One Kiss: An Office Romance

Okay, you are being unreasonable, I tell myself. He didn’t know. It’s not his fault. It’s Greg’s. And he was just sticking up for me.

And maybe I have been a little bit harsh on him.

And here he is again.

I glance up when I see his shadow in the door, and there he stands, fixing his cuffs, staring at me again with that clean-slate expression of optimism and professionalism.

Could I maybe just give him a chance? I wonder. Maybe just one teeny chance?

Taking a deep breath, I force myself to meet his gaze and not automatically frown. That’s it. That is the best I can do for right now.

But I think I see a glint of appreciation in his eyes as I stand up. He notices. It’s not a lot, but it is something.

Stuffing the folder into my leather briefcase, I follow him to the elevators and we descend to the lobby in a silence that seems to buzz just a bit. This is different. It has some energy to it, I guess.

Just one chance, I promise myself.

Just one, teeny, tiny chance. And the moment he turns into a douche, I will let him have it.

Real estate is still a fairly old-fashioned business, especially commercial real estate. Even though a lot of what we do is digital now, even virtual, a lot of it is still done face-to-face with handshakes and glasses of scotch and, in this case, giant slabs of really expensive steak.

Isaac Nelson is already at the table when we arrive, and the maître d’ hustles us back through the rows of white linen-covered tables to the one in the center of the room, the one everyone can see as soon as they arrive. Isaac stands when he sees me, extending a hand to shake mine out of politeness, though his attention immediately goes to Maxwell, of course. Since he is the man.

He’s already started on his porterhouse, with a sloppy triangle carved through the steaming flesh on one side. As soon as Maxwell and I sit, a waiter arrives with two more matching plates of what have to be sixteen-ounce steaks. It’s absurd, but it is also kind of a tradition. Maxwell murmurs his scotch order, and I ask for a gimlet. It’s not quite a girly drink, but it’s also not quite a manly slug of firewater either.

To my surprise, Maxwell immediately takes his iPad from his satchel and asks Isaac if he would like to see the properties we have available for his medical practice. Isaac chews thoughtfully, his cheeks crinkling with amusement.

“I heard you were all brass tacks,” Isaac says after a healthy swallow. “Right to business, eh?”

Maxwell swipes past the first few listings, serious and professional but friendly.

“Well, lunch is on you, right?” he jokes. “I don’t want to tie up your afternoon.”

Isaac smirks at me, winking patronizingly. “You have another set of listings?”

My gimlet arrives and I twist the stem of the glass between my fingers thoughtfully. “Actually, the same listings,” I smile blandly. “Maxwell has you covered.”

That was enough of a response to direct his attention back to Maxwell. They continue chatting, swiping back and forth between listings, discussing the pros and cons of each. This is work I would normally be doing, and it is nice to sit back and just drink my stupidly expensive lime juice and gin cocktail and watch Maxwell work.

He really is quite good at this, I have to admit. He pivots easily between making suggestions and listening receptively to Isaac’s requests. After a little while, I come to appreciate that Maxwell is directing Isaac’s attention in a strategic way. He is getting Isaac closer and closer to an elusive target, with the promise that we can fulfill his business needs.

“Yes, you could go with the Near North Side location,” Maxwell finally announces, expertly swallowing that last bite of steak.

I’m not really sure where he puts it, since he is so trim. Maybe a low-carb eater? Paleo? With those shoulders, could I even hope for CrossFit?

“But like you said,” Isaac agrees thoughtfully, peering at the surface of the iPad as he downs the last swallow of his scotch, “the complex near the U of I campus makes a lot of sense too. It’s something to consider. I’m glad you brought it up.”

Maxwell’s eyes crinkle, the expression I’m getting to know as a tiny, silent look of victory. Not a bragging expression, but something that is definitely conscious of the advantage he has just taken.

“Best thing for us to do is to go through them,” Maxwell suggests casually as he pulls the brokerage contract from his satchel. “This Friday work?”

Isaac takes the contract and just signs it, right there, stabbing the pen forcefully at the end of the line with a flourish of his signature. That’s it. The deal is as good as done. In just one lunch.

“Friday is perfect,” Isaac agrees as he takes the check from the waiter.

“No, let me get that,” Maxwell smirks. “That was just a joke. You know lunch is always on us.”

Maybe it is the gin, or maybe it is the beautiful lunch, but I can really appreciate Maxwell’s skills right now. Maybe he’s not just another thick-necked frat bro with an overinflated ego. His negotiation here was so smooth, it was practically invisible.