The oven’s timer rings. Still looking a mixture nervous and agitated, but somehow with the face of a jester, Chad saunters over to answer the cupcakes’ call.
“It’s my grandmother’s recipe, actually,” Gatz says, his brown eyes meeting mine. “Her butterscotch and chocolate-chip cookies.”
“Sounds delish,” I say. “I’ll have to sneak a sample. And here! You’ve got to taste this!” I offer him a sampling of the mousse. “Think I made the most amazing batch ever.”
He licks the spoon clean and hems and haws.
“And?” I ask, eager. “The best ever, right?”
He licks his lips, moving his strong-cut jaw from side to side. “Mmmm.”
“Best, right?” I slowly stir at the pillowy mass.
“Well,” he says with a smack. “Excellent…but…I think I can make a better batch.”
“Oh, shut up,” I draw out, wagging my head. I dip in a fresh spoon. “I think it’s amazing.” I take a long, delightful taste. “Mmmm.”
He chuckles and begins to measure and pour various ingredients. “I’m teasin’,” he says. “It’s amazing.”
“How’s your game going, Emily?” Chad asks suddenly, removing two batches of cupcakes from the ovens.
“Hmm?” I smooth the mousse carefully about another small glass cup.
“Claire said something about getting another shot at setting you up.” He drops both pans of hot cupcakes onto a nearby table, making a loud noise.
“Oh,” I simper. “No. She wanted to, but she’s crazy.”
“I’m really sorry about Shane again,” he says apologetically.
“It’s not your fault he’s a total douche.”
“Hey, he’s a friend of mine.” He carefully sets one cupcake at a time on the cooling rack. “But, yeah, a total douche for standing you up.”
“Ouch,” Gatz says, cracking an egg.
Sophie returns, milling about the stack of boxes once again.
“I’m over it,” I say. “It was a silly game, anyhow, setting me up on all those blind dates. Fun, silly, just a game.”
“Definitely fun, though!” Sophie chimes in.
“Anyone work out? Just a little bit?” Gatz asks, curious, as he cracks another egg.
“Nah.” I fill the last cup, smoothing out as best I can the fluffy dessert.
Gatz looks at me through a mesh of curls, and a very small smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.
“What?” I ask through an unsettled laugh. “I’m a big loser, huh?”
“No.” He firmly shakes his head. “Not at all.”
“Well…” I pick up the heavy tray of desserts and deliver them to the fridge.
“They’re the losers,” he says almost under his breath.
“Aw, you’re sweet.”
“I’m serious. What was it? Five dates?”
“Please,” I say, tossing out a hearty laugh. “Don’t rub it in.”
“You’re a cool girl, Emily.”
I try to meet his eyes, but he’s intently focused on whisking the eggs.
“I mean,” he nearly stutters. He clears his throat. “How could all those dates be such losers?”
I set a tray of empty glass cups on the table. “Thanks, Gatz.” I tie the fresh cornrow braids of hair that I had done when I was back in Boston, the beads at the ends making small clicking noises. “That’s really sweet of you.”
Sophie appears at my side. She carefully yet swiftly begins to fill the cups with mousse.
“I mean,” Gatz continues, eyes still trained on the whisked eggs, “a guy who doesn’t want to date a girl who makes the second best chocolate raspberry mousse in the world…” He smirks.
“Ha, ha,” I say. “Sophie, you tasted it.” I look at her. “You tell me it isn’t the best mousse ever.”
“Scrumptious,” she says, nodding. “Just might have beaten yours, Gatz.”
“See?” I say. “Best ever, right? Thank you.”
Gatz gives a throaty laugh.
“Scrumptious, so says the boss,” I say.
“That’s a perfect match,” Sophie mutters at a barely audible level. She gives me a suspicious look.
“Huh?” I pull a puzzled face.
“Perfect batch,” she says, much louder this time. She sets a freshly prepared cup down and gives a sharp tug on her apron. She looks to Gatz. “Perfect batch Emily’s made.”
“It is pretty good, Emily,” he says, beginning to stir his dry ingredients. “Perfect batch, for sure.”
Sophie’s in the middle of making an illegible facial expression when Gatz asks, “You finished it yet?”
