“Oh, you don’t think he would have just made a reservation at one of his own?”
She barked out a laugh. “Because that’s romantic? No, Molly. He wasn’t going to take you to one of the restaurants he owns named after one of his ex-girlfriends. He’s not that tacky. It would have been someplace good though. For sure.”
“If he asks, and that’s a big if, I’ll see what I can do about the reservation.”
“You’re the best!”
“I know. You’re also the best.” I felt instantly lighter after talking to Vera. Lighter, but also heavier. I was no closer to having this whole Ezra thing figured out than before the phone call, but I had a friend that always had my back and was willing to listen to every single one of my freak outs. It was okay to suck at relationships as long as I was good at this one. “Thanks, Vere.”
“Let me know what happens.” She told someone she would be right there. “I gotta go.”
“Me too.”
We hung up and I kind of tried to focus on work. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was the hardest thing I did all day. By five o’clock, I was exhausted from staring at shades of gray and trying to figure out which one would appeal to the widest audience.
Ugh.
“You leaving?” I asked Emily as she gathered her things.
She wrinkled her nose. “Oh, yes. Want to walk out with me?”
“Yes, please!” I quickly clicked the right buttons, sending Henry the updated, but not final, versions of the graphics and shut down my desk. Emily waited for me to put my computer in my bag and sling it over my shoulder before she started walking toward the elevator bank.
“How’s the Black Soul project?” she asked when we were in an elevator heading down to the parking garage.
“Terrible,” I groaned. “It’s not at all what I thought it was going to be.”
“That sucks,” she sympathized. Her expression shifted and she waggled her eyebrows at me. “But at least you’re getting some action, right? Henry’s such a gentle lover.”
My entire body shuddered at her joke. “Oh my god, that’s so gross. That man is a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
She turned serious again. “Wait, he hasn’t tried to—”
I quickly shook my head. I didn’t know why I was so worried about her thinking the wrong thing. If he’d tried anything again with me, it would be his fault not mine. So why was I so worried about people thinking the wrong thing? I was the innocent person in this whole debacle. He was the assailant. I shouldn’t even want to stick up for him. Still, I said, “No, he hasn’t tried to touch me again, since I emailed Doris. But he’s always undressing me with his eyes and staring at my chest. He might not be touching me, but whatever he is doing is just as bad.”
“I can’t believe this hasn’t gotten back to his dad. Mr. Tucker would shut that shit down so fast.”
“You think?” For some reason, I wasn’t so sure.
“For the sake of his business,” Emily nodded as she went on. “He doesn’t want a lawsuit or a bad reputation just because his son is a pervert.”
That was true. Even if Mr. Tucker didn’t believe everything I had to say, surely he would step in just to avoid legal action. Sexual harassment wasn’t a small thing and Henry was set up to take over the entire company in a few years. Maybe I should revisit going over HR’s head.
My phone dinged when we got off the elevator, so I pulled it out of my purse on my way to my car. “See you tomorrow, Em.”
“Later, babe,” she called back.
I threw my laptop in the back and settled into the driver’s seat with my phone in hand. An email had popped up and I almost didn’t check it because I was sure that it was Henry giving me shit for the work I’d just uploaded.
It wasn’t Henry though. It was Ezra. And the subject read: Hey.
Not able to contain my curiosity, I opened the email against my better judgment.
Call me when you get a minute.
~Ezra
I drove home first, not wanting to seem super available. Plus, the parking garage got terrible reception. Plus, plus, I had to talk myself into it and work myself up and find some courage in my terrified little soul to push the buttons.
When I got home, I changed into leggings and settled on my couch with a salad I picked up on the way home. Then I called Ezra.
For a second I didn’t think he was going to answer. The phone rang just long enough that I prepared myself to hang up before it asked for a message.
But then he answered, his voice clear, deep and tender. “Molly.”
God, why couldn’t he just say hello like a normal person? It would be so much easier on my flailing heart. “Hi, Ezra.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt you at work.”
“I just got home.”
“Are you coming in to paint tonight?” There was something in his voice that sounded like hope and it did damaging things to my resolve to keep my distance.
“I am not,” I told him trying not to sound disappointed. “I didn’t want to interrupt your dinner service.”
“Oh, well, when do you think you’ll be in again?”
Was this all he wanted to talk about? When I would be back to paint his mural? I was less nervous now. “Saturday morning, I think.”
“Well, damn. I have a thing Saturday so I won’t be there.”
I hadn’t realized he needed to be there. “Is it okay that I still come in if you’re not there?”
“It’s fine,” he assured me, that smooth, rich voice of his chasing me through the phone. “Bianca is yours for as long as you need her. Come in whenever you’d like. I just haven’t seen you all week.”
His disappointment came out of nowhere, kicking me right in the butterflies. “Oh.”
“So I think we should fix that,” he continued. “Are you free Sunday night?”
“Um, to paint?” I slammed my eyes shut at my effort to play cool. What was wrong with me?
His chuckle was genuine and rumbly, and God, why did I want to avoid this man again? “No, not to paint. To go on a date. With me.”
I couldn’t think of the right thing to say so I sat there silent for way too long. Clearing my throat I went for totally smooth. “Uh, s-sure. That sounds great.” I stared at my freezer. Forget the salad. I needed to go straight to the ice cream tonight.
He was unruffled by my inability to be as cool as him. “Can I pick you up?”
Vera’s plan blared through my head and I sat up with more confidence. “How about I cook for you and we stay in?”
I expected him to argue with me, sure that he’d heard the rumors of my tragic cooking and would do whatever it took to escape a meal that could end in death—or possibly serious food poisoning.
Instead, he let out a sigh of relief and said, “Actually, that sounds amazing. I’d love that.”
Softening, I smiled and opened up all at once, I relaxed into a feeling that this was right, that this would be good. Something like anticipation and hope and feelings of rightness. “How about six?”
“Do you need me to bring anything?”
“Wine,” I told him. “Bring lots of wine.” Because when we couldn’t eat anything, we would at least be able to drink.
“See you Sunday, Molly.”