Page 15 of Things I Overshared
Sally: I say abort.
Sadie: I say do it because I think you’ll grow on him.
Skye: I say do it because I want to hear how badly it goes!
Susan: I say I don’t want to know any details, esp if you’re drinking at the office!
Skye, [Middle finger]
Susan, sister first, COO second!
And all y’all: pray harder!
Chapter 4
It’s 6:55p.m., and I’ve got my ammunition.
I am wearing a new fitted gray dress, which is bordering on too tight to be considered professional. For the Beautiful Android, I’ll basically blend in with his office walls, but for myself, I’ve paired it with my black power stilettos. They always put a little confidence in my step.
Do I normally need my power heels for a happy hour? No. But something about this man’s aversion to me is getting under my skin. My skin, which is donning a little less makeup, under my thick blond hair that is down but tucked behind my ears. I went with twisting it up first, but then I really did look a bit too much like Marge.
I have a variety of freezing-cold lagers, which is apparently the favored type of beer in the UK. I have our itinerary, printed, with my questions written and some ideas highlighted. He’s from over there, so surely he wants to weigh in on some of the plans for wowing our partners. I’m a tiny bit embarrassed I didn’t think to ask him before.
But that just shows how little we have thought of one another or interacted until this point. Any financial meetings with Emerson regarding sales were run by Darrin, and if I was even present, I mostly listened, as Darrin tended to say what I was thinking. Office meetings and company events were a whirlwind of conversations for me, and, I’m assuming, a series of hiding alone in dark corners for Mr. Clark.
I tap my custom painting from Skye on the wall on the way out the door like a good luck charm, as I do before high-pressure meetings and presentations. I realize as I make my way down the hall how insane it is that I’m viewing beers with a coworker, even if he’s a superior, as such.
But I’m nervous. That’s just the straight-up truth. I say my life mantra to myself as I walk straight to his office and knock. I don’t let myself in since Marge is gone for the day. It takes a second before he commands “Come in” in his stupid sexy stupid deep stupid British voice. I steel myself.
“Hello,” I say with cheer, but not too loudly.
“Miss Canton,” he says stiffly. He has also braced himself, it appears, his back as stiff as the monitor he’s glaring at. But I march in and set the beers on his desk and take a seat without it being offered, my notes at the ready. He has yet to look at me. He clicks on something. “You wanted to go over our itinerary?”
“I did! Thought we could make a happy hour out of it.”
He glances at the beers starting to sweat on his spotless glass desk, then up at me. That same unhappy expression repeats across his features as he quickly glances over my body. The pressure bubbles over under his gaze.
“Okay,” I blurt. “What, you don’t like my dress? It’s new, I just got it.”
He gives a small dismissive shake of his head. “Wha— No, it’s fine.”
“Fine? It cost a fortune and it’s gray, which I would betone million dollarsis your favorite color.”
He sighs and closes his eyes, once again pained to be talking to me.
“C’mon, what? I can read a room, Mr. Clark, and I know you do not like something about my appearance, in an almost disturbing, visceral way, so really, I’m a big girl, you can go ahead and just—”
“It doesn’t suit you,” he cuts in quickly, as if to get me to shut up.
He succeeds.
I am, in fact, shut up.
Shut up and fed the hell up.Inside voice, Sam, inside voice.
“All right, you know what?”
“Miss—”