“Huh?”
“The book?” He gestures to the table where my book is lying, and Sophie’s face clears. “Save Me the Waltz,” he says. “You finished it?”
“Oh!” I say, feeling all flustered. I swivel my eyes to the book. “Almost. I will at break.”
I’m reminded once more of what I wanted to ask Gatz before Chad loudly came in and broke my train of thought.
“It’s a good one,” Gatz says. He pushes his large bowl of dry ingredients forward an inch. “I finished it over the holidays.” He begins to drum his fingers on the tabletop.
“Oh!” I’m surprised. “Well, that’s great because—”
“I’ll take you up on the book club meeting.” His drumming increases. “If it’s all right?”
Sophie sets her finished cup down with a clank and abruptly moves to the pile of pink boxes. She begins to move about in a slightly frenzied fashion, arranging the already neat boxes.
“No,” I say, taken aback. “I mean, definitely. Yeah, sure! That’d be great.” My ears are prickling with a warm sensation. “That’s what I’ve been meaning to ask you, actually. If you wanted to go.” Gatz regards me with an indefinable gaze. “To the book club,” I say, short.
“Well, I do.”
“Great!” I give a closed-mouth smile as I catch Sophie peering over her shoulder at us in such a conspicuous way.
I’m nearly finished filling the rest of the cups a minute later when Sophie clears her throat and says, “Em, how about you take your break now?”
“I’m almost done,” I say, handling another cup.
She squeezes her lips to one side and makes wide eyes at me from her spot by the boxes.
“What?” I ask.
“You need a break.” Her voice is adamant, arms akimbo.
I glance at Gatz, and he’s breaking into a full-on grin.
“Ay, ay,” I say, setting down my half-filled cup. “Boss says I need a break, I need a break.”
Gatz lets out a low laugh. “I’ll finish those for ya, Emily. Go enjoy your break. Finish that book. It’s a Fitzgerald, after all. An under-appreciated gem.”
Sophie hands me the book as I pass by her and joins me as I walk up front, putting one arm around my waist.
“What is with you?” I say lowly, leaning in to her. I stalk, with Sophie attached, to the front of the café.
“My God!” she gasps, taking a seat with me at one of the corner tables.
“‘My God’ what?” I question with a chuckle. “What is wrong with you?”
“Are you blind?” she spits out. “Totally blind?” She clumsily drops her chin into her hand, plonking her elbow hard onto the table. “Hell, I’m totally blind!” She briefly lifts her head up, then heavily drops her chin back down. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen it before.” She shakes her head voraciously, eyes wide, absolutely gobsmacked.
“What?” I press.
Then, suddenly, the worst thought hits me. She knows! I gulp hard. She knows about Chad! She’s been blind; she’s surprised she hasn’t seen it before… Another gulp. Oh no. What do I say? How do I handle this? Think, Emily, THINK!
“Gatz!” Sophie chokes out.
What do I do? Do I tell her I know Chad has it for her? Do I—
Wait.
Huh?
“Who?” I ask.
“Gatz! Gatsby. How could we be so
blind?!” Sophie’s mouth is now agape. “It’s so obvious when you think about it, Emily!”
“Okay,” I say, holding open a flat hand, palm down. “Explain. Rewind. What about Gatz?”
“He’s been here the whole time.” She slowly shakes her head in astonishment. “The whole time we’ve been so blind. So stupid! We even joked about having him be the guy I set you up with! For the game!” She knocks her elbows onto the table, leaning forward.
“Oh, Sophie,” I say once I realize the direction of the conversation. “I don’t think so.”
“Think about it!” She scoots closer to me, quickly checking behind her for any eavesdroppers. She lowers her voice and says, “He’s all flirty with you here. Super subtle, but flirty, nonetheless.” She scoots a smidgen closer. “He wants to go to your book club with you!” She excitedly pats my hands, which are resting rather limply on the table. “Isn’t this exciting? He’s so flirty with you in there. You’re so flirty back.”
I’m looking at her, stony-faced.
