Tra la la.
I’m learning French by osmosis. I’ve been picking it up and not even realizing it, and now, look at me. Owning the cheese deets. Paris, I’ve got you figured out.
With my phone close to my mouth like it’s a mic, I chat more with Google until I reach the entryway to L’Artisan Cosmetique, where I tuck my handy-dandy new friend into the side pocket of my Kate Spade bag. Before I know it, I’ll be conversing with my colleagues in the elevators, in the halls, in the break room, all thanks to this magical, fantastic device known as a smartphone.
Smart indeed.
Heck, I probably won’t need Griffin soon, and that’ll honestly be for the best. That man is temptation made flesh. It’s not just that he’s handsome. It’s not only that his accent makes me want to hump his leg. It’s that he’s so damn attentive. He listens to me. He cares. And he does it in a way that goes beyond his responsibility as a translator. He does it as a friend.
But even though I wanted to haul his fine body against mine when he drew his nose along my neck the other day, I resisted. Relationships are messy stews. They boil over, and then you’re left cleaning up a big old spill of something you don’t even want anymore. Besides, getting close to someone makes you lose sight of what you want in life.
I’m so damn lucky that I have this chance to focus on my career, and I don’t want to torpedo it by letting a little thing like lust overwhelm me. Whoever said you can have your cake and eat it, too, clearly was never involved with a man like Richard.
I shudder at the mere thought of his name then steer my brain toward happier ground.
Like chocolate tarts and that fantastic new pair of royal-blue wedge heels I picked up yesterday on sale at the shop on the corner. They look fabulous with the red skirt I’m wearing today, if I do say so myself.
I head inside my building and press the button for the elevator, letting thoughts of flirty British men, and inconvenient American men, and my own mistakes in staying too long fall out of my head, like leaves fluttering to the ground.
When I reach my floor, I find Griffin chatting with Marisol, and a flare of jealousy ignites in my chest.
I stop in my tracks, trying to process why on earth I’d feel envy. He’s effectively a contractor with our company. She’s signing off on the checks to pay him. It’s only natural they’d chat. I’m sure it’s a simple conversation about work forms or payday.
When I reach them, I say hello, and they both shift to English, which pisses me off for some odd reason.
“Good morning, Joy,” Marisol says. “We were chatting about how awful running can be.”
I furrow my brow. They’re supposed to be discussing paperwork.
“I’m training for a marathon,” Griffin says, a frustrated look in his pretty blue eyes. “Had a brutal run this morning. The kind where I ask myself why the hell I’m doing it.”
I didn’t know he was running a marathon.
Marisol sighs heavily, chiming in, “It was the same for me. I’m a runner, too, and it was just one of those days.”
The flare inside me burns brighter, turns hotter. It scalds my skin. I hate running so much, and I hate that Griffin is bonding with my HR manager even more, and the thing I detest the most is that I’m having this kind of incendiary reaction to them having a conversation. “Well, you should take up people watching. That’s my favorite form of exercise, right after shopping,” I say with a practiced smile, and it’s only when I stroll toward my office that I realize the words came out more haughtily than I intended.
Or perhaps just as haughtily as I intended.
Ugh. I suck. I drop my forehead onto my desk.
“You okay?”
I raise my head at the sound of Griffin’s voice. He stands in the office doorway, studying me. I offer another smile, hoping it’s more authentic than the last one. “Fabulous. Ready to tackle the day. Since, you know, I didn’t run this morning.”
Oops. I went there again.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Is something about running bothering you?”
“What? No. Why would that bother me?” I glance at the clock. “Meeting time.”
When in doubt about your bizarre emotional reaction to something, practice avoidance.
Fortunately, the meeting provides the perfect opportunity to do precisely that.
In the conference room, we discuss time-to-market for the new body spray, and then we brainstorm product plans for our lavender lotion. Next on the agenda is our wish list of items. That excites me, as developing new products is a true passion, especially when Griffin translates and tells me they want to explore making perfume.
My ears prick with excitement, and my heart pounds faster with possibility. I sit straighter as I ask questions about what they might want, scribbling down ideas in my notebook as quickly as I can.
By the time the meeting ends, my brain hurts again—from trying to comprehend what they said before Griffin translated for me.
And failing.
I need him so badly, and today it’s ticking me off because I don’t want to feel jealousy. I don’t want to feel longing. I don’t want to want to kiss him so damn badly it’s like a persistent ache in my chest.
I want to be friends, just friends.
I need to put myself in a time-out and try to sort through the barrage of emotions I didn’t expect this morning.
Naturally, I retreat to the ladies’ room. Once inside, I take out my phone