by Haley Oliver
"Good morning, Amanda. You're here early."
I glance up from my desk. For once, Owen's unexpected appearance doesn't make me jump a foot in the air. He stands straight and tall, his dark Armani suit perfectly tailored around his broad shoulders, and his tie… well, his tie is slightly askew. Was he in a hurry to get here? He's holding two coffees. I realize they're from a coffee shop quite a few blocks away, the one that Nicole gushed about in one of her memos.
"Here." He passes one of the coffees to me. Our fingers brush in the exchange. For a wild moment, I think I won't have to come clean after all. Has he figured it out on his own? "I was told this place has the best brew in the city," he explains. "Better than what they offer downstairs. Guess we'll be the judge of that, huh?"
I peer into his face, but I see no evidence of recognition. Only uncharacteristic cheerfulness and the glint of a secret privately kept in his blue-gray eyes. No, I think. He doesn't realize. Wishful thinking on my part. It would have been easier that way.
"And here. I've got something else for you." Owen reaches into the inner pocket of his suit and produces an envelope. He passes it to me. Again, my heart lurches. "I cut you a check for all the overtime you've been putting in." He lifts one eyebrow meaningfully.
"Oh. Right." I stare at the envelope in my hand.
"Well?" he prompts me. "Aren't you going to open it?"
"In front of you? Wouldn't that be rude?" In truth, I didn’t plan on opening it.
"What if I want you to?" he responds with a secret smile. He's making it difficult this morning. Why did he choose this, of all days, to wake up on the right side of the bed?
"If you say so, Mr. Ridgemont."
"Owen," he corrects gently. He pulls up a chair beside me and sits as I slit the envelope open with my fingernail. I pull the check out and carefully set it aside without looking at it because there's something else peeking out from the envelope’s interior. "Tickets?" I mutter in confusion as I draw them out. "To…"
My throat closes suddenly, and my words stick.
"Broadway. Wait, you don't like the show?" Owen leans in for a closer look at my expression. "I can exchange them for anything you'd prefer."
"Owen!" I finally manage to gasp out. "That's not it at all! I… this is wonderful! Which dress should I wear? Which of your clients are we meeting with?"
His laugh lines reappear—lines I didn't know he possessed until this week—and he sighs at relief that his invitation is an obvious hit. "No client, Amanda. They're for you. I thought you'd like to take yourself out on a real date for a change."
"I…"
I have no idea how to respond to this. Ask him to accompany you, a traitorous voice exclaims. If Owen Ridgemont hasn't realized by now that you want to go out with him, maybe it's time to take matters into your own hands, girl. It's exactly the sort of advice Jane would give me. Right now, my inner voice even sounds suspiciously like Jane.
But I can't. I can't ask Owen to go with me, and I can't accept these tickets. I wet my lips and glance up, preparing to say something—anything—to finally put an end to my agony, but he's already rising to disappear into his office. "Owen, wait!" I exclaim.
He turns in surprise to find me out of my chair. "Amanda?"
He looks startled by how close my sudden leap to attention has brought us. He isn't the only one. I gaze up into his dark eyes. How many clients has he won over with a look? How many women? I glance to the side, an act of self-preservation, really, and notice that the hand not holding his coffee has moved to hover near my shoulder. Had he stopped himself from touching me? Maybe I'm not the only one struggling to remember where the boundaries of our relationship are…
Then again, maybe not.
"Your tie," I point out lamely. "Here. Let me."
His left hand is full, so it only makes sense. I reach between us to fiddle with the knot and straighten the length of it. Then, without thinking, I smooth it across his chest. I hear his intake of breath. I forget how to breathe at all.
The desk phone rings, interrupting the moment, and I don't know whether to thank my lucky stars or curse the heavens for this intervention. Owen clears his throat as I turn away to hide my flush. I pick up the phone. "Mr. Ridgemont's office," I answer, bright and automatic.
By the time the call concludes and I turn back around, the door to Owen's office is closed.
* * *
"Jeez, you'd think Sway International was on fire with how busy the building is today," Jane says in my ear as I pull up my email. I've got the phone trapped between my ear and hiked-up shoulder. I've held this position for hours. I'm definitely going to need to treat myself to a massage at some point.
