by Matayo, Amy
“Come have dinner. I’ll meet you at Davenports whenever you say.”
“Are you’re buying? If I’m driving an hour to get there, you better be buying dinner.”
I sit up and reach for a pen, then begin doodling on a piece of paper. I’m four butterflies in before I realize what I’ve done. I toss the pen down and sigh. She would come to dinner if I wasn’t buying. It’s an old argument. Still.
“I’m buying.”
“Then I’ll meet you at seven. Don’t be late.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
And I wouldn’t. My day just got a million times better.
“Micah, got a second? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Terry, our station manager, pops his head into my office just as I’m pulling a sweatshirt over my head. I run a hand through my hair to smooth it down. Davenports is casual and it’s Friday night. I’d bet money that Presley will show up in yoga pants and a ball cap, her messy hair pulled back into a flawless ponytail that trails halfway down her back. It might sound like I’m complaining; I’m not. It’s a good look on her. The kind of look that leaves me wishing we had done the more things part of our relationship a hundred times by now. Presley is trim and fit and as hot as they come, but no. We’re friends, and that’s the way it has to stay. Still, it doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about her perfectly toned backside filling out those pants.
Lately it’s getting more difficult for me to convince myself that I’m okay with the way things are.
“Sure. Give me one second.” I check my image in the mirror and shrug. Presley will look better than me, but I look okay. Approaching thirty hasn’t caught up with me yet, so that’s good. I rub my palms together in a slow circle and turn toward Terry. “Who is it?”
And then I see. Blonde. Tan. A body and smile to rival Gisele’s. Quite possibly the most perfect specimen God ever made, right here in my office. My throat closes in on itself, and all I can do is remind myself to breathe. Be cool. I’m a professional. The face of Atlanta news. My mug is plastered across billboards up and down interstate 285 and the surrounding roads. It wouldn’t do to have me behaving like a teenage boy in a sex toy store, fifty bucks in his pocket and no one supervising his purchases.
Play. It. Cool.
“Micah, I’d like you to meet Mara West.” I raise an eyebrow at Terry. West is also the last name of our station owner. He flashes a warning glance at me so I don’t reference it. “She was just hired as marketing director. She’s also the niece of Hank West, so make her feel especially welcome.”
Apparently rules are made to broken. We have a no-hiring-family policy here, one clearly being overlooked in this circumstance. Deciding I can overlook it with the best of them, I hold out my hand.
“I’m Micah Leven. Very pleased to meet you.” When her hand slips into mine, I don’t care who she’s related to. It’s a perfect fit; smooth, graceful. I wonder if my father would approve.
As always, that thought rears its ugly head.
“I recognize you, Mr. Leven. And the pleasure is all mine.” I mentally stab that thought in the heart and focus on her voice. It’s liquid. Smoky. Warm silk sliding down my neck. And that smile. It’s nearly my undoing.
From the way Terry smirks at me over her shoulder, I’m pretty sure he senses it. Who couldn’t? He’s staring at the same girl as me. Thank a merciful God that he has a wife and four kids waiting on him at home and I’m single. If no cares about our no-hiring-family policy, I just decided not to care about our no-dating-coworkers policy. If anyone questions it, I’ll win that battle. Now, to figure out a way to make it happen.
“I wondered if you had time for a drink,” Terry asks. I swallow a grin. He just provided the opening whether he meant to or not. “I thought we could take Mara to Callahan’s and fill her in on how things work around here. At Mr. West’s request, of course. If that works for you.” Terry looks at me for an answer, eyeing my clothing choice. He’s still wearing a suit. I’m not going backwards.
“If you don’t mind me looking like this,” I say, gesturing to my outfit. It’s a humble move, but I’m aware it’s an insincere one.
She shrugs, sliding her bag higher up her shoulder. “I think you look great. You sure you both have time? I hate to take up your Friday night.”
God bless Terry and Mr. West and all the angels that must have orchestrated this moment. “I have all the time in the world,” I say. “Give me just a second and we’ll go.”
I watch as they walk out of my office, then sprint to my private bathroom to spritz cologne and down some mouthwash. After a quick hair check and a second to re-think my outfit, I decide I look fine and walk out to meet them.
I should have stayed inside.
I should have cancelled the plans.
I should have done a lot of things that never once occurred to me.
Instead we go to for drinks. Stay through dinner. Get to know each other. Mara posts a few photos of us to Instagram. We talk well into the evening. Nearly four hours, to be exact. Terry headed home after just one. Which left me alone with Mara for three, some of the best three hours of my life.
It’s isn’t until dessert is ordered and I’m pouring our second bottle of wine that I remember Presley, long gone from waiting on me at a restaurant across town.
