“Not with your aunt and cousins?”
Alex shakes his head. “Sometimes I felt like my aunt wanted some family stuff to be just her, her husband, and her kids. So, I asked Freddy one year if I could go with him. And it became a tradition.”
His father was probably only ever a couple of hours away, deep-frying a turkey with Linda in a country club they bought just for the occasion. I feel for her, too—spending Thanksgiving with the breathing reminder of your husband’s infidelity would probably suck—but Alex was just a kid.
He turns his body in the chair to face me. “You know,” he says, voice deep. “When I asked you to pick a plant for my balcony, I assumed it was going to be a later, through-the-front-door situation.”
I smirk, rapping my fingers on the computer in my lap. “The fire escape was more convenient. I didn’t want to drag the cosmos around until I saw you next.”
“Yes, dragging around a galaxy. A bit unwieldy.”
Saanvi’s door pushes open, and Alex and I rip our eyes off each other. We stand up, and Saanvi gestures for us to come in. Andre and Eric say a quick hello before leaving, but the other man stays seated as Saanvi closes the door and tells us to sit.
“This is Andrew. He’s with Legal.”
Andrew, who looks like he was born for the predestined purpose of Being With Legal, nods and hands us each a stack of papers clipped together.
“So,” Saanvi says, sitting down across from us, “as far as debuts go, your video did pretty well. We typically mark a new face on the BTH channel as a success if they get eight thousand views in the first twenty-four hours, and you guys did ten. Last I checked, it was up to fifty, and that was over the weekend when people are busy, so we should see that number double in a week’s time.”
I let out a tiny squeak. “One hundred thousand views?”
“Yes. So, obviously I’d love to do this again,” Saanvi goes on. “A 2.0 version of the segment, so to speak. It would be more like a vlog, a day in the life here at the office. Actually, it was a suggestion in the comments section—which was colorful, and um, overall, very warmhearted regarding you both. And then after that, I thought we could try out the best coffee in the building idea, for a third video. Do those concepts work?”
I look over at Alex to find him nodding, his eyes tracking the document in his hands. “What’s this?” he asks. “I thought we got the standard rate for employee appearances.”
“There is no standard rate; there’s a base rate. It’s part of my process that if I ask you to return, we can negotiate it.”
Wow, money! I forgot about that part.
“This is a unique situation,” Saanvi informs us. “Most contracts are negotiated separately, but then again, most YouTube segments Little Cooper runs only have one anchor. In the interest of equity, I thought it was best for you two to be in the same room for this conversation.”
I am totally here for Saanvi’s pay equity agenda, particularly because negotiating isn’t my strong suit. When I was offered my job with LC, they gave me the salary I’d written down as my minimum on my application (which was a ballpark shot in the dark based on NYC’s cost of living, my student loan payment plan, and some entry-level salary research). I knew LC giving me that number was strategic on their part, but I was just so happy I’d gotten the offer at all to ask for a penny more.
And when it comes to this stuff, Saanvi could propose anything she wanted, and I wouldn’t know the difference. But Alex does. He throws out a number that makes my jaw want to unhinge and follows it up with a single word: “Each.”
I realize something stark in that moment. Even though Alex and I both have a degree in business, I went to a state school and he went to Harvard, and the differences between the whole learned cultures behind our educations show up in the space between what words are exchanged in that room. I just sit there and try not to look like a complete idiot.
Where does that kind of confidence come from? Is there a class at Harvard for it?
There is some negotiating, paper signing, and schedule wrangling, and then we are dismissed. Outside Saanvi’s office, we slow our walk to let Andrew From Legal get ahead of us.
“You were quiet in there,” Alex says. “I hope I wasn’t being too … presumptuous.”
I shake my head, hitching my bag higher onto my shoulder. “I’m not good at that kind of stuff. I’m glad you knew what you were talking about.”
“I know a guy with similar experience.”
“It tracks that you know a guy.”
Alex laughs. “Saanvi’s great, but not everyone’s like her. I had to learn to protect myself early on.”
I nod. “I get that.”
Outside the floor-length glass windows, the sun’s last dregs are dripping into the horizon, casting the office in a golden-hour glow. Alex and I reach the end of the hallway, and I turn, heading for the elevators.
“Casey.” He swallows thickly. “Tomorrow is Wednesday.”
“Yes, very good. You can stop showing off now.”
Alex bites the inside of his cheek. “I spent all last night trying to forecast revenue for Bite the Hand’s first six months. Gus wants me to distribute packets in tomorrow’s meeting.”
I think I know where this is going, but I want him to squirm for it. “And?”
He steps toward me. Today, he smells like soap and linen. “And I think my numbers are garbage because I’m trash at this kind of stuff. Can you please take a look?”
“Why didn’t you ask me for help earlier, Alex? That is literally what I’m here for.”
His eyes are pinned to mine. “Honestly?”
“Um. Sure, why not?”
“I was trying to impress you.” His voice comes out rough at the admission.
And that’s when I see it: Behind the humor on his face, there’s a sort of desperation. A hunger that makes me feel so desired, I could bottle that shit and sell it as an aphrodisiac.
“So…,” he goes on, “since that obviously flopped. If I go grab my stuff, and I buy you dinner in exchange for thirty minutes of your analytical brilliance … will you leave with me?”
I clutch my computer tight to my chest and say, “Sure.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
We settle into a table with a rickety leg at a quiet restaurant in SoHo, split the second-cheapest bottle of red wine, and order a couple of appetizers to share. Twenty minutes after we’ve finished grazing on the food, we pore over his spreadsheet, shoulders touching, working out the kinks.
The waitress comes by to clear our plates, and Alex closes the laptop and puts it back in his leather Herschel backpack. “So, Brijesh told me you play guitar.”
My lips pull up. “I’m not positive you could call what I do to a guitar playing it, but yeah, a little. My dad taught me.”