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“Pah. Not really. Isn’t your granddad your client?” she counters.
“Yes. But he works for the client. You know the rules.” We both know them. If my boss got wind of what happened outside of the locker room, he’d haul me back to New York and fire my ass.
I’m a grown up. I know better than this.
“It’s a shame though. He really is beautiful.”
“Yeah.” He really is. And kind. That’s the weird thing, it’s his rugged kindness that’s killing me. Making me want things that are way too bad to say out loud.
“And I bet he has a huge—”
“Okay! Enough.”
“I’m just saying. Or maybe asking. Did you feel it?” There’s a hopeful note to her voice.
The memory of his thick ridge pressing against me flashes into my mind. And I have to shift in my seat. “So, what’s happening in New York?” I ask, because I really don’t want to talk about Eli Salinger anymore. I don’t want to think about him, I don’t want to fantasize about him.
I just want to do my job and get back to New York.
“Spoilsport.”
“I’m serious. Any new projects on the horizon?” I feel so out of touch. While I’m here I can’t be working on bids which means I don’t know what’s happening. I hate the thought that the other consultants are going to get a head start on me if we win a great project and they can put themselves forward.
“A few things are coming in, but nothing major,” Rachel tells me. “Relax. Enjoy the break. How’s your gramps doing?”
“Funny you should ask. I visited him about an hour ago.” And he’s feeling better because he ranted at me about the team’s loss. “He’s slowly healing. But I don’t think he understands that he’s never going to be back to full fitness again.”
“Poor guy,” Rachel says. “It must be awful growing old.”
“You sound like Allison when she’s talking about us,”
“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Rachel pleads. “Don’t you hate it when people call us old?”
“Pretty much.” And I know for a fact that Gramps hates it, too. It’s probably harder for him than most since he’s been so physical for most of his life. Even in his eighties he’s still been able to skate.
Until now, that is.
“How are you finding her boyfriend’s dating app?” I ask.
Rachel groans. “I forgot all about it until Monday. She pleaded with me to fill everything in so I did and then nothing. Like no matches at all. How about you?”
“I’ve had a few,” I tell her.
“WHAT?” She sounds outraged. “How many exactly?”
“Um, five I think.” I got the fifth through last night. They all seem like nice guys. Two of them are insurance, one runs his own business, one is a lawyer, and I have no idea what the other one does.
“What are they like?” she asks. “I can’t believe I haven’t had one.”
“You only just downloaded the app,” I point out. “And anyway, these aren’t real matches. We’re all just beta testing it, right?”
“Of course they’re real matches,” she says. “It’s only the women who are beta testing it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the guys are real sign ups. Didn’t she tell you?”
I frown. “No.” There are five messages in my inbox that I’ve ignored because I assumed they’re generated by the app. “She didn’t send me any instructions on what to do.”
