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“I guess I should be going,” he says simply.
He begins to turn away and then pivots back toward me. His eyes search mine for a full two seconds.
“Actually… I never do this,” he begins in a conspiratorial mutter. “And I hope you won’t think this is appropriate, but… could I maybe get your number?”
My breath catches in my throat. I feel myself begin to smile. No. “Smile” is not the word. I feel myself begin to grin.
“So you can send me a dry-cleaning bill?” I joke.
He shrugs devilishly. “Something like that.”
“That does seem fair,” I reply.
He takes his cell phone out of the front pocket of his satchel, another detail that I can’t help but commit to memory. He doesn’t keep his cell phone in his pocket. He keeps it close, but not too close. Maybe he is not completely addicted like 95 percent of everyone else in this world. That would be a relief.
I give him my cell phone number and he holds his phone away to text something that I can’t see. By the teasing look in his eyes, I wonder what on earth he could be sending me. Something tells me it’s not a vulgar picture.
“There we go. Promise me you won’t look at that until later, okay?” He winks devilishly.
Again my breath is swept away from me. What a flirt!
“Now to save your contact name… What should I call you?”
“Clarissa,” I answer, unable to find a more clever alternative anywhere in my half-functioning brain at the moment. “Clarissa Goring.”
“Maxwell Kent,” he smiles. “Pleasure to meet you, Clarissa. Sorry I have to run off like this.”
I feel my cell phone buzz against my thigh as the text message alert comes through. Maxwell backs away, eye contact lingering as long as possible before he rushes to the revolving glass doors, his steps quickening as he moves away.
“I sure hope he isn’t going to be late for his first day,” Nayala announces behind me.
I whirl around to face her. She’s smirking imperiously as she cocks her head to the side and raises her eyebrows.
“Think you could make time for that?” she continues.
“You watch too many movies, Nayala,” I retort, but my voice sounds unconvinced.
She shrugs and looks away, wiping down the counter with a white, fluffy towel.
“I’m just saying…”
“I heard you!” I answer, rolling my eyes as I back away toward the elevators.
But as I ride the elevator up to the thirty-fourth floor, a few ounces of cappuccino still in my trembling hand, I feel… something. Some flutter in my belly. Butterflies. My stomach clenching nervously in something that feels sick, painful, excited, and wonderful all at the same time.
And awful. Don’t forget awful.
I feel like I just crossed a threshold that I can’t uncross. I gave him my number. A stranger! Why would I do that? Just because he asked? I feel like I’ve been strapped into a roller coaster, and the attendant has just announced that I have to keep my arms and feet inside the ride, and this whole thing is going to start any moment.
Okay, I tel
l myself. It’s just a phone number. It’s just a text. Nothing has happened yet.
But what if it does? What if he asks me out or something?
Then you go out, like a normal human being, I tell myself. What’s the worst that could happen?
The worst that could happen is that Nayala could be right.
