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“Settle down, Ms. Director, remember only one of us is employed,” he says dryly.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find something just as amazing for you!” I say, then bite my lip, as I realize now I’m the one saying we, and that I’m referring to the future.
Thomas, perhaps wisely, doesn’t touch that one, and suggests meeting up at a swanky cocktail bar overlooking Central Park.
It’s one of those fancy places that’s totally not my style, but today, it feels right, as does the expensive bottle of champagne that Thomas orders.
Over drinks, he lets me ramble on about my ideas, chiming in with several of his own.
“Okay, enough about me,” I say, after our glasses have been topped off. “I’ve been dominating conversation all day. No, all week.”
“That’s alright. It’s what I’m—I haven’t minded.”
It’s what I’m here for.
I’m almost positive that’s what he’d intended to say and had bit it back, and I know why he bit it back. It’s because the mere suggestion of relying on him in any meaningful way makes me jumpy as hell.
Pushing past the thought, I nudge his knee with mine. “Okay, for real though. What about you? The life of leisure is still treating you well?”
“Actually, no,” he says with a laugh. “Yesterday I was so bored with myself that I considered making another pie.”
“Oof,” I say. “That you would even want to think about a repeat of Pie Pile . . .”
Our apple pie had been a messy disaster. Tasty, to be sure. We’d managed to eat the entire thing within twenty-four hours. But pretty it was not. I’m not even sure it could be called pie, hence our revised label for the dessert: Pie Pile. As in a pile of crumbled crust and fruit.
“I know. I guess I felt I needed the challenge.” He says it distractedly as he fishes one of the bar nuts out of the tiny bowl they’d placed in front of us. I watch him carefully, because there had been something in his tone just then . . .
“You have a plan,” I say, because apparently I can read him now. It’s like I just . . . know. “You’ve figured out what you want to do—where you want to apply to?”
Thomas hesitates. “This is your celebration. You deserve to hog all the attention.”
“I’m done hogging, I want to hear about what you’re doing next. It can’t be a director, because I just finally got the upper hand on you, but I’ll support just about anything else,” I say with a smile. “Oh, and I can make your résumé look good. I’ll bet yours is a Times New Roman disaster.”
“Well, actually, I was thinking maybe not going the résumé route.”
“Is that even possible?” I ask curiously. “I’m not exactly a conformist, but even I know most companies want a résumé.”
“I don’t think I want to join a company. I think I want to start one. Try my hand at being a freelancer.”
My mouth drops open. “Has the world turned upside down? I’m going all-in on a big company, and you’re going the scrappy entrepreneur route?”
“Well, I’m not going to put on a beanie and start working out of my parents’ garage just yet.”
“Knowing you, you’ll probably wear a suit just to go to work at your kitchen table.”
He frowns, and I set a finger to his mouth. “For the record, I think that’s hot. For as much time as you spent in a suit during our early days, it’s a crime that I haven’t had the pleasure of getting you out of one yet.”
I actually don’t think I’ve ever gone to bed with a man wearing a suit—it’s always been the exact opposite of my type. And yet, now it’s all I can think about. Tugging at the tie. Easing the jacket over broad male shoulders . . .
Not any tie, not any shoulders. Thomas. Just Thomas.
“So what’s the business idea?” I ask, when the vibe between us feels a little too charged.
“To start, just me as a freelancer. A project manager. I’m good at it. No, I’m great at it. And most companies who rely on their FTE headcount for project managers have a hard time because it’s vital for PMs to stay out of internal politics, and when they are internal, they can’t help but get pulled in.”
I nod in agreement. “Very true—it’s rare to sit through a meeting about workload assignment that isn’t rife either with turf wars, or offloading the crap jobs to another team.”
“Exactly. But if it’s a freelancer, someone who’s just there for the project and nothing else, I can assign and reassign tasks without bias, and they can feel free to hate me without turning on each other.”
“That sounds terrible, and I think you’ll be perfect at it,” I grin.
He grins back. “It’s early stages yet. I’m barely out of brainstorming, but I already have at least one client who’s interested.”
