But there’s something I want even more than food. So I text back.
Plans in an hour? I had meetings all day. I’d like to see your face.
I wait, glad neither of us has the patience to pull the kind of juvenile back-and-forth I typically deal with. If she’s not busy, she’ll respond. It’s nice knowing that.
One hour. See you then.
You’d swear I’m a fifteen-year-old boy with his first real girlfriend. The thought of seeing Chari, actually talking to her after texting all week . . . I told her we should take it slow, but every part of me wants just the opposite.
I have no clue how I let her out of my apartment on Sunday without more than a few kisses. With the exception of what happened between us on the couch the night before. The fact that I nearly came just by touching her . . . that was my first clue. We’re too connected for something casual. By the time she walked out, her backside in a pair of jeans that made it look even sweeter than it had cradled in that little black dress, it took all of three minutes for me to have my hand wrapped around my cock. Even then, the speed of my release was slightly terrifying.
Just the fact that I’m sitting here texting Chari like a teenager instead of looking for a new CMO says a lot.
He had to go.
I can tolerate a botched campaign or two. Everyone makes mistakes, but he took no responsibility for his, and worse, he deflected the blame onto members of his team. That kind of disloyalty is unforgivable, and it’s not a quality I want in any of our staff.
But getting rid of him also means adding more work to my own pile. Now, on top of the vodka development issues and our big launch in Europe, we need to search for a new marketing exec and firm. Maybe we should pull it in-house as Hayden suggested. We’ll sit down tomorrow to crunch the numbers.
The black Mercedes pulls up to my apartment building, and I head inside. I still have almost an hour to kill before my call with Chari, so I take a quick swim downstairs and call next door for takeout. My personal assistant doesn’t come home with me. Hayden thinks I’m nuts, but the idea of having someone in my apartment, finding me food . . . nope. I don’t care if I can afford it. Never going to happen.
I look at my watch.
Three minutes early.
You calling me?
I flip on the fireplace, set the wine I’ve poured on the coffee table, and text back.
Yep.
Flipping my laptop open, I balance it on my lap and open a video screen. As it rings, I feel myself relaxing for the first time that day.
“Hey, you.” She’s in her bedroom.
“Looks familiar.”
“Me or this room?” She turns her own computer around so I can see her bedroom.
“Both.” Although she’s redecorated her bedroom since we were kids. I remember all pink and white where now it’s mostly grey and white.
And then she’s back. Smiling, a bright spot in my day.
I like my job. Love it, actually. Because I believe in what we do, and every decision I make brings us closer to the top. But on days like this, I wish I could leave work at the office like some people.
“How was your day?” I ask. “Smell any smoke lately?”
She’s dressed casually. A Penn State sweatshirt, maybe a nod to the fact that I wore my college sweatshirt the other night? I almost say something about going to a game together. Chari bleeds blue and white, and I haven’t been to a PSU game in years. But that’s months away.
“Oh my God, I forgot to tell you. I actually don’t have a brain tumor. A neighbor was burning trash in their backyard. The one behind my bedroom. Though I have no idea how Mom couldn’t smell it.”
I try not to laugh.
“You also don’t have an esophageal disorder. That was one of your more interesting ailments.”
“Stop it!” She’s smiling. “Who the hell has a burn barrel in the middle of winter?”
“You’re in Bridgewater, you know. Stranger things have happened.” But I move on quickly, not wanting to focus on the fact that we’re in two different cities. “Sounds like you’re having a good day, then?”