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“Rush Hour Romance? I am truly impressed, Eva.”
I shrugged with a satisfied smile. “Well, I am damn good at my job.”
“No arguments here. Now, if we could only do something about your Oliver obsession.”
“Not an obsession, just an observation on the enemy. We need to know how single men are thinking if we want to help our clients the best we can. Oliver is their clueless but fearless leader.”
“Then why are you so mad?” Olive’s quiet voice was the only reason I tempered the glare I sent her way.
“I already told you. He’s bad for business, but if you two feel I’m overreacting, then I’ll cool it. Promise.” I sat back in my chair and folded one hand on top of the other, in a way that would make my Aunt Elizabeth proud. “I won’t let Oliver March piss me off.”
“But you will let him goad you into talking like a sailor?”
I laughed at Sophie’s question. “You can take the girl away from the Worthingtons, but you can’t take the Worthington out of the girl.” Even though she was from an influential family, Sophie had bucked family tradition by leaving home at eighteen to make it on her own. It had taken some time without the help of her trust fund, but Sophie had found her own success.
To prove me wrong, she stuck her tongue out and crossed her eyes. “I am them, but more importantly, they are me. Whether they like it or not.” There was that defiant tilt to her chin that I’d come to appreciate over our friendship. “And, with those wise words, the Monday morning meeting is adjourned.”
Thank goodness! I wasn’t sure I had the mental capacity to stay focused while I spent so much energy trying to forget Oliver March’s sexist words and his disgusting point of view. “Give me thirty minutes to catch up on emails and I’ll be ready for you, Olive.”
She nodded, leaving me alone with Sophie, who wore a look that said she wanted to talk. “You sure you’re all right about this Oliver thing?”
I shrugged. “He can say whatever he wants, so I have to be all right, don’t I?”
“He’s just doing his job.”
“And I’m just doing mine,” I told her and left the conference room for the comfort and privacy of my office. Once all the paperwork had been settled for the matchmaking agency, we’d decided I would get one of the offices inside to run both of my businesses. It was a little complicated, but it worked for us.
Working as a freelance marketing specialist wasn’t exactly a traditional job, but plenty of small businesses failed because they couldn’t reach out to more customers. With my help, they could.
“Eva, your mother is on line three.”
I sighed and nodded even though the receptionist couldn’t see me. “Thanks, Blair.” I took several deep breaths to steel myself against another call with my mama, whom I loved dearly. I really did, but she had a way of getting under my skin like no one else. “Hey, Mama. How are you?”
“I’m great. Not as good as Liz, though,” she said, in that tone that meant she was about to heap some constructive criticism my way. Mirabelle Vargas was a pro when it came to criticizing without sounding like it was a criticism, with a heaping helping of guilt tossed in for good measure. “Antonio and his wife are expecting a second child. A second, and here I am without even one grandchild to love and to spoil.”
“That’s great news! I’m happy for Antonio and his wife, Mama. You should be, too.”
“Of course I am. I love my nephew to the moon and back, I’m just saying, you two are close in age and he’s having another baby. A sweet little baby.”
“Mama, I have a business to run. Why don’t you call Sal and bug him for kids?” My older brother was a popular chef who bounced around the globe cooking for the rich and famous.
“I already did,” she admitted. “He was at some loud market and couldn’t talk.”
I smiled at my mama’s honesty. Sometimes it was a godsend, but it could occasionally be too much. “Sorry to say that I have to get my day started, too. Just got out of a meeting. I promise to call for a proper chat. Soon.”
“Love you, honey.”
“Love you, too, Mama. Have a good day.” She was a pain in my backside most days, but she was always there when we needed her. And when we didn’t.
I turned to my computer with every intention of checking my emails since Olive would show up in about twenty minutes, but the alert for Your Best Bachelor was right there on my screen. Blinking and taunting me.
I shouldn’t have done it, but I clicked on the article. Again.
Women don’t really want romance. If they did, they would take the lead on dates and vacations, special occasions. Wouldn’t they? Surely, they wouldn’t leave something as important as romance in the incompetent hands of the inferior human male? Instead, I posit that women have been conditioned to believe they want romance. Conditioned to expect it—no, to demand it.
