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Setting the list down, she finally picks up the sandwich and says, “I’m going to need more details. Go on.” She takes a big bite, keeping her eyes on me—wide and intrigued.
Why’d I open this can of worms? “After Mrs. Whipple found out about my mom’s dislike of her salad—”
“Because of you.”
“I was nine,” I say, begrudgingly, “but yes, because of me. Seeking revenge—”
“The plot thickens.”
Lowering my voice and telling the rest of the story like there’s a campfire between us instead of a solid mahogany desk, I say, “Mrs. Whipple told the entire country club that my mom had paid for me to win the science fair that year.”
Juni gasps. “She didn’t?”
“She did. Well, Mrs. Whipple did. It was a low blow. I remember how mad my mom was, but how it felt like a reflection on me. I had done the work on my own, but with one cruel attempt at revenge, that was put into question.”
Reaching over, her hand covers mine, making me wonder if the hurt feelings remain evident on my face. “I’m sorry, Drew.”
“In my mom’s defense, not only did she not pay for my project to win, but Mrs. Whipple refused to get her eyes checked and often confused the salt canister for the sugar one. We learned the hard way when she tried to teach my brother and me how to make sugar cookies.”
“Yuck.”
“You’re telling me. To this day, I can’t look at a sugar cookie without feeling dehydrated.” I clear my throat. “Would you like a bottle of water?”
Lifting in her seat, she eyes behind me. “You hiding goodies back there?”
“I sure am.” Waggling my eyebrows, I swivel around and open one of the console cabinet doors to reveal bottles of water and an entire tray of snacks and candies. “I never know if I’m going to need a sugar high or host a client who wants something stronger.” Handing a bottle of water to her, I also take one for myself. Remembering the taste of those cookies like it was two minutes ago, I down half a bottle before taking a breath.
“Thanks for the bottle and the stories, but you’re not going to distract me with cute childhood memories.”
I furrow my brow. She might be the weirdest woman I’ve ever met. “What exactly is cute about salt cookies?”
She snaps twice. “We’re not talking about cookies. We’re talking about this list and what it is.”
“What is it?”
Her expression anchors sideways. “Nice try, Christiansen. You know but let me remind you.” She holds it up and waves it. “This is a list of life or, more importantly, getting one.”
“I have a life, a very full life, I might add.” I take hold of the sandwich again, ready to devour the rest.
“You, sir, have a life full of work.”
I’m never going to finish this sandwich at this rate. I set it down and sit back, preparing to be here a while. “And the problem is?”
“You need a personal life.”
“You’re assuming I don’t have one already. We’ve spent time together outside of this office. That’s called a personal life.”
She slow blinks, not amused by my sad attempt to convince her otherwise. “If spending time with me is the only fun, and yes, I know you had fun and will take full credit for said fun, but if that’s it—”
“I went out with my brother and Jackson,” I reply pointedly. “You saw me that night. I was out with the guys for hours.”
Appearing to concede, she nods. “That is true. I’ll grant you that time as well.”
“And we made plans for this weekend. It’s like my whole life is one big party. Anyway, what are you doing when you’re not here or with me?”
“Okay, settle down. Let’s not get carried away.” Sitting back in her chair, she says, “My point—”
“Ah. I see your point. What’s good for the goose—”
“Is not good for the gander.” Placing her hands down on my desk, she stands. “We can play cliché games all day, but wouldn’t it be more fun, and productive, I might add, if we just do what your mom wants and complete the list?”
Now I’m rolling my eyes. “My mom would have me running around this city if she has her way, and then my dad would serve my ass on a silver platter to the next guy in line for this job.”
“What kind of dad do you have that serves asses on platters, much less uses the good silver? Your family’s weird. No offense.”
We’re the weird ones? I scoff, but a chuckle comes out after, sounding more like a mutated bark. Trying to play it off, I cough. “None taken.”
Concern threads through her forehead. “Are you okay?”
I clear my throat again. “I’m fine. Just a little chicken stuck in—” I cough again for added effect.
“You’re good. You’re fine,” she sing-songs. “Are you ever great? Like top of the morning, kick your heels in the air great?”
