And when we sneak away under the pier to make love, that same fluttering of wings sets my chest afloat.
Everything is perfect.“SO, YOU TOOK THE lead, pitched the launch event to Mrs. Delure from Bare•ly, and then she asked for you to be the lead event planner on the account?” Sophie asks, leaning on one elbow with stars in her eyes.
We’re in one of the smaller conference rooms at Okay, Cool, finishing up what has been almost an hour of her asking me questions. We’ve covered everything from how I first became interested in event planning to my studies at Palm South University, from my first day of the internship to my duties today. I’ve never been watched with such reverence before, never been asked so much about myself as if I had something to offer that wasn’t just a pretty face and an occasional creative event idea.
Sophie is making me feel special, like my role here actually matters.
And as the hour ticks by, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake about her.
I chuckle. “Yeah, that’s pretty much exactly how it went.”
“Wow,” Sophie remarks, sitting back in her chair with a shake of her head. She clicks the top of her pen back and forth, jotting down something in her notebook. “That’s pretty impressive. I mean, I feel like I’ve made strides as an intern, but I can’t imagine being offered the event planner position on an account. I mean, there’s a lot that goes into that.”
“Oh, more than you can even think of or try to list out. I had more than a few times where I was sure I was going to land flat on my ass, but somehow managed to pull the event off by the hair of my teeth.” I smile. “That was the first time I realized that working in event planning is a lot like trying to put out a house fire with nothing but a bucket of water and a handful of prayers.”
“I’m sure you’re selling yourself short,” Sophie says, tapping her pen on my knee. “From what I hear, you’ve been rocking that account since the day they placed the first binder of information in your hands.”
Appreciation settles in her fierce eyes, and those eyes trail the length of me, her tongue wetting her lips a little as they flow over my legs. I’m dressed in a rose gold, silky blouse and my favorite white pencil skirt, complete with hose underneath, and nude stilettos. Sophie nearly matches me in a skirt and blouse of her own, except her skirt is short, her blouse revealing, and where I’m all light and airy this afternoon, she’s all mauve and black, dark and severe, all the way from her black heels to the dark blood shade of her lips.
And the way she just licked them, it looks like she wants to have me for lunch.
The trust she’s built over the last hour fizzles out of me like the bubbles of a champagne bottle, and suspicion cools its place, making my skin prickle.
I clear my throat, gathering up the notes and files I’d brought for her to browse through for the interview. “Alright, does that about do it, then?”
“I think so,” she says, but I don’t miss the disappointment in her voice. “Thank you for taking time out of your day to speak with me. Truly. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. You’ll have to let me see the final product.”
“Absolutely.” She clicks her pen, still watching me as I pack up. “Can I ask you one more question? Off the record.”
“Sure.”
“Are you bisexual?”
I drop the files I’d been about to shove into my bag, sending papers flying around our heels on the floor as I watch her wide-eyed.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry, I know that’s forward,” she says hurriedly with a blush. “I just… Well, you see, I’m bisexual. And I guess I just thought I had a knack for sniffing out another bi. My friends and I always joke that I have a radar of sorts.”
She chuckles, and on the surface, she looks pleasant and friendly and like she genuinely is just curious.
But my insides shrivel up in warning.
I swallow, standing and holding my skirt tucked against the back of my thighs as I slowly lower down onto my knees and begin picking up the papers that fell from the file.
Sophie doesn’t move an inch to help me.
She just sits in her chair above me, her crossed knees level with my face.
“I don’t know that that’s work-appropriate conversation,” I murmur, focusing on getting the pages back in place.
“I didn’t mean any offense. Honestly, I don’t think being bisexual is offensive. Do you?”
“No, of course not,” I answer quickly.
“Then, what’s the big deal?”
What is the big deal?
I try to find the answer to that myself but come up empty. What is it about her that sets me off? What is it about her that makes me want to strangle her and be best friends with her all at the same time?