“Em?”
“No. No, he doesn’t smell.”
“Did he do anything inappropriate?”
He kissed me. And I kissed him back. Does that count?
“Emily. Can you hear me?”
“No. Nothing inappropriate.”
“Then, what’s the problem?”
The problem is that he’s self-centered and oh so sure of himself and I know that’s not the end of the world but wanting to climb into bed with him probably is not a good thing.
Oh God. Was that the truth?
“Emily? Emily? Hello?”
Emily gulped down the rest of the wine.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, I’m here.”
“Are we on the same page with this or is there something missing?”
“No,” Emily said with blithe assurance. “Why would there be something missing?”
“I don’t know, Em. That’s just the point. Why would there be—and how come it sounds as if there is?”
Emily uptilted the glass, recovered the final two drops of wine with the tip of her tongue.
“Just give me your opinion, OK? Should I take the job?”
“How’s the pay?”
“Excellent.”
“The bennies?”
“Terrific.”
“Then why all this second guessing?”
True. Completely true. Why all this second-guessing?
“Em. Honey. You never give yourself enough credit. You’re smart. You’re talented. Take the job. If it doesn’t work out, so be it.”
So be it, Emily thought as she sat on the stoop outside her apartment building at 7:45 the next morning.
A job was just a job.
Marco Santini was just a man.
That she found him attractive meant nothing. Especially when, mostly, she found him irritating.
Be ready at eight.
A command, not a request.