Thirty seconds later, the shouter strolls over to the salad bar. He’s tall and toned, and he sports a neatly trimmed goatee, the same chestnut shade as his hair. “Hey, you’re new, right?”
I smile, eager to make friends here. “Yes. I’m Lulu.”
“And you’re like a play-by-play analyst. Whipping out that infield fly rule.” He snaps his fingers with gusto. “Damn. Can I call you SportsCenter? Wait. No way. I’m calling you the Color Girl, like the color commentator. Scratch that. You’re the umpire. I’m Noah Rivera. Want to join my fantasy baseball league, Umpire?”
Holy crap. He’s already bestowing nicknames and asking me to do corporate-y stuff. “I’m not that good with fantasy leagues, but I can— ”
“It’s just something we do for fun. You should do it. You should absolutely do it. It’s awesome. In our league, we go head to head with the guys and gals from Frodo’s Snacks, Wine O’Clock, and Violet’s Dry Soda,” he says, mentioning a big packaged goods company, a vino distributor, and one of those hip, trendy soda companies. “The league is literally the definition of awesome.”
He’s the Energizer Bunny dipped into a vat of espresso, then pumped up from a session at the gym. “Sure. I can give it a shot.”
“Email me. I’ll hook you up. I promise it’ll be rad.” He shifts gears lickety-split, nodding at the chicken spinach salad on my side of the salad bar. “I’m training for a 10K. I intend to finish in first place, and my times are awesome. You know what that means?”
“You’re going for a run the second you finish your salad?”
“After work, you bet I am. But right now? I need a helluva lot more protein with my greens. Do me a solid and toss me some of that chicken salad, will ya?”
“Sure.” I deposit some greens on his tray.
He lifts his eyebrows like I’m the stingiest bastard in Salad Land. “A little more? I’m a growing boy, and I burn a lot of calories.”
“Of course. Here you go.” I serve him a heaping dose of salad, amused by his one speed—sixty miles an hour.
Then he surprises me, dropping his voice. “Put in a good word for me with the Gin-meister, will you?”
He’s such a guy, angling for a girl through her . . . friend? I guess I’m Ginny’s friend. “Should I tell her you’re excellent at burning calories?” Then my eyes widen. “Wait, not that.”
He laughs. “Tell her I’m supremely friendly.”
“You’re definitely extraordinarily friendly.”
“So are you. Great to meet you, Umpire Lulu. Catch you later,” he shouts as he speeds across the cafeteria to join his fellow Yankees fans. That right there is why energy drinks should be banned. That man likely has a secret stash in his cubicle and mainlines them in between spreadsheets.
I find Ginny again. With a neat red ponytail cinched high on her head, she points to the empty seat across from her at the end of a table. Like she’s a taste tester, she has food spread out before her—a plate of carrots, a bowl of blueberries, and a tray with three different salads in the divider sections.
“Hey there.” I sit, plucking at the strap of my dress. “It might be tough to trade shirts today. I’m afraid it’d be rather difficult for me. But I’d consider it for that necklace.”
She eyes the heart-shaped necklace that dangles against her chest. “Difficult, schmifficult. I want a purple polka-dot dress. It’s totally a fair trade.” Then she smiles. “I’m glad Kingsley nabbed you. I was hoping it’d be you for the Rising Star line. I have to admit, I had an awful premonition it was going to be a male chocolatier again. Too many of the stars in the food field are men. We need more chicks. More girl power.”
I take a bite of my salad, nodding. “I’m all for that.”
She plucks a blueberry and pops it in her mouth. “But that’s not to say you’re only valuable for your ovaries.”
“Why, thank you. Though I honestly don’t know the value of them.”
Ginny cups the side of her mouth and whispers, “I know the value of mine. They work too well. I have a ten-year-old. No dad.”
I raise a hand. “I was raised with no dad. I think I turned out okay.”
A whooshing sound passes my head, and I crane my neck as a paper airplane soars past me and lands next to Ginny.
She rolls her eyes. “Noah.”
“Is he the paper airplane maker?”
She picks up the winged object. “He likes to send these to me at lunch. He’s such a goofball.”
My curiosity is piqued. “Regularly?”
“Once or twice a week.”
“Pretty sure that means he’s into you.”
She laughs, dismissing the idea with a fervent wave. “Oh, no. He’s just . . . festive.”
I glance behind me, and Noah waves from his table. To Ginny. “No. He has a thing for you. A big thing. What about you? Is it mutual?”
“I’m thirty-five. I’m ten years older than he is. Is that terrible? Does that make me a cougar?”
“Perhaps it makes you wiser.”
“But is dating him wise? My daughter’s in fourth grade. He’s only fifteen years older than my daughter. Fifteen.”
“But he’s not her father.”
“I know, but still. Robbing the cradle much?”
“I don’t think you should worry about that.”