“I mean, you have the hots for him, don’t you?” She looks like she’s waiting on pins and needles. “He’s a little messy, with the hair and all.” She pulls an Elvis lip move. “But, hey! He’s sweet, smart, laidback, artsy, cuuuute.” She clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Come to think of it, there’s that kiddish, laidback, no-cares kind of charm to his look. Don’t you think? God!” She slams her hands atop her tangled bun on the crown of her head. “How could we not see this?!” A giant smile spreads across her lips.
There’s no denying it, Gatsby Carter’s a cutie. Not in the drop-dead-take-me-now gorgeous way like Ben. Not in the tall, dark, and handsome Disney prince way like Jaime. He does have that hair that’s always in a fit of wild curls, and I actually like it, come to think of it. It can be messy, but it is kind of sexy, especially when he peers through a dropped lock, or how he ruffles it back. He is tall, and lean—well built, but not in an overdone way. His body double could be Ben, and that is not a bad thing.
Sophie breaks my train of thought. “At least give it a try,” she urges. “Consider it. I mean, you gave my possibly gay brother a shot, not to mention suffered through drinks with Chad.” She rolls her eyes. “You poor thing. But come on! Gatz…you… It’s so perfect; he’s right here under your nose. God, we are so blind.”
I stifle the urge to laugh. If anyone’s right under someone’s nose it’s not me, it’s not Gatz…
“Come on,” she insists, squeezing my hands. “Think about it?”
I sigh and cock my head to the side. “I’ve never considered it, Sophie.”
“Exactly!” she gasps. “That’s the problem. That’s the whole ‘under your nose kind of thing.’ It’s perfect. Oh! They make chick flicks out of this kind of stuff, Emily!”
“Well,” I say, breaking from her grip. I pat her on the shoulder. “Thank you for trying your best to play Operation Blind Date two-point-oh, but I’m going to Zambia in the spring. Remember?”
“You’re not gone yet,” she says, standing up and looking a tad chagrined.
“Yeah.” I pry open my book. “I might not even get accepted. That’s true.”
Sophie reties the bun that was once perched high atop her head but has started to slip down thanks to her hurried movements of excitement. “Oh,” she says, the tie in her mouth and her hands working wildly, “you will. You so will.”
“Aaaand,” I drone in an ironic tone, “that’s a great reason for me to try to start a relationship?”
“Since when did you let anything get in your way? If Zambia’s meant to be, you’ll go. If Gatz is meant to be, it’ll work out. Isn’t this your mantra? Just give him a chance.”
The girl is making valid points. No harm in trying, right?
“Whatever,” she says hastily. “But you think about it. It’s so perfect, I’m stunned we’re just now seriously considering it.” She wags her head heavily.
“I don’t even know him that well, Sophie. I mean, sure we see each other a lot and I guess have some things in common and…”
“You’re just making lame excuses, now.”
I turn to the bookmarked page of Save Me the Waltz, only a handful of pages away from the end. “I’ll take my break now.” I press the Post-It to the tabletop.
“All right.” Sophie’s voice is melodic. She begins to gather the dishes from an adjacent, vacant table.
“Here,” she says, snagging a crinkled newspaper from the empty seat. She hands it to me. “Today’s paper. Down bottom are the horoscopes.” She smiles. “Maybe today’s your lucky day. Maybe it says ‘take friend’s advice’ or ‘go out on a date with cute co-worker.’”
“Yeah, yeah,” I say dismissively, setting the paper on my table. “Already saw it.”
“And?”
Okay, so I love my horoscopes, but sometimes they’re not always accurate. So “what I’m searching for will become more clear” could mean anything.
I deepen my book’s crease. “I’ve got a book to read, Sophie.”
“Uh-huh,” she says cheerfully and suspiciously as she bounces back to the kitchen.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“She so has a point, girlfriend,” Jackie says over the phone. “You find him attractive, don’t you?”
I scroll through the Pinterest board that I found, entitled XOXO Maternity Shots. I’ve been gathering some really great ideas for Robin’s maternity session, which I’m shooting next Sunday. Chad pulled a few strings for me, letting us have the studio where he and some fellow aspiring artists do their paintings. There’s a very industrial feel to the space, which will be fun and unique, and with some warm throws and rugs, a white screen, and even a couch and some pillows, it’ll be the perfect location for her artsy maternity photos.
