Page 70 of My Book Boyfriend
This elevator is so slow. It’s stopped on the fourth floor. Normally, I’d walk. But I need to practice this persona.
“You must be Lily’s grandmother. You look a bit like her.”
“Yes,” I say. “And you must be her neighbor.” I press the button again.
“I don’t actually live here; I’m dating her neighbor.”
“In my day, we didn’t advertise that we’d slept over. And if we did, we certainly expected him to see us to a taxi at the end of the date.”
Everly huffs, and I smile sweetly at her.
Iwheelthebeveragecart into the large conference room. Floor-to-ceiling, glass windows form one wall, giving an expansive view of midtown Manhattan. A huge, cherry conference table sits in the middle of the room, surrounded by about twenty Herman Miller chairs.
My heart is pounding so loudly, the whole room must be able hear it. I suck at subterfuge.
I place the hot carafe of coffee on the side console. Thankfully, Bella’s friend even drew diagrams of where everything should be placed.
Rupert enters, and I stare at him like a lost traveler in a desert staring at a mirage of water. Because I’m hoping against hope that he does actually suggest saving the garden and that I haven’t completely misjudged his character.
He’s cut his hair. It’s shorter, more corporate. That doesn’t seem like a good sign. Is he conforming to his grandfather’s wishes?
A woman who looks similar to him comes in next. I turn back to the coffee setup. I stack the mugs, add the three different containers of milk, and remove the Saran wrap from the first tray of breakfast muffins.
“You’re sure about this?” the woman asks.
“Yes. I’ll present the concept, and I’ll say it was my idea,” Rupert says. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you hanging out there.”
This could mean anything. Don’t get your hopes up.
She shakes her head. “We’re in this together. That’s our winning card.”
“Let’s hope.”
An older woman bustles in, carrying a pile of presentations. She places one at each seat and then leaves.
I remove the Saran wrap from the fruit tray and place it next to the muffins. Now to add the tray of utensils. Everything is set. There’s no reason for me to hang out here anymore. I bend down slowly by the cart to pretend to be looking for something on the bottom shelf. If they leave, I can sneak a peek at the printouts.
But no.Rupert takes a seat at the head near the front of the table, by the screen. The woman sits next to him. He drums his fingers.
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous?” she asks.
“You’re not?” he counters.
“I am, but I didn’t expect you to be.”
“Impatient. I want to get this done with.”
Not nervous?That’s not a good sign. If he was proposing to keep the garden, he’d be nervous—or she’d expect him to be nervous. I stand, falter a bit. I’m stiff from crouching, even if I’m not seventy. I wheel my cart out the door, my heart heavy.
I head back to the kitchenette on the twentieth floor. As I walk in, the head chef greets me.
“All good?”
“Yes.” Not at all.
I look at the sheet to see where I deliver the next set of beverages. It’s a small conference room on twenty-two. But at ten thirty, I’m back in the main conference room to remove the breakfast food and refresh the drinks. At least Rupert didn’t recognize me.
My stomach feels queasy. That could be the moment of truth.
