“Who’s worried?” he said.
Still, I made a mental note to tidy up a bit while I pulled up Brannigan’s website. They’d updated it recently; it had a great new look. After running a mom-and-pop gourmet store here in the city for forty years, the actual mom and pop had retired, passing along their pasta and escargot empire to their kids. The “kids” had turned the business into something new and exciting, which was rare in this niche market. They’d opened a second store in the city, then branched out to the outer boroughs with a flagship in Park Slope over in Brooklyn just when the neighborhood was becoming the most fashionable place to live in in New York City. A fourth store had opened in Philadelphia, and then Chicago. Oh yeah, and now San Francisco.
I looked through my client files, shot off a quick email, and was on the phone with Sara by that afternoon. I’d spent the interim pulling stats on some of the brands and vendors they featured in their stores, and noticed they seemed light on . . . cheese.
An idea began to take shape.
After the usual pleasantries were exchanged, congratulations on all the success (due in no small part to the fantastic campaign my team had crafted for her before they began expanding), I told her that of course Manhattan Creative Group was looking forward to working with them again in the future and that when they were ready to begin the next phase, we were ready to launch them into every major city in the country, making them a household brand. And I might have mentioned, several times, this wonderful new cheese maker from the Hudson Valley, the next big foodie scene in the culinary world . . .
By the end of that call, I’d not only secured a firm commitment for future advertising business with our firm, but planted several seeds about Bailey Falls Creamery, and had arranged to have some of their best cheeses sent to her and her team at their corporate offices in Midtown.
I’d tell Oscar the good news once I knew his cows were being babysat. And after I knew the outcome of Roxie’s conversation with him, about whether or not he was my boyfriend . . .
The outcome came that night when I got a text from Roxie.
Leo will babysit your boyfriend’s cows. Pretty sure no one has ever said that before. Welcome to life in the sticks.
I texted back:
Brilliant! I’ll tell Oscar
he’s free and clear to spend the weekend with me. I thank you, and my future orgasms thank you.
You’re welcome. To both of you.
So? What the hell did he say when you asked him?
Number one: I said he was your boyfriend first, so I get bragging rights.
Wait, did someone else say it?
Your boyfriend said it, too.
There was a long pause . . .
Hello? Are you still there?
I’m lying on the bed, kicking up my heels and squealing into my pillow!
Why the hell isn’t there a pom-pom emoji? Here you go—closest I could come up with.
That’s a football
Well, they shake pom-poms at football games. And he is Mr. Football . . .
I love you.
I know you do. Gotta go. I wonder what kinds of snacks you buy for a cow sleepover?
I set the phone down, still feeling giddy that I had a boyfriend. And then, not too long after, felt the first pangs of Holy shit . . . do I have a boyfriend?
I was indeed able to convince Oscar to drive into the city a day early, and I didn’t even have to try that hard.
“What good is it having employees if you can’t trust them to do their job on their own once in a while?” he’d said, then told me that one of his interns from the culinary school had already stepped up and was in charge of bringing in everything they’d need at the market on Saturday. He was well and truly off the clock, for the first time in a long time.
And I was ready to show him another side of my Manhattan. The glitz, the glamour, the secret nighttime hot spots, and the members-only clubs that I belonged to. It was the side of Manhattan you see on television and reality shows. I’d run in those circles since I was a kid, and I couldn’t wait to show Oscar. And to show him off a little—let’s be honest.
My absence from the social scene over the past month had been noticed. And I was aching to get out and about, eat some gorgeous food, drink some fabulous wine, go dancing at the hottest clubs in town, and shake my ass all over my city.
My plans were 100 percent derailed when Oscar showed up at my apartment Friday night, took one look at me in my replacement thigh-high Chanel leather boots with the four-inch heels, growled “Fucking hell, Natalie,” dropped his duffel bag, threw me over his shoulder, and took me straight back to the bedroom.
Did I forget to mention I was wearing only the boots, a brand-new apron I’d had designed with Bailey Falls Creamery emblazoned across the front, and a long string of pearls?
Yeah, it really wasn’t fair of me.
He fucked me for three solid hours, and then we ate Moroccan takeout at 11 p.m.