Page 8 of Things I Overshared
And on top of aaaalllll that, I have baked goods!
I’m unstoppable!
“Stop!” Marge commands, almost yells, as I head toward Emerson’s office after giving her an easy-breezy “Good morning” rather than my usual chat about her weekend. I’m on a time crunch to make a friend here, and that friend isn’t her. It’s so early I’m pretty sure she, myself, and The Cold One are the only people in the office. Nicole isn’t even perched at the front desk yet.
“Oh, I just wanted to chat with Emerson really quick.”
“Sorry, Miss Canton, but you’ll have to make an appointment.”
“Oh, is he on a call already?” I smile and give the lashes a flutter, seriously doubting he’s doing anything important before 8:00a.m. Marge shoots me a look. She’s what Dad would callan’ olebattle-ax.She’s in her early sixties, and warm in a northern way, which is unlike the motherly warmth of an auntie from the South. That’s to say, she can be friendly, but when it comes to her job, she’s as firm as the skyscraper she sits in. And while she looks more like a poodle with her slim figure and coiffed hair, she is all pit bull when it comes to protecting Emerson’s privacy, preferences, and schedule.
“Mr. Clark is unavailable right now. Looks like he is free at ten forty-five?”
I fail at suppressing a scoff. “He doesn’t have a five-minute break in the next two hours and forty-five minutes?”
She is unmoved.
“I’m afraid not.” She shoots my sweet smile right back at me.
Score one for Marge.
“All right.” I sigh. “Well, I brought an assortment of beignets, chocolate croissants, and crepes to get him excited for all the amazing French food in two weeks. Maybe you can slip them to him before they get cold.” I set the box on her desk.
“Oh, Mr. Clark doesn’t eat sweet breakfasts.”
I blink for a couple seconds. “Um, what?”
“He rarely eats sugar at all, but I’m sure he’ll appreciate the thought.”
Doesn’t eat sugar? Freaking robot!
I breathe through my shock, frustration, and cutting disappointment. Cutting, not because of the severity but the timing. My plan has been in motion for maybe five minutes, and it’s already veering off its tracks.
“Well, bummer! I guess you and Nicole and anyone else can enjoy them, and I’ll see him at ten forty-five! Thanks Mar— Ms. Wayne!” Whew, glad I didn’t slip and call her Marge out loud. The pit bull does not like nicknames, or even first names, just like her icy master.
Do I give Emerson’s large corner office a blazing side-eye as I turn from Marge’s desk? Yes, yes, I do. But I can’t see details, only the fuzzy outline of his large silhouette at his desk.
Andpoof, I’m even more annoyed.
Just knowing he’s in there silent, at his, I assume, perfect and uncluttered desk with his perfect hair in his perfect three-piece suit.Grrrrrr.My sisters weren’t wrong about the ease at which my eyes—anyonewitheyes—have taken in my quasi-boss. He’s unfairly gorgeous. So much so, I get nervous speaking around him in meetings . . . me, get nervous talking? Ugh. If he’s going to act like an ogre, why couldn’t he look like one too?
I slump a bit as I take the few steps past Darrin’s office to my own small space. The other offices and conference spaces remain dark, as I suspected. These offices aren’t grand, especially by Manhattan standards, but man, I love them.
Our sprawling Canton headquarters in Tulsa is impressive, with multiple buildings, green spaces—complete with bikes and scooters, like a flyover-state, family-owned version of Google HQ—plus studio spaces for marketing and our warehouses containing hundreds of thousands of units of cards and gifts. It’s awesome. But it’s not New York City.
I sip my coffee in defeat, looking out my window onto building after building after building, all teeming with energy and excitement. A thrill fills me, as usual, thinking of all the people surrounding me beyond the glass and concrete. So many conversations, plans, hopes, dreams, impromptu
meet-cutes, coincidental accidents. I wonder if right now someone is walking right by their soulmate or bumping into their future husband at a coffee shop.Ugh, there you go again, Nimrod! Get a grip!
I open a message to Nicole.
Me: Why didn’t you tell me Frozone doesn’t eat sweets?
I showed up early with beignets and chocolate croissants.
FAIL!
Nicole: Oh crap! Margaret is a stickler about having plain bagel and toast options on hand. I should’ve thought of that.
