“It was okay but pretty general.” Neither my books nor my viewing habits are good enough for him. I have to bite back a grin. If this were a bar, I would’ve told him to sod off by now. But right now I’m supposed to believe he’s better than I am. More discerning. I should probably apologize for my inferior preferences, but screw that. I don’t have the patience today.
The microwave dings and I get up to open it, then set the meal on the counter and lean down to poke around at the plastic tray. The soft pink-and-tan fabric of my dress gapes to reveal a lacy white bra beneath. I peel back the plastic wrap and frown as if the spaghetti is not quite done. When I look up, his eyes dart away from my cleavage.
“I’d better head out,” he says. “Meet you at the elevator tomorrow at noon?”
“Sounds great!”
When he’s gone, I’m relieved. Partly because I can get back to my reading, but mostly because I know he’s on the hook. Goal achieved.
I’ve never had too much trouble getting dates, but I’m not beautiful, and people are unpredictable about attraction. Maybe his number one turn-on is an adorable button nose. Maybe he can only get hard for tan blondes. You can’t tell these things from a distance.
But I know which emotional buttons to push. I know what he likes in a woman’s personality. And manipulation is my specialty. Still, if he didn’t even nibble at me as bait, I have backup plans, but there’s no need yet. Apparently I’m good enough for Steven despite my subpar entertainment choices.
Snorting in amusement, I carry my lunch to the table and settle back in with my book. I love losing myself in someone else’s world. I like learning how others’ lives work even if I don’t understand them.
Frankly, fictional people appeal far more to me than real people do. In fiction, the choices have to make sense. The timeline proceeds rationally. Emotions are explained to me. Characters feel the way they are supposed to feel in response to the actions of others. Nobody stays in a bad situation because of inertia or low self-esteem. That would make for a truly shitty story. But in real life . . . God, in real life people so rarely behave in ways that improve their circumstances.
Why?
Why, why, why? This is one of those things I’ll never understand. All I know is books are better.
Just as I’m closing the paperback, my phone buzzes, surprising me. No one calls me. No one except—yeah, it’s my mother, the call forwarded from my real phone number. I ignore her and let it go to voice mail. She knows what to do. I wouldn’t want to actually answer her call and shock her into a heart attack or something. She hasn’t lived a healthy lifestyle.
I toss the remains of my lunch, refill my water bottle, and wait for the message chime. I don’t really need to listen to her voice mail, but I do. When I get back to my desk, I write a check for $800, then steal an envelope from the supply closet and beg a stamp from the receptionist. Five minutes later my mother and her broken-down car are out of my thoughts.
Ten years ago I would have called her back and grilled her to be sure the money was actually for car repairs and not bail for my brother, but I no longer care. It’s worth the money to not have to bother with any of them.
Maybe I love them in some way, because I don’t have to send money but I do. Or maybe I feel freakish for not feeling one damn thing for them and the money is an easy salve. I have no idea, and I don’t waste time thinking about it. I have more data entry to do.
CHAPTER 6
“So did you grow up here?” he asks over his chopped-beef sandwich. It was either that or the meatball. No tuna and sprouts for this guy.
I finish chewing a small bite of my salad. “I went to high school here for a couple of years. We moved around a lot.”
“Military family?”
“No, it was just me and my mom.”
“Sounds like it may have been difficult.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It was okay when it was just us. But she was in and out of relationships. That part was hard. A lot of those guys were creeps.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. Maybe he even means it.
“What about you?” I ask. “Do you have family in Minneapolis?”
“Sure. My dad and his wife are here, and my mom’s in Rochester. My sister moved to Milwaukee, but my younger brother is still nearby. We get together quite a bit.”
“That sounds so nice. I don’t have any other family.”
“Your dad?”
“Oh. No.” I shake my head and keep my eyes on my salad. “I don’t really know him.”
“That must be hard.”
“I don’t know. I hear he wasn’t a good guy. What’s your dad like?”
“My dad’s the best. A really great man. He’s a minister, in fact. He has his own church.”
This salad is causing me heartburn. Or Steven is churning up the acid in my stomach. But I sit straight and force my face to light up. “You’re a Christian?”
“Of course. Are you?”
“I am, but I kind of fell out of it. My ex wasn’t a believer. I haven’t been to church in years.”
“You should get back to it!”
“Maybe I should. I have been feeling a little lost lately. I mean . . . gosh, you know what? I think you’re right. Just thinking about it makes me feel a little better. Do you know a good church around here?”
“No, ours is out in the suburbs. It’s a great place, though. You should definitely check it out.”
“I don’t have a car. But I’m sure I’ll find something nice near here.”
He glances around as if he’s doubtful. I suspect this area isn’t nearly white enough for him.
I’ve been to church plenty of times. When you grow up in rural Oklahoma, there’s no avoiding it. My parents would occasionally find God for a few weeks and we’d attend services for a month or two, but Sunday mornings were rarely a convenient time for my family. Saturdays went pretty late at the trailer park . . . or at the casino or the bar.
Regardless, I know from experience that suburban churches are the most boring and least generous. We’d always been looking for generosity. We had no use for pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps Christianity. If there wasn’t a big potluck after services, what was the point of going? My mom always stayed late, putting on a show of helping clean up. I liked that part. There were lots of leftovers, and she usually smuggled out a couple of free serving bowls.
“Thank you for lunch,” I say for the third time.
“It’s nothing. I couldn’t bear to watch you eat another of those microwave meals.”
Way to make me feel shitty about myself, Steven.
“I’d love to take you out for dinner sometime,” he adds.
I act flustered. I squirm and take too long to chew my food before answering.
“Steven, I . . . I just started at this job. Aren’t there rules about dating subordinates?”
He waves a dismissive hand. “They wouldn’t know.”
“Someone might see us.”
“Then come to my place and I’ll make something.”
“I couldn’t come over to your place! On a first date? I’m not . . . I’m not like that!”
“Shit.” He reaches out for my wrist to stop my flailing hand. “I’m sorry. Of course you’re not. I didn’t mean it like that. At all. Okay?”
I nod but let him see that I’m shaken by the very idea of putting out. A woman shouldn’t have her own sexual needs. My role is to resist. That makes me a nice girl.
“Jane, I’m serious. That’s not what I was thinking. I was just trying to protect you from prying eyes.”
“I know.”
“How about if I take you to a little hole-in-the-wall? Someplace we won’t be seen. Then would you go to dinner with me?” He ducks his head a little, trying to meet my gaze. He raises his brows like a begging puppy, showing me his harmless brown eyes. “Please?”
I giggle. “I shouldn’t be dating again so soon.”
“We won’t call it a date, then. Just two colleagues having dinner.”
“You’re a manager and I’m a data entry clerk. We’re hardly colleagues.”
“Then I’ll be your mentor.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “You’re bad.”
“Technically you don’t even report to me. No conflict of interest.”
Ridiculous, of course. He could still have me fired. I simper a little more. “Why do you even want to go out with me? You hardly know me.”
“Come on. You’re gorgeous.”