Jane called to update me on what's going on in the upstairs offices—and let's face it—to remind me again about girls' night. The incoming call light flashes, and I'm just about to tell her that I have to take another call, when Nicole Preston walks in.
"Amanda? Earth to Amanda!" Jane sings into the phone. "Are you there, Amanda? It's me, Earth."
"I…uh…have to go." I hang up without explanation. Panic doesn't just set in—it washes over me like an overturned tub of ice water and threatens to sweep me completely from the building.
Nicole pauses outside Owen's office door and pops open a compact. She reapplies her lipstick with a speed that is breathtaking, snaps the mirror closed, and reaches for the handle. She hasn't acknowledged my existence at all since coming in. "Wait a second…!" I helplessly put out my hand to try and intervene, but she shoots me a look as if to say I'm an insignificant peon who'd better not attempt to stop her, pushes the door open, and struts inside.
"Owen Ridgemont." She doesn't bother closing the door behind her.
"Nicole?" Owen sounds completely bewildered by this blonde apparition, and he isn't the only one. I roll my chair back and press my back flat against the outer wall, my pulse pounding so hard I'm surprised it doesn't shake the building.
"I've been thinking about you a lot these days," she purrs.
That liar. I ball my fists, then clench the hem of my skirt for something to wring. I pretend it's her neck. She's finally figured out who Owen is—or how much he's worth, more like.
"Have you?" Owen's tone is different now. Guarded, but amused. He thinks this is an extension of the game. With Nicole behaving so drastically different than she conducts herself in their memos, I'm sure he can't imagine it's anything less. "I admit you've been on my mind quite a bit also."
"I know I have," she purrs. "How can it be otherwise?"
I sneak a peek around the corner to see her leaning on his desk. I quickly whip away again before I'm noticed… not that Owen has eyes for anyone but the statuesque creature adorning his workspace. I saw the stunned expression on his face, the unguarded wonder. I hug myself harder.
"So, I was thinking," Nicole coos, "that I'd like to take you up on that dinner offer after all. How about, oh, I don't know—tonight?"
"Tonight?" Owen echoes uncertainly.
"Tonight," she confirms without pause. "Great! I'll text you the address where you can pick me up—oh, but I'll need your number, of course…"
"Hope you don't mind a memo," he insinuates as he drags his notepad toward him. The blonde laughs, high and shrill. Maybe I'm only imagining that she sounds like a sociopathic, cackling witch. When she leaves Owen's office, and Owen follows, I can't help marking his expression again. He's absolutely elated. I don't think even he realizes that he's gotten up from his desk to trail her.
She sashays back to her office. I half expect her to turn, and deliver a wink over her shoulder, but she doesn't. Business concluded, I think as I get up to join Owen in the hallway.
"Owen, you can't go out with her," I blurt to his back.
Owen whirls, astonished. "Excuse me? "
"You don't know her at all." I already know how absurd I sound. Just wait until I get to the grand finale of what I'm about to say…
"What do you mean?" Owen laughs. "I invited her, didn't I? A
nd I'm going to pretend to not notice you were eavesdropping on us."
"She's not whom you think she is," I say point-blank. This is it. Confession time. No backing down now. I have his complete attention, and he's already on his way to being annoyed with me.
But something changes in his expression. His eyes cloud over, and his mouth thins pensively. Suddenly, there's no doubt in my mind that he's seeing me. Even though Nicole's perfume lingers, I feel fixed in place by that penetrative stare. "Amanda…" he begins slowly.
Yes! I want to shout. Yes, I'm the one! It's me! Throw me out if you have to, but just know the truth!
"I guess I should have thought this thing through more."
Wait, what? Owen sounds almost…apologetic. He runs a hand through his thick, dark hair, leaving it as unconsciously disheveled as it was the first time I laid eyes on him.
"I'm flattered," he says. "Really. Please don't think that I'm not. I'm…fond of you as well." He seems to surprise himself with this realization, but he carries on with whatever script he's reading from in his head. "But I thought I made it clear at the outset that this thing between you and me would be a platonic arrangement. I can see how after all we've been through how you might be…confused…"
"You're kidding me?" I yell and fling my hands in the air.
