I can answer, Gabriel pips in. “Of course. I love tarts. We should have such emergency days every day. I love this new Ryan, the one who gets us food.”

Ryan places the box on the table and leaves. “You aren’t having any?” I ask his back.

He turns his head. His eyes shine with that twinkle again and he looks at me intensely. I find my eyes moving down to his lips again. I guess he noticed it because they curl up in a smile. “These are for you… both,” he adds the last word as an afterthought and is gone the next second.

Gabriel’s mouth is already full. “Mmm, this is good,” he says through a half-filled mouth.

I take one and examine it from every angle. The pastry is golden and looks baked to perfection with the tiny blueberries stuck on top. I take a bite and my eyes close involuntarily. The flaky pastry with a buttery goodness is a perfect contrast to the creamy, velvety filling. The blueberries on top give the added freshness and crunch. I’d never realized eating tarts could be so meditative. I savor the flavor and the texture.

I catch Ryan looking at us from his office window. I give him a smile, and we both get back to our work.

I can’t help but wonder if he got these for me as his way of apologizing for last night’s mistake. Perhaps I’m being too presumptuous in thinking I’m the reason for these amazing tarts. It could just be a way to boost the morale of the team.

That evening, as he walks me home, I ask him where he learned to bake and cook so well.

He stops in his tracks and turns his face to look at me, as if debating to answer. Finally, he speaks up. “My mom used to be ill frequently, so both me and Emily, my sister, got a lot of opportunities to get comfortable in the kitchen. Emily never liked it, but I found that cooking helped me take my mind away from other things. It’s creativity at its fundamental level, and what is great is that you get the results and reward right then, in the form of a good meal.”

“What happened to your mom? How is she now?” He began walking again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry,” I say, catching up to him. We’ve reached my apartment building.

“It’s okay. She’s fine, very frail, but okay,” he says, looking me in the eye as we stand in front of the door. “So, does this mean you liked the tarts?”

“Liked? No. I loved them.”

I look up into his face and see his lips moving up into a smile, the tiny dimple forming on his cheek. His eyes light up a little. He has really pretty lips. For a guy. We stand there, close. I’m feeling chilly and wonder how warm it would be to be ensconced in his arms. His lips tremble a little and he bites his lower lip. I guess we both are thinking the same thing.

Slowly, he lifts his hand and runs his finger down my cheek. A strand of hair has escaped the ponytail, and he lightly tucks it behind my ear. My heart is hammering against my ribs and my hands have gotten all sweaty despite the cold. All I want is to push my lips against his. Mistake be damned! I’m ready to do a hundred mistakes if this is what they make me feel.

As if reading my thoughts, his body suddenly stiffens and his fingers form a tight fist and his hands fall right beside his body. But his eyes, they are still locked onto mine, rebelling against his own mind. “Um, I better go now,” he says. I can hear his loud, ragged breathing. It takes a few moments more for him to peel his eyes from me and walk away. I can’t say the same for myself as I stand there still watching his disappearing figure, hoping he turns back.

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