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“And second, if my company hires your company, it will be at your current rate, with a fifty percent discount until your debt of $18,000 is paid off, so you’ll be billing today’s hourly rate and discounting the difference as your debt repayment. Does that make sense?”
I stand and lean forward, far enough to reach just halfway across Mr. Power’s desk to shake his hand. He stands as well, but ignores my outstretched arm, walking around to my side. He moves directly in front of me and places his hands on my shoulders. I look up at him and feel myself leaning up on tiptoes. I fight the urge to kiss him—just a little thank-you kiss on the cheek. Or the lips. A professional kiss on the lips. People do that, right?
“Virginia …” He pulls me from my fantasy. “May I call you Virginia?”
I nod and twist out from under his hold before he’s able to read my thoughts.
“Sorry,” he says. “In my family, hands on shoulders means, ‘Pay attention, I’ll only say this once.’”
“I’m listening.”
“Get Savi’s number on your way out. Call her in one week to find out if WPB will be your first corporate client. If that doesn’t work out, I still want you to make an appointment to have a look at my plants each time you meet with Mr. Liu.”
“OK.”
“I’m not done. From now on, call me Will. And for the love of common sense and sanity, when we speak, say what’s on your mind—do not wait for questions to answer. I’m dead serious. I may not have the power to hire people, but I can fire them, and that will be a fireable offense. Understood?”
“Mm, hmm.” I nod. I pause. And then say exactly what’s on my mind. “I have about a hundred curses I have to reverse. You’re not the plumbago I thought you were.”
“Plumbago?”
“It’s a really pretty ground flower that’s toxic to touch. It causes terrible blisters.” I squint my eyes closed. “I should not have said that out loud.”
“Plumbago.” Will Power actually chuckles. “One hundredcurses? I hope you get the contract. I’d like the chance to hear what those curses are—orwere—one day.”
11. Will
IF FOOD BE THE MUSIC OF LOVE
This is Virginia’s fourth day coming to my office to breathe my plants back to health. Honestly, I thought it was bullshit. Or at least partially bullshit. Not being a shrub expert, what did I know, but this sighing into the leaves across the office, while I’m trying to focus on talking points for my podcast, is making it hard to get anything done. Unfortunately, that isn’t the only thing she makes hard.
I do my best to ignore her, and for her part, she truly seems to forget I’m in the room. Today she’s wearing another of her sister’s custom-made dresses—this one is shades of red and pink with flowers on it. I watch her skirt sway under her hips, moving as though she’s dancing in place to a song in her head. Maybe I’m staring.
“The fuck, Virginia?” I storm toward her before my brain realizes what my body is doing.
She turns with a look of surprise. “Sorry. Was I humming? I hum when I’m focused.”
I point at her skirt. “I thought this was another plant-themed pattern, but it’s fucking vulvas.”
Her eyes widen, and then she laughs out loud. “Itisflowers. Flowers with style. It’s from a Georgia O’Keeffe painting. ”
Her joy. Her energy. Those provocative vulvas all over her curves. I walk back to the safe side of my office to keep from acting on what every cell in my body is demanding.
“Virginia, if I was to wear a tie covered in cocks, I am certain HR would be up my ass warning about sexual harassment lawsuits. What makes this dress any different?”
She lifts the hem of her skirt just enough to show her knees and looks at it like the answer could be found in the goddamn folds. My mind wanders up and under her skirt, imagining what her hidden folds might look like.
“I mean, it really is a pattern based on a painting, so it’s art as clothing. And art is open to interpretation, right?”
“There is nothing open to interpretation about that pattern. When I look at you,allI see is a giant vulva.” I drop my head, realizing too late what I’ve just said.
When I look up, Virginia’s eyes meet mine and I breathe a sigh of relief. Her silence isn’t rage. She’s covered her mouth and is trying not to laugh. This woman. She has no idea how much power her authenticity gives her.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That came out wrong.”
“Like Freud said, ‘Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.’ And sometimes a flower is just a flower. But if it upsets you, I won’t wear it again. Would you like me to leave and come on your lunch break?”
I would very much like you to come on my lunch break, you and that fucking vulva dress.
