One Kiss: An Office Romance

“Wow, you are hilarious,” I mutter as I flip through my dresses, looking for the navy blue one with the empire waist and fluttered sleeves. It is flexible enough for a luncheon or casual dinner party. This plus a pair of brand-new jeans and a sea-green wrap sweater should get me most of the way through the weekend, I think?

I hold up my outfits for Landry’s approval and she squints, nodding.

“Are you leaving, like, today?” she asks carefully, dragging a finger across the stitching of my coverlet.

“I’ll be back Monday night. Just work stuff.”

Two pairs of shoes should do it, I tell myself. Now I can get my makeup and hair accessories organized. And a toothbrush! Jeez. I really need to get out more.

“Work stuff, gross,” she groans. “Why don’t you just stay here? You worked last weekend. We could stream all of the Mandy Moore movies. Or Ryan Gosling. You like him.”

“Tempting,” I admit. “And you can still stream all you want to. But I gotta do this. It’s just work.”

“It doesn’t look like work,” she pouts as she pokes at the nightie on the top of the pile.

“Why? Because I’ll be sleeping eventually? In a nightgown? That doesn’t look like work too?”

“I don’t know, Clarissa!” she groans suddenly, flopping down longways on the bed. Her hair fans out over the side as she rolls her head back and forth dramatically.

Forcing myself to pause, I just look at her for a second. Is she for real? Is this a thing?

Honestly, she’s been a great houseguest. Not leaving messes like she used to do. Not trying to keep me up all night, then sleeping all day. Practically a proper roommate. Practically an adult. I know she is technically an adult but…

“So what do you want to do for your birthday next month?” I ask brightly, covering for the fact that I had just about forgotten.

“You forgot,” she accuses me through narrowed eyes.

“It didn’t happen yet, so I couldn’t have forgotten,” I counter. “And what do you want to do?”

“I want you to hang out with me… this weekend,” she pouts.

My phone buzzes on the dresser.

“Landry, I wish I could. But I gotta go. My boss is here to pick me up. Okay? You’ll have fun. Think about what you want to do next weekend. Seriously. Sister weekend.”

“Yeah, all right,” she grumbles.

My phone buzzes again and I snatch it off the dresser, tucking it into my back pocket as I rush down the stairs, stuffing my clothes into the overnight bag and tugging the zipper closed.

Maxwell waves over his head as I leave the front door, and I am taken aback by the sight of a cherry-red Mustang convertible, growling in the street in front of my townhouse.

He jumps out and trots around the back of the car to open the passenger door for me. Grinning behind a pair of dark sunglasses, in a short-sleeve button-down that shows off some pretty impressive biceps and a broad chest, Maxwell takes my overnight bag politely and gestures toward the car with a flourish.

“This is pretty nice too,” I admit.

The thick leather creaks beneath me as I settle in. Restored to mint condition, somebody put a lot of love into this vehicle, I can tell. No wonder he is so proud of it.

There is something about driving in Chicago with the top down in late summer that is indescribable. There’s nothing like it. We head for the North Side, both grinning like fools, warm and free in the golden sunlight. Though there is some traffic as we head toward the North Shore, I don’t mind it. It’s nice to be free and let my hair down.

The miles fly beneath us as we head for the border between Illinois and Wisconsin. Soon the traffic dissipates and we are the only ones on the road. Gentle hills are covered in golden, waving seas of wheat and corn. Sometimes they give way to deep, cool forests, filled with animals and their mysterious sounds.

Too soon, I see the green signs pointing toward Lake Geneva. I didn’t even realize how much I was enjoying our road trip until I knew it was coming to a close.

Lake Geneva is an interesting mix of wealth and middle-class, twentieth-century-style nostalgic luxury. Much of the area is taken up by 1950s and 1960s ranches arranged around private docks where traditional family units from Chicago would spend a couple weeks in the summer fishing and boating and playing along the rocky beaches. Good old-fashioned Americana.

But hidden among those areas are secluded, gated communities where the truly wealthy built palatial estates, out of sight of the middle-class riffraff. Some of these are ostentatious mansions right at the water’s edge, with towering windows that you can see glowing with party lights late into the summer evenings, in a kind of Great Gatsby display of wealth. Others are more subdued, perhaps hidden from direct view by artful arrangements of imported ginkgo trees and carefully planned decorative hedges.

As Maxwell drives the Mustang slowly through deliberately confusing curled roadways among the dense forest, I can periodically pick out outbuildings, wrought iron security fencing, and even the occasional guardhouse. I get the sense that we are pushing further into a private area of wealth, the sort of thing you wouldn’t even know was here unless you’d been explicitly invited.