The One I Want

A grin tickles her lips. “I’m prepared. Now tell me everything.”

“My mom made me pinky promise.”

“You pinky promise with your mom?”

I’m not sure how to respond. Bashful takes the lead for how I’m feeling. At this rate, I’m probably turning pink. “I do.”

As if the sun embodied her, her whole expression lights up. “That has to be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard, Drew.” It’s foreign, the twist I sense in my chest every time she calls me that name. I just feel different, exposed in a good way, like she’s taken a shovel and discovered a buried treasure. She says, “I love that you’re so close to your mom. Says a lot about the bond you have with her.”

“She’s pretty great.” Eyeing the crumpled paper, I add, “Unless she makes me do embarrassing things.”

“Is that what this is? A list of ways to humiliate you?” I can hear the teasing in her tone.

Maybe it’s not as bad as I’m making it out to be. “She doesn’t want to humiliate me. She’s created a list of ways for me to step out of my comfort zone. I was given the assignment before I moved to New York.”

Curiosity keeps her eyes on mine as if this is the most fascinating thing she’s ever heard. “Why would she do that?”

“Because she knows if I have my way, I’ll work twenty-four seven.”

“Your mother knows you well.” She reads over the list again, pausing on the last one. Pointing at it, she asks, “Number five?”

“We’re not discussing number five.”

Her hands go up in surrender, and she giggles. “Fair enough. For now.”

“No. Forever.”

“Depends, I guess, on if you choose to break the pinky promise.” She tears a piece of bread and eats.

Sighing, I say, “Not you too.”

“Oh, there are others?” she asks, too entertained for my liking.

The sandwich is practically calling my name. I take it in hand, ready to stuff my face, but first say, “My brother, Nick, has joined in the fun. Any chance to tease each other and we take advantage.”

“Speaking of Nick, we’ve never really talked about that relationship.”

“There’s not much to say. We get along better than most and have the good fortune of working together.” I’m starved, so I take a bite so big that I have to cover my mouth.

“You’re very lucky to have a sibling. I don’t have any.”

My chewing slows as we dip into heavier territory. When I finally swallow, I then ask, “Do you mind me asking what happened after your parents passed?”

Although I prefer the joy she seems to live in, I’m wondering if some of it is a façade. She mentioned protecting her heart, from me, from life, from everyone. The ex sounds like a distant memory, but he left her more damaged than she lets on.

Tugging the crust from the sourdough, her eyes stay focused. “I lived with my grandmother at that point already, so not much else changed.”

Her parents passing away must have had a bigger impact than she’s letting on. I have a feeling the time we have left of lunch isn’t enough time to dig that deep. Although, I can’t help but feel that we shouldn’t be having this impromptu lunch at all. Not at work. Not when I’m CEO Andrew. When I’m not Ice Cream Drew. But how do I stop this? Especially when I like her company.

She’s smart to leave the door open and disguise it under policy. I know the truth, but thankfully, it’s not obvious to anyone else.

When she holds up the list again, I let her change the subject, knowing she needs to. She says, “I could help you with this list. Well, everything but the last one, of course. That one you have to figure out on your own.”

Why does accomplishing these tasks sound more intriguing when she offers? “I’m not doing any of them. It’s not a priority of mine.”

“It is of your mom’s, it sounds like.”

“Well, yeah, but she’s fixating on something that doesn’t need fixing. I’m focusing on a billion-dollar company.”

“You’re right. They’re both equally important.”

“Wait, that’s not what I meant.”

“We should jump on number two tomorrow. Meet me at nine in the lobby.”

“N-No. That’s not what I have planned.”

“What do you have planned on a Saturday at nine AM? Work?”

“Yes. I was planning on coming into the office to get a few things wrapped for this week and make headway on my research for the meeting on Monday.”

“As thrilling as that sounds, this,” she says, waving the piece of paper in front of me, “is important. You know what this list really is?”

“Punishment for the time I told Mrs. Whipple that my mom didn’t like her prized fruit salad?”

“Prized?”

“She won the Women’s League Cold Salad Division two years in a row with that fruit salad. She pinned her blue ribbons to her Louis Vuitton, so everybody knew she’d won.” Only in Beverly Hills . . .