Page 10 of Love Is an Art
She stands. “I should get going. I have to work on my portfolio tomorrow. It was nice meeting you.” She puts out her hand to shake.
Like we’ve met at a business function.
We walk back toward the highway. She’s walking fast—not that ambling pace as we strolled over here. We cross over FDR Drive to South Street.
“I hope we can see each other again soon,” I say.
What am I doing? Usually, I’m the one hit on. I’m not the smooth operator hitting on random women. And I’m already discussing a fourth date. I run my hand through my hair. What am I thinking? Am I ready to have a new girlfriend?
A taxi is idling there, its small sign on the roof lit, indicating it’s free.
She tilts her head. “I hope so.” And with that, she waves goodbye and jumps into the cab.
Without even an invitation to share. She did warn me she wasn’t sweet.
I look at what she wrote in my phone. No last name. Did she even give me her real number?
And why did my stomach suddenly drop at the thought that she didn’t?
Chapter three
Tessa
InsteadofrelivingmeetingZeke last night, Ishouldget back to work reading the “private” emails of our clients. My officemate Lakshmi is clicking away at her computer at her desk next to me.
Recruiting ads for lawyers may explain that, in every litigation, the emails of the plaintiff and the employees of the defendant are gathered and reviewed by teams of young lawyers like me to determine whether either side said anything relevant to the lawsuit, with the hope that the other side wrote something that will hurt their case. But what those ads should really highlight is that this is a chance to read the inner thoughts of two guys discussing who they want to date. Figuring out their love lives, which is what I’m now doing, is definitely not included in the position description. People reveal surprisingly personal secrets in corporate emails. It’s a cautionary reminder not to mix business with personal.
“Didn’t you bet Stuffed Shirt that our team would finish the document review first, before his team did?” Lakshmi asks.
“Yes.” I turn back to my monitor, which displays the text of the email I’m supposed to be reading. But where’s the fun if I let a little competition stress me out?No risk, no reward.
Outside, above the New York City skyline, the blue sky is fading into dusk. Across the way, the lit windows frame other individuals, all similarly staring at screens. Lakshmi glances at me and raises an eyebrow. My distraction must be obvious.
Lakshmi’s desk is closer to the door, whereas mine is next to the window because I’m a year senior. We both have L-shaped, white desks, with our computers on a tabletop against the east wall.
I stare at the screen, but instead, I see Zeke’s tousled, blond hair that made me want to mess it up even more. That zippy feeling. He was sweet. And the way he’d listened, his head tilted, seeming to want to know me.
Could this be the start of something? It’s been so long.
But why does he hate lawyers? He was so adamant.
That was bizarre.
I’d been about to tell him I was a lawyer. I’d forgotten I’d said I’m an artist until he asked me if I wanted to paint the Manhattan Bridge.
No. Not at all.
And I’d also completely forgotten that Miranda and I saw him talking to Jurgen, aka Scammer Guy.
I hope he was able to find a cab. I was so flustered that I left him there. And it’s not easy to find a taxi in that neighborhood. And when I arrived home, Miranda was horrified. “Struggling artists take the subway.”
But why was he talking to Scammer Guy? Zeke said he was there with a bunch of friends.Is Jurgen one of his friends?I should have asked him more about his friends, but I was so caught up in the moment. It’s good I didn’t reveal I was a lawyer. He lulled me into a false sense of security. Unbelievable.
I check my list of Capital Management employees whom Brooke Smith, the in-house counsel and my company contact, provided:
Zeger van der Zee—fund manager.
Arthur Ross—boss of Zeger van der Zee.
