What? “Excuse me?”
She shoves the last of her paper into the shredder, then turns to me and frowns. The paper stops halfway down. “The shredder’s full. You shouldn’t use it so much.”
I shake my head and then grab my document out of the printer tray.
“I don’t use it. The shredder and I aren’t involved.”
I hurry across the open office space to Ian’s door. I knock on the glass and listen until I hear a muffled, “Come in.”
The glass is soundproof, and as soon as I close the door it’s like I’ve entered another world. This is Ian’s sanctuary. The office is about three times the size of my apartment and has sort of an eastern philosopher meets modern New Yorker vibe.
The sound of the indoor waterfall bubbles through the room and I look over to the koi pond to see a flash of orange and gold. Behind the pond is a wall of foliage with sweet-smelling flowers in bloom and a meditation rock garden.
Beyond that is Ian’s desk, a large custom sculpted piece made from driftwood and blue resin. He has a sleek computer and an aerodynamic chair. He isn’t at the water feature or his desk. I walk farther in. My thick heels let out a thump on the soft cork floors as I head toward the bar area. Finally I see Ian. He’s against the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that looks out over Midtown. The afternoon sun lights a halo around him as he squares himself up to putt a golf ball across his putting green.
The ball makes a sound as he hits it, and I watch as it speeds across the green and clatters into the cup. Ian looks up at me and grins.
“Hello.” Ian sets his club against the window and then walks with loose-limbed grace to me. He stops next to the seating area by the bar.
“Hi. I brought your document.” I hold it out to him.
He takes it, looks at it, then tosses it onto the low velvet divan. “I missed you.”
I open my eyes wide. Okay. So that’s the direction this is going.
“Did you? Because I was just a text or a phone call away. You know, there’s this funny little thing called a telephone. Back in the 1800s there was this guy, Alexander Graham Bell, who invented it, it’s a nifty device, you might try it sometime.”
Ian smirks at me. “Is that so?”
I shrug. “Might be worth a shot.”
He steps forward and puts his fingers under my chin. “Some say Alexander Graham Bell stole his ideas from Elisha Gray.”
“Alright?” I say, my voice a little wobbly.
Ian’s eyes grow hooded.
“History is full of stolen credit. Edison stole from Tesla. Zworykin stole from Farnsworth.”
“Who? What?” I’m not really paying attention to what he’s saying, because he’s looking at my lips like he’s going to kiss me, right here, right now.
“Success goes to those brave enough to ask for it. Come to dinner with me tonight.” He takes his fingers from my chin and steps back.
I swallow and try to shake out of my Ian-induced stupor. He gives me a charming, I’m-sorry-for-not-phoning smile.
“So, you had fun in LA?” I ask.
“It would’ve been more fun with you.”
A little bubble of pleasure rises at that and I give him a smile. Ian Fortune, the man I’ve dreamed of for years, wants me.
“Alright. What time?”
He winks. “Not soon enough.”
Ian takes me to the premier sushi restaurant in the city. It’s been written up in all the magazines and is impossible to get a table at.
“Are you trying to butter me up?” I ask. “I already work for you, you know.”
He pours more sake into my hand-painted pottery cup.
“Hmm, so you do,” he says. “How’s the planning coming for the conference?”
“Really well. Really good.”
He uses his chopsticks to pick up another piece of sashimi and pop it in his mouth. I grab a bit of edamame and nibble at it. I already downed two beautifully designed rolls that were more art than food and I’m full.
“The schedule is in place. The speakers are lined up. The sponsors are in order. I’ve launched the pre-sale campaign and tickets are selling-”
Ian leans closer. “Come back to my place.”
My breath catches in my throat and for a moment I can’t think. The noise of the restaurant, the people around us, it all disappears. I know what Ian is asking, I’d have to be a moron not to. I look at his face, the expression in his eyes, and for some reason, my mind flashes to Josh and how he looked sitting next to me on the couch the other night—relaxed, happy, joking.
I hesitate long enough that the expression on Ian’s face shifts and he says more self-consciously, “Too soon?”
I let out a sigh and the rest of the restaurant comes back into focus. “A little. I kind of have a lot going on right now.”
He gestures to our waiter and I hunch my shoulders. Is he seriously going to ask for the bill after being rebuffed? My dream image of Ian Fortune has been permanently destroyed.
“Yes, sir?” the waiter asks.
Ian looks at me and raises an eyebrow. Then, “Could we see the dessert menu?”
I look at him in surprise, and then a smile spreads over my face. He’s not a horrible douche, thank goodness. I can keep my years-long opinion that Ian Fortune is awesome.
I get the soba ice cream and Ian orders the sorbet. When it arrives I let the flavor coat my tongue. Even though I was full, I have a rule, “one is never too full for ice cream.”
As I’m licking the last of the ice cream from my spoon, a glamorous blonde in a tight sliver dress comes up to the table. I assume she wants to speak to Ian, but instead she smiles at me and says in a crisp British accent, “Gemma, darling, is this the FF? You chose well.”
It’s Carly. Holy cow, I didn’t even recognize her. I blush, thinking of the nudie photo I looked up.
“Carly. Hi. Hi.” Then I realize by FF she probably means the fertility fetish. She looks between me and Ian and wags her eyebrows suggestively. Oh no.
“Um. No. Carly this is Ian Fortune, my boss, the world-renowned self-help guru.”