“Oh, shut it, Paul. Not all of us can look as good as you without a little work in the morning.” I grinned and batted my eyelashes.
Brian laughed. “She’s got your number, dude.”
“I wish she had my number,” Paul interjected. “C’mon, Georgia, let me take you out to dinner.”
“We’ve been going through the same conversation at least once a week for the past two years, Paul. My answer isn’t going to change,” I called over my shoulder as I made my way to the elevator.
“It will change!” he yelled. “One day, it will change!”
The elevator pinged and I stepped on, giving Paul a little wave before the doors shut.
He was an adorable guy: mid-forties, hard-working, and sweeter than honey. But I didn’t mix business with pleasure. And Paul from security wasn’t my kind of guy. One day, though, he’d meet the right kind of lady who’d wash his socks and make him beer-cheese dip for Monday Night Football. He needed a woman who was just as good in the kitchen as she was in the bedroom. I could sixty-nine with the best of ’em, but I was useless when it came to home-cooked meals. Talented chef would never be on my résumé. My oven was better used for storing shoes.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in. Fashionably late today, Georgie?” Dean winked, passing me in the hallway.
Shit. My late arrivals were starting to mimic the walk of shame. I seriously needed to get my shit together.
“I was only trying to impress you with my new A-line skirt,” I called over my shoulder, sashaying my hips a little. “Vintage. Vera Wang. How ’bout them apples, cupcake?” Should I have mentioned I found the skirt at a secondhand shop in SoHo? Designer digs were great, but I refused to pay designer prices.
“Someone is fierce this morning. Go on with your bad self, little diva,” he teased, snapping his fingers. Dean was one of my favorite people in the office: hilarious, flamboyantly gay, and smart as a whip. What more could a girl ask for?
He turned in my direction, stopping in his tracks. “Lunch today?”
I paused at the entry to my office. “I’d kill for a chicken salad sandwich from the deli across the street.”
Dean grinned. “No homicide needed. We’ll grab it to go.”
“Let’s eat there. My office, quarter till one?”
He blew me a kiss. “It’s a date, lover.”
Another day, another dollar, yadda yadda yadda. My mantra, even though I would have preferred staying wrapped up in my comforter and sleeping until noon. Some days, adulting was too much responsibility. Get up for work. Brush your hair. Pay bills. It was an endless list of too many things and not enough time. The struggle was real, my friends.
But rent in Chelsea wasn’t a Sunday picnic in Central Park. A two-bedroom space with an elevator and doorman was pricey. Bottom line, I had to adult. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
I settled into my day, checking emails and making follow-up calls to a few marketing prospects. The TapNext app had skyrocketed in success over the past year. I’d developed an ad campaign that had brought in several companies wanting to advertise within the windows of our app. And these scrollbar ads had become quite lucrative for the company. Businesses not only paid us a nice advertising fee, but they also agreed to some form of promotion for Brooks Media. We scratched their backs, and they gave us a full body massage. Although I was no use in the kitchen, I was very persuasive in a boardroom.
“Knock, knock,” Leslie announced her arrival. Her curvy frame swayed into my office, seemingly aloof to the fact I was in the middle of a conference call with Sure Romance.
“Uh, Georgia, like, there’s birthday cards you need to sign for people in the office,” she continued, tossing the greeting cards onto my desk. They spilled over my laptop, stopping my busy fingers from making much-needed progress on the current contract I was discussing.
I held up a finger, pointing to the Bluetooth in my ear.
“Georgia? Hellooooo, Georgia?” she repeated, tapping the toe of her stiletto in six quick, impatient movements.
Leslie was a horrible nightmare of ditzy responses, poor time management skills, and cleavage-revealing tops. And she was new to the company. But for fuck’s sake, how hard was it to see that I was currently in the middle of something?
“I’m so sorry, can you hold on for just a second?” I politely asked Martin, Sure Romance’s Director of Marketing.
“You know what, Georgia? I’ve got about three minutes to get to another meeting. How about you make the changes in the contract and send them over to legal? Let’s shoot for another call on Friday to review everything and find a middle ground we can both be happy with.”