Chapter 3

• My attempt to walk away is to reclaim any dignity that has been lost.
• "Wait," Julian requests.
• I turn around to face him, expecting him to tell me how stupid I was at the time.
• "Perhaps we could do this again, but this time over coffee. And could we leave the rash talk behind if that's okay with you?"
• His flirtatious grin is difficult to ignore, and my cheeks slowly rise into a joyful smile. Maybe this gym business isn't so bad after all. Workout and meet a gorgeous man—kill two birds with one stone.
• “Sure.” I motion for him to follow me to the counter, where I rob the receptionist of a pen. I grab Julian's arm and write my phone number across it.
• "I'll contact you." He smiles once more for me, flashing that grin. "And you had better respond."
• "Oh, I will," I say, letting go of his arm with a flirtatious wink. "I'll catch you later, Julian."
• The strangest thing about me is that I look forward to Monday mornings. I don't have the dreaded 'Mondayitis' like everyone else I know. Something about a new week, a new beginning, excites me. The options are limitless.
• I've been keeping myself busy lately by listening to podcasts in an attempt to nourish my brain. In addition, I've been single for a year. Many of my close friends believe that a year is the starting point for crazy cat lady syndrome. So I only have one cat, Coco. She's a wonderful cat—obedient, cuddly, and never leaves dead mice in my apartment.
• I do feel bad about leaving her alone for several hours and often consider getting another cat so they can chill and have cat-type fun.
• My phone is in front of me on the boardroom table. I text Julian back after taking a deep breath. He texted me late last night, a day after my humiliating trip to the gym. We texted for hours about trivial matters, but I enjoyed his online company and equally witty banter.
• So I'm making the most of the situation. This podcast claims that if I don't act, I won't receive good things in my life.
• I also don't want to turn into a crazy cat lady.
• The temptation to check my phone to see if he responds is too strong, so I put it face down on the table and stare around, waiting for our meeting to begin. My mind wandered from cats to an episode of Grey's Anatomy in which George died and I sobbed like a baby.
• "Can you believe it's Monday?"
• The voices enter the room, my coworkers looking dissatisfied with the early Monday morning meeting. All heads are down after quickly taking a seat, fingers busy typing away on their phones. There is nothing but tapping and the constant ping or chirp followed by more tapping in a room full of people.
• Aside from enjoying Mondays, I enjoy my job. I'd never leave this place if I could. Some people refer to me as a workaholic. I prefer the adjective 'passionate.' It doesn't hurt that I adore my coworkers.They've become good friends over time, and our office has become like a close-knit family.
• I concentrate on my new shoes while waiting for the last person to arrive. Okay, so I have a problem, and I am without a doubt a shoe addict. These new Louboutins are from the fall collection, and I'm possessed by the desire for gleaming new patent leather and a heel that could poke your worst enemy's eye out. As I cross my legs, admiring my new guilty pleasure, I notice Eric taking a selfie with his phone.
• "You are absolutely stunning, Charlie." Let's make this a hashtag." Eric smiles as his fingers type furiously. He shows me the picture a few moments later.
• "How thoughtful of you, Eric. Did that disrupt your hectic Candy Crush schedule? You are aware that you have a problem, correct? I'd like to see you live for a day... no, make that a half-day without your phone."
• "Remember what I said?"
• "Returning it to the shop and receiving a loaner phone does not count."
• "For your information, I'm now ordering lunch with my phone."
• That has piqued my interest. It's only 8:55 a.m. and it's time for lunch. Please be the sushi rolls from the new Japanese restaurant around the corner. My stomach rumbles at the thought, and I cough, embarrassed, and make a mental note to eat more breakfast in the morning.My stomach and I are clearly not in sync with this let's-just-have-a-cup-of-coffee diet, which has become a terrible lazy habit.
• "Charlie, people in Africa can hear your thoughts as well as your stomach. And, yes, I'm going to order from that new Japanese restaurant. And, no, you're not eating salmon rolls that make you puke like Linda Blair in The Exorcist."
• "Disgusting, but you make a valid point."
• I suddenly feel sick. That was a terrible salmon roll. How is it possible that I am not scarred sufficiently that my body still craves it? The problem is that I remember how delicious it was when I took the first bite but not the aftermath.
• I shiver at the thought and mentally chastise myself for wanting it again. I'm so frail.
• "Of course, I have a point," Eric confidently continues. "I'm your personal assistant and best friend." It is my responsibility to keep you safe from danger, which includes bad sushi rolls."
• He buries himself in his phone once more, looking up for only a moment to show me a picture of a dog dressed up for Halloween. I have to laugh because it's beyond pathetic that someone would go to such lengths, yet it's also cute.
• Eric never fails to make me laugh. He makes everyone laugh, and he reminds me every day that we're Generation Y, living in a world that can't function without social media and ridiculous abbreviations like BFF, LOL, and YOLO.
• Nikki, my firm's partner, throws her belongings on the large mahogany table with a loud bang, startling the others. Her normally perfect copper hair is disheveled as she blows it out of her face, irritated that it strayed. Her bright blue eyes are framed by dark circles beneath them. I can't help but be concerned as I observe her appearance.
• "Are you okay, Nikki?" I ask quietly, trying not to draw attention to myself.
• "No, not at all. I spent the majority of the night sick from that Italian restaurant where we order the seafood marinara. Rocky couldn't wait to get to the toilet or basin, so he ruined my new Dior dress. It was the worst anniversary in the history of bad anniversaries, like something out of a cheesy movie."
• "Dior's ruby-colored gown?"
• "You're right, Eric. "The ruby-colored Dior dress, which is being cleaned of any traces of projectile seafood marinara at the dry cleaners," she responds grumpily.
• "Thank goodness, Nikki. "That gown is to die for."