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But Snooze has two major things going for it: The pay covers all my bills and the workload requires zero time or energy after 5 o’clock. With those two pieces, I’ve built a nice little life for myself. I can afford my cute apartment, and I can spend my free time on knitting club, yoga in Central Park, book club, and anything else that strikes my fancy. Last year, I tried pottery throwing and a TikTok class to keep up with the terrifying Gen Z interns.
Am I avoiding the fact I’m calcifying behind the desk here? Maybe. But at least my home-made sweaters are top-notch.
I get to work and settle in my office on the fourteenth floor, but I’m only two emails in—already fantasizing about another cup of coffee—when Blake appears in my office doorway. Aka, the only available man in ten floors who isn’t fifty and divorced. “Hey, babe,” he says, giving me a smirk from behind his too-styled blonde hair.
“Hey,” I reply, trying not to scowl. I hate being called babe, especially by a trust fund kid who acts like the villain in a 1980s John Hughes movie. “Did you need something?”
I ask.
“That depends.” Blake’s smirk grows. “What are you doing later?”
“Knitting.” I reply icily.
“Sure…. Call me sometime.” he gives a wink and saunters off, and I sigh. Because the shameful truth is, there is a not zero percent chance that I will, in fact, call him sometime.
I know, I know. But I’m a red-blooded woman! I have needs! And Blake is…
Convenient. The man is convenient. We hooked up at a particularly hellish company holiday party last year, andsomehow, it’s happened a couple more times, when I’m feeling low, and drunk, and wondering when the love of my life might actually materialize.
Because it sure as hell isn’t Blake.
I press my forehead to my computer’s keyboard and think of Other Jen’s wild international love affairs. Maybe she could send some cast-offs my way? Don’t get me wrong, I’m thirty years old. Gone are my days of fantasizing about a true love that gallops in on horseback, but still… I can’t help holding out hope forit. Chemistry. Butterflies. A man who doesn’t yell his own name when he climaxes. It’s not too much to ask, surely? I mean, look at Milo and Millie: They started with an awkward blind date and slowly became a beautiful romance and my couple goals.
But on a blind date the other night, I started fantasizing about closet reorganization.Maybe I’ll arrange my tops in rainbow order, I thought happily. And later, I realized: I should probably want the guy I’m seeing more than I want to KonMari my closet.
Never let it be said, Jenn Walker doesn’t dream big!
By day’s end,I’ve completed the draft of a document I promised to Greg, my least favorite of the partners. I shoot it over on email, but he replies, summoning me to his office—where I find him with a client, a fifty-something man, spray-tanned the color of a tangerine. He’s wearing an open collar with the glint of gold necklace peeking out. “Hello,” I offer, blinking at the chest hair on display.
“Jenn,” Greg says. “I’d like to introduce to our newest client. Karl, this is Jenn, our marketing lead. We’re heading out for drinks to celebrate his coming aboard,” Greg adds. “Big client. VIP.”
“Have fun,” I say cheerfully. I’d rather eat sugar-free cake than tag along.
“Bit of a conundrum, though,” Greg adds, louder. “The rest of the team’s finishing up a call, and I need to hop on. Why don’t you go ahead with Karl to the bar, and keep him company until we can come down?”
Greg shoots me a look. It’s clearly not a question.
“Oh,” I say, gritting my teeth into a smile. “Okay.”
This is what I’m doing with my one wild and precious life, apparently. Babysitting a fifty-year-old stranger who bleaches his hair blond.
“Thank you, Jenn, for escorting me,” Karl says. He has a vague, difficult to place European accent. “You must tell me more about your work.”
“Yes, Jenn,” Greg adds. “You must.”
So I do, for the three blocks it takes to get to the bar. Mavericks is busier than I imagined, with an after-work crowd in suits and pencil skirts.
I turn to Karl, smiling brightly. “I’ll order. What can I get you?”
“Some kind of beer,” he says. Then, with a sly look, “Surprise me. I would like to… Taste something American.”
“No problem.” With any luck, ordering will take so long that Greg and company will arrive before I’m done.
Nudging my way through the crowd, I manage to squeeze into a space by the bar, but clearly, I’ve activated some kind of invisibility cloak, because I can’t seem to get the bartender’s attention in the crush.
“Excuse me? Hello?” I’m considering waving my arms around in full semaphore when the guy beside me simply nods, and the bartender materializes in front of him.
“The usual?” she asks him, because of course a strapping guy gets attention, while I’m tap-dancing for service.
