Page 112 of Mr. Hotshot CEO
Isit down on my reclinerwith a cup of tea, two gingersnap cookies, and a chick lit novel. I dip the edge of a cookie in the tea and take a bite, and I can’t help but smile. It’s delicious. A few years ago, I tried several brands of gingersnaps and figured out which one was best, and that’s all I’ve bought ever since.
Tea, cookies, and a book, plus a long week of work behind me. I’ve already finished my laundry and tidied up my apartment.
Life is good.
But there’s an ache in my heart. Part of me feels dull and dead inside. I might be able to enjoy myself, but I’m not fully present.
I keep wondering if Naomi is right.
I’m prone to negative self-talk, and sometimes my behavior is self-defeating. Yet that was never how I saw my refusal to consider another relationship. I told myself I was being smart and sensible, but maybe my mind was twisting everything around. After all, my mind does malfunction at times.
And that’s okay. I do not need to be perfect.
My phone rings. I grab it off the table beside me, expecting it to be Naomi, but it’s not.
“It’s Julian. Could you buzz me up?”
My heart nearly stops when I hear his voice.
“Yes,” I whisper, and then I let him in downstairs.
I spend the next two minutes pacing my living room, freaking out in a different way than when my father came to visit me.
Julian is here.
My mind immediately jumps to unimportant reasons for his visit. Maybe I left a T-shirt or hairbrush behind.
But I know that’s not the reason, even before I open the door and see him standing there with a terrarium, a large book, and a takeout cup that I know contains a gingerbread latte. He’s wearing a suit, and his serious gaze is fixed on me.
“May I come in?” he asks.
I gesture him inside, and he puts everything on the coffee table before sitting down. If it were me, I probably would have dropped the latte and spilled it all over the floor, but Julian does so many things with ease. I take a seat beside him, my heart thumping from being so close to him after so long.
Well, it was only a little over a week, but it feels like longer.
He hands me the book. “This is for you.”
The cover of the book is blue, with purple flowers and green vines and a few butterflies. There are no words on it.
I laugh as I realize what it is.
It’s a scrapbook.
I open it up. There are two photos on the first page: one of Riverdale Park with downtown Toronto in the distance, and the other of Julian lying on the grass. There are paper frames around the photos, cut-out daisies along the bottom of the page, and the words “Riverdale Park” in purple letters. The next page says “Chinatown East” and includes a picture of Julian shoving a pineapple bun into his mouth.
“I wish I’d taken more photos of you,” he says.
There are pictures of us eating gelato, drinking cocktails, and standing at the top of Mont Royal. He’s printed out the pictures I gave him and turned them into a scrapbook, and I swear, every single page looks like it could be in a “How to Scrapbook” article.
“Did you take a class?” I ask, struggling to form words. “Private lessons?”
“No, I just poked around on the internet and went to a store to get some supplies. Paper and decorative punches and various other things.”
I chuckle. “How long did this take? It looks like more than an afternoon’s work.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says quietly. “It was worth it. I loved my two weeks off with you, and I want us to always remember them.” He takes my hand and squeezes it, then gives me the gingerbread latte. I was just drinking tea a minute ago, but I’ll never turn down a gingerbread latte.
He points to the terrarium. “I didn’t make this myself, but I thought you’d like it. You can name the plants. I figured I’d leave that task to you.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I made a list of forty-eight things I could do for you, and I probably could have stuck with one, but I didn’t.”
