Page 9 of Things I Overshared
Sorry! I will step up my insider game!
I groan a bit thinking about how hard this whole idea might turn out to be.Doesn’t. Eat. Sugar.I mean, I track my diet like a tween watches TikTok—never two big carbs or desserts in one day—but nothing? Hello, um, brownies? Cheesecake? Effing chocolate croissants?! Ugh.
I’ve been racking my brain to think of the last time he said words to me, actual sounds from his mouth to mine. A few weeks back, at the end of a meeting with myself and Darrin, he’d said “Miss Canton” as a goodbye, with a slight nod. I’ve had nods in elevators and earned sighs or dismissive grunts on conference calls. And that’s it.
I give my own dismissive grunt a spin as I stare out. It helps. Normally, I would head out to meetings with distributors, but today, as with most days the last few weeks, I focus on the upcoming trip. The purpose of the trip is to foster relationships with our retailers, manufacturers, buyers, and consultants in Europe, primarily London and Paris. And by foster relationships, I mean we’re setting out on a month-long schmoozapalooza.
I don’t actually like the termschmooze, though, because it implies the interest and affection is disingenuous. I am genuine with everyone. Do I like everyone? No. (See His Freezing Highness two doors down.) But I’m interested. I like people in general. And people like to be liked.
If we want to maintain our current sales with Whosits & Whatsits Gift Shops, the Gage brothers need to like our products, sure, but they need to likeus.Same with the buyer for Sainsbury’s locations all over the UK. So, in addition to detailing our dinners and cocktail hours, I’ve also made a master binder containing the people we’ll be meeting with, their families, hobbies, likes, dislikes, and of course, their sales records, and which of our product lines they prefer. I sit down at my desk and dig back into said binder.
Time flies until an alert pops up on my computer, thanks to Marge’s devotion to digital scheduling down to the millisecond. I ready myself. If there’s one thing I’m a natural at, it’s making friends. In the few steps from my door to his, I remind myself:Grin and hold it in, Samantha:Easy-breezy conversation, to the point, without all the unnecessary details and detours and exclamations. I got this.I steal a glance at Marge at 10:45 on the dot, and she nods.
I knock twice as I push on the door, and at the same time, a deep voice answers, “Come in.”
Crapitty crap crap crap on a cracker.
He is just so intimidating. Like a mash-up of beefy Henry Cavill and beautiful Jude Law, he sits there in a charcoal-gray suit and vest with a light-blue tie almost as vivid as his eyes. I was right about his desk—immaculate—and his hair, with every wavy light-brown strand perfectly combed to the side. He looks like one of my very first imaginary boyfriends, my hand-me-down Ken doll that was Susan’s in the ’90s.
“GOOD MORNING!” I basically shout, causing him to startle in his chair.Damn it!
He inhales. “Miss Canton,” he responds in a quiet, pinched way. Even grumpy, his accent is so sexy, it’s cruel. He briefly glances at me . . . me wearing a white shirt tucked into a beige pencil skirt with nude heels, all of which is just begging for a bright orange scarf or magenta earrings or some sign of life, which I denied myself in order to be more palatable to the beautiful beast sitting before me.
It’s just a moment before he snaps his gaze up to my eyes, but in that moment, a flash of something crosses his face—distaste, maybe? Disapproval? Annoyance? He doesn’t say good morning or ask why I’m standing there. The awkward pause twists my nerves into a bundle and shoves them straight out of my mouth.
“So, I don’t know if Margaret told you, but I brought some beignets and chocolate croissants and other French breakfast foods to get you inspired for our Paris trip, because you know I’m going with you now instead of Darrin, right? Oh, wait, did you know that? Of course you did. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t bring like toast or crumpets or whatever Brits eat. Um . . . sidebar, what exactly is a crumpet?! Ha! But then that wouldn’t be very fun for you, anyway, would it? I will look and see if there are sugar-free French breakfast options, especially before we leave, which is in just two weeks! Isn’t it so exciting?“I’msuper excited, anyway, since I planned the whole thing. It’s basically my dream trip, you know? So I’m so excited we get to go together. I mean,nottogether, obviously, but that I get to go with you. Or that I get to go. Period, end of sentence. Full stop! As you say! Ha! Because I won’t be with you all the time, obviously, you will want your space and to, like, get your introvert on! Right?! And some time to go see your family in London, obviously, of course.
“So, anyway, how ’bout them Sooners, am I right? Dad says it’s gonna be one heck of a season!”
What.
The hell.
Just happened.
That’s what I’m asking my mouth.
That’s what Emerson Clark is clearly asking himself.
He’s staring at me, blinking, like his brain could only keep up with maybe a third of what I just projectiled out so fast, as if speed talking is an Olympic sport and I’m going for gold. I also felt myself get louder and louder as Iceman leaned farther and farther back in his chair, begging it to swallow him whole and deposit him out onto the pavement below by way of a magical escape chute.
I did not grin and hold it in. Nope, I sure did not.
Now I just stand, unsure that I can open my mouth again without further exploding syllables all over the room.
“Yes, they do look promising this season.” He finally leans the tiniest bit forward from the Emerson indentation in the leather chair. “And thank you, for the pastries. Is there something specific you wanted to discuss?”
“Um, well, no, I—”
“All right, then I really should—”
“No, wait! Yes! I wanted to ask you if you had any specific requests for the trip. I had really planned the whole thing with Darrin, and he was the one giving me feedback, but I’m thinking you might—”
“I’m sure whatever you have planned will be perfectly suitable, Miss Canton.” He stands, cutting me off, looking irritated. Actually, he looks beyond irritated. He looks pained, constipated even, as if talking to me upsets his bowels.I upset no one’s bowels, asshole! I’m a flippin’ ray of dadgum light!
“Of course, Mr. Clark.” I force a smile, concentrating on keeping a light tone. I am frozen in a cloud of confusion and rage. This freaking man. He’s standing there blinking without even a hint of a reciprocal polite grin.
“Then I really must get to my next appointment.” He gives a small nod and walks around me, giving me the berth of a rabid leper, and leaves his office.