He grabs me by the hand and drags me back into his office, shutting the door behind us. "Amanda, this is embarrassing. I know as much as I need to about her. She is smart and kind hearted and caring. I apologize if I have misled you. I promise it was not my intention. I'm grateful to have you in my life."
I glance down at our joined hands. Did he just squeeze me unconsciously? Owen follows my gaze and promptly lets go. I think he suddenly realizes how dragging me into his office in a fit of passion must look.
Tell him! the voice in my head screams at me. Tell him now! But I chicken out. I just keep hearing those words…I'm flattered." He thinks I'm jealous. I am jealous, but how dare he bring it up.
"Excuse me, Mr. Ridgemont, but I had better get back to my desk."
"Amanda…"
I leave his office and shut the door behind me. He doesn't follow me out.
My heartache throbs in my chest. I consider packing my few belongings and contacting the temp agency. I spend what I'm now sure are my last few hours at Sway fielding phone calls and answering emails. Owen never reappears. It's almost funny, thinking of him trapped in there, afraid of leaving and possibly entering into another awkward conversation with me. And who made it awkward? I think furiously, and any sympathy I have for him goes flying out the fifth-floor window.
But this is so wrong. I'm not the one who should be feeling slighted by Owen. Not now, not ever. The embarrassment I feel now, the jumbled feelings, are warranted after lying to him for so long.
Before I leave for the day, I update his calendar for posterity. Dinner with N. Preston. RSVP via personal number. Then I gather my things.
"That's a lot to take home with you, isn't it?" I run into Jane at the elevators, and she stares dubiously at the box in my arms.
"Oh!" I look down and try desperately to pretend like I haven't noticed anything amiss with the picture I make. "I'm just… cleaning up my workstation."
"Uh-huh."
The elevator door releases in the lobby, and I let out a pensive breath I didn’t know I was holding. Come on, Amanda, you can do this. Only a few steps more before you enter into exile.
"Amanda?"
I realize I started walking without answering Jane. She catches my elbow and steers me toward the lobby's centerpiece fountain. "Here, come sit with me a moment. You don't look like you're doing so hot today."
"I'm…" I let myself be forcefully settled on the marble rim of the fountain. "Oh, Jane, I'm really not. But it's…work stuff. No, that's not right." I shake my head. "It's personal stuff. Well, I guess to an extent it is, but—"
"Girl, you are really mixed up!" Jane exclaims. "Look at you! Do you even know which line to get on to take you home?"
"I'm fine!" I exclaim. "Really, I'm—"
Just then, Nicole clips by us in her expensive heels. She's chatting on her phone, laughing, and there's only one person I can imagine her speaking to at that moment. I can't take it anymore. I drop my head into my box of belongings and consider being ill.
"Oh, no," Jane whispers. "Amanda, don't tell me…"
"I'm not sure I could if I wanted to," I croak. "I've really made a mess of things, Jane. You wouldn't believe how badly."
"Oh, honey. Come here." Jane pulls me sideways into her arms, and I go, feeling like a child as she grips my shoulder comfortingly and strokes my hair. "I tried to warn you of the danger. But we can't help whom we fall for, can we? The human heart is really incredible."
"It's an incredible nuisance," I mutter as I turn into her shirt collar. I will myself not to cry, not here… but if I do, at least I have Jane to help me hide my tears.
Chapter Ten
Owen
I adjust my tie for what is probably the hundredth time, even though it needs no adjustment. Not after Amanda interfered on my behalf earlier.
I wait outside the limo for Nicole. I gave up sitting in the car thirty minutes ago. I gave up pacing the sidewalk about ten. I don't bother checking my watch. We've already completely blown our reservation, and I'll just have to work something out when we get there.
I can't stop adjusting my tie, and I can't stop thinking about Amanda. I'm right, aren't I? My secretary developed feelings for me somewhere down the line, and I was so caught up in getting to know the real Nicole that I missed the signs completely. There were signs, weren't there?
I'm slipping. The intuition I pride myself on has been completely off its mark ever since I came out here to Sway International. Maybe my hunt for a for a wife is doomed completely.