Oh, how I love photography! Getting to think about what angles to shoot from, poses to suggest, lighting and props to play around with—
“Hel-loooo,” Jackie sings obnoxiously. “Emily! Earth to Emily!”
“Sorry,” I say, pinning a black and white photo of an expectant mother holding a daisy limply in one hand, cupping her stomach.
“So do you find him attractive or not?” Jackie says.
“Who?” I click on another black and white photo and pin it.
“Gatz!” she groans in reply. “You’re telling me you’ve never considered him? You consider book club guy, hit the sheets in a flash, and you’ve never even considered Gatz? Always-at-the-café-with-you Gatz?”
“If you’re asking if I’ve fantasized about sleeping with Gatz, then, no.”
“I’m not saying that.” She sighs heavily. “Just in any capacity. Have you thought of him in any way more than just co-workers? More than friends?”
I divert my eyes from the screen and lie back on the very plush and comfortable (and very sleek and sexy, indeed) black couch that Jackie surprised me with. In true Jackie style, she didn’t stop at the couch. My crappy little apartment has just gotten a major dose of class. I not only have a couch that probably cost five digits, but I have a coordinating loveseat, chair, and ottoman. I’m pressed for space in the living room now, but I have to admit that the furniture does look nice in here. Hard to believe I was schlepping it with that crappy old futon for years. I prop a hand behind my head and snuggle down deeper into the plushness.
“You have fantasized a little, haven’t you, Em?” Jackie pries.
I toy with my earrings and say, “Maybe a little.”
“Oh!” Her shouting almost bursts my eardrum. “I knew it! Oh, I knew it!”
“‘Fantasize’ isn’t exactly the right word,” I caution. “More like… I don’t know. I guess acknowledged he’s attractive…affable…genial…”
“Yack. Enough with the dorky literature. You think he’s cute and nice and blah, blah, blah. So?”
“So?” I remove my chunky earrings and give a light punch to the pillow behind my head.
“So what are you going to do about it?” Her voice is thick with urgency.<
br />
“The game’s over, Jackie.” I reach for Save Me the Waltz, intent on completing the last few pages that I have yet to read, many thanks to my lovely group of girlfriends interrupting me to tell me they’ve got surprise date number six for me, and we’re not talking Africa.
“Operation Blind Date may be over, Emily,” she says matter-of-factly, “but the game of love is always in session.”
I set the book on my chest and close my eyes. “We’re going to the book club meeting tomorrow, Gatz and I.”
“Great!” She squeals in delight. “So, it’s a date.”
“I’d hardly call it a date.”
“Well, you think about it, and you be sure to wear those black lace panties, girl!”
“I’m going to go now, Jack. Have a good night, and I’ll talk to you later.”
“Call me tomorrow!” she blurts out. “After your date! Well, that is if you’re back from your date tomorrow.” She giggles like a schoolgirl.
“Goodbye, Jackie.”
I toss the phone to the end of the couch, then find my bookmarked page. Wiggling even deeper into my comfy position, I begin to read the final pages of Save Me the Waltz.
But a paragraph in, I can’t find contentment in reading. My mind is stirring with thoughts of Gatz, about what all the girls have been saying the past few days, about thoughts of him very well being date number six.
Sophie might be right; Gatz has been here the whole time, right under my nose.
But, see, he’s had the chance to ask me out. He’s had all the time in the world—the half-a-year or so we’ve known each other, working together—to ask me out. It’s not as though we have some fuzzy history or any pre-existing awkwardness, like Chad and Sophie. There’s absolutely no reason Gatz couldn’t just ask me out. If he really wanted to, he would, wouldn’t he?
Hell, he knew all about Operation Blind Date, even! If he really wanted a chance he would’ve asked to play a part.
“Whatever,” I say. I clear my throat, as if trying to clear my mind. “It’s not happening. Gatz is not happening.”
I focus my eyes on the words on the page, but after some time I realize I’m reading the same sentence over and over, unable to focus.
“Ugh,” I sigh, dropping the open book down onto my stomach.
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 28
