Leo: Chips, dude. Chips.
Dean: Two words I will never utter. “Chips” and “dude.” *shudders*
Leo: I’ll Americanize you in no time, bro.
Dean: And yet another.
Leo: Anyway, how much did you bet on me?
Dean: Did I say I bet on you?
Leo: Ah. Should have known you wouldn’t bet on me.
Dean: What do you expect? Once I got word that it had spiraled beyond those two companies and somehow, mind-bogglingly, had become all of the packaged food firms in New York, what was I to do? Deny myself the chance to bet on a stallion?
Leo: And who is your stallion?
Dean: Anyone but the guy on the team with the girl he once fancied.
As I crest a hill, I find the middle finger emoticon and send it back to him. If I were him, I’d poke fun at me too.
I keep up a steady clip through the park. A guy who looks familiar tears past me, seeming hell-bent on racing to the edge of the world.
Like a car whips around in a U-turn, the guy zips back to me. It’s Noah. He’s slowed to a jog at my side. “Whoa. Thought it might be you, big man.”
“You can just call me Leo.”
“Dude, you’re a fucking EVP. I’m a director of sales. You’re the big man in charge, even if we’re in different departments.”
“Hate to break it to you, but there’s a woman in charge.”
“Ha. Good point.” He smacks my arm. “Hey, you’re friendly with Ginny, right?”
“I am.”
“You know her well then?”
“Well enough. She’s a colleague and a friend.”
“Question then. Think you could put in a word for me? Let her know I’m a good guy?”
“Why can’t you do that yourself?”
“Please. I need to wear her down. It’s the only way a woman like her will go for a guy like me. Someone she works with.”
I’m not sure if the specter of an office romance is the issue with Ginny, or if she has one, or if she even likes Noah. I give Noah the best advice I can. “Just ask her out, man.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s simple. Only way you’ll know.”
He strokes his goatee as he trots. “You’re right. Damn, you’re always right. Also, no offense, big man, but you’re slow as shit. I need to go full cheetah.”
Laughing, I wave as he takes off like he has spots.
With Noah already on another continent, I return to the thread with Dean, rereading his last note, then his follow-up to it.
Dean: Anyone but the guy on the team with the girl he once fancied.
Dean: You see, I’m betting you’ll be a wee bit distracted.
Leo: Distraction is for wusses. I have a powerful mind-vise, and I’m not afraid to use it.
Dean: Fair enough. So, speaking of things you put in mind-vises, how is our fair maiden?
The answer arrives as swiftly as a Bugatti.
Lulu is mesmerizing, she’s charming, and she’s enchanting.
It’s as if I’m getting to know her all over again. Like we’re having conversations for the first time, talks that exist only between the two of us, and I don’t have to worry about crossing any lines with my best friend. Though, in the back of my mind, I’m vaulting over all the boundaries.
The woman is still off-limits, and that’s not merely because of that tangled skein of history stretching between us across the years.
It’s because I’d be a stupid ass to pursue something with a woman I now have a business deal with.
We’re team building, not team fucking. I want this partnership to be successful, and success won’t come from distraction.
Yet as my sneakers pound against the dirt path, I can’t stop thinking about last night.
The caveman part of me—hell, all of me—loves that she thinks I’m good-looking. I feel a little bit like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer did when Clarice told him he was cute. I could go skipping and jumping and flying into the air. She thinks I’m cute, she thinks I’m cuuuuuuuuuuute.
But I can’t say that aloud, for fuck’s sake.
In fact, I’d like to slap my brain for suggesting that Rudolph the fucking Red-Nosed Reindeer and I have anything in common.
I’m not Rudolph.
I’m Iron Man.
I’m impervious to Lulu.
I’m stoic and tough as motherfucking nails.
Just to prove it, I reply to Dean’s how is Lulu question with a curt great.
I exit the park, slowing to a fast walk as I hit the cobbled sidewalk.
Dean: She’s great, as in a great conversationalist? Great contortionist? Great lady? Great time? Elaborate, mate. You’re killing me.