The turnabout from Nicole was a shock. I smile to myself. The woman certainly manages to keep me on my toes and that, if nothing else, piques my interest. I have something special planned for her this evening.
I just wish things were right between me and Amanda. Why do I feel like I lost my best friend? A real friend. The kind I had in childhood. One who didn't want anything from me but to hang out on lazy summer days. A friend who didn't care what clothes I wore or what my bank account looked like.
By the time I roused myself from paperwork, she was already gone from her desk for the day. I had even waited around a bit, feeling like a hopeless idiot, half-tempted to text her to see if she was still in the building. I'm half-tempted to text her now, but it isn't right to focus so much on another woman when I've finally got a date with the one I've been obsessing over for weeks.
"And here I am."
I glance up, surprised. Nicole stands before me, long legged and smoky eyed, looking like a haughty gazelle in a tight sequined obsidian dress. She scoffs a startled laugh when she notices I've got my cell to my ear. I quickly hang up and pocket it. I was about to make a huge mistake without even noticing I was doing it. I was about to call Amanda.
"Were you about to call me?" She raises an eyebrow. "I told you I was getting ready, silly. You know that would have slowed me down, right?"
"I was calling to see if I can still get us a table," I lie quickly.
She snorts in disbelief as I hold the limo door for her. "You didn't make a reservation?" she demands as she folds herself inside.
"I did. But you…but in light of our delay, they've probably given it away already." Then again, the place I have in mind isn't exactly in high demand. Nothing like the places I'm used to.
"Where are you taking me?" she asks as I climb in on the opposite side.
"I thought we'd—"
"Can you turn off the air-conditioning. I'll never understand why men have to have it so cold in vehicles."
"Certainly. I apologize."
Nicole opens a compact mirror and dabs at the lipstick line of her bottom lip.
"Where are we going? We passed Le Chef-D'œuvre. Does your driver know what h
e's doing?"
"Uh, I made reservations at Lascas." I smile knowing she'll be thrilled I managed to pinpoint, from the clues she'd given me, the small mom-and-pop Italian place.
"Lascas?" Nicole snaps her compact shut and looks at me like I have spoken some foreign language.
"Alright, umm, so unfortunately we won't be able to take the original route I had planned, because our reservation is for six thirty, but afterward, perhaps we can take a stroll through the park. Maybe by that favorite bench? I can have my driver meet us with the car afterward."
Again, there's that odd look from her. "The park? And risk messing up my boots with pigeon poop? They're Chanel. I suppose, if we stick to the sidewalks…"
"Yes, sure. I just thought—never mind."
Fifteen minutes later, the superficial conversation I've managed to engage Nicole in dies as we pull up outside the restaurant. I crane to look, feeling my excitement for our evening together renew itself. We're off to a rocky start, but surely this will cheer her up. "We're here," I announce as I let myself out. I offer my hand to Nicole as she steps delicately out onto the curb. She glances up at the striped shopfront, and I grin.
"This is…" She blinks, then turns to look at me as if I'm joking. After a moment's consideration, I turn away to take in the restaurant. "What? What's wrong?"
"Owen, I was expecting something a little more… This can't be a five-star restaurant. I mean, look at me." She gestures to herself, unnecessarily. She's dressed to the nines. Everyone that walks by stares at her with equal parts admiration and envy, which, for New York, is saying something. Most people mind their business and don't glance twice at those around them.
Most people. Then there are those charming people watchers, I think as I smile to myself.
I forcibly banish my secretary from my thoughts. Nicole looks unimpressed for some reason, and I'm disappointed. I expected a different reaction.
Once inside, the place is packed, and the air is filled with the mouth-watering aroma of authentically baked dough and freshly made pasta. The hostess ushers us merrily to our table. It turns out they held it for us. Following our young, eager waiter's recommendation, I order us a bottle of wine from the owner's brother's vineyard. Nicole says nothing, but I notice she picks up the wine list after I've ordered. Her eyes—and mood—darken at what she finds. Is she really upset that I took the waiter's recommendation and didn't order the most expensive wine on the list? Surely, I'm imagining it. The Nicole I've grown to know would never…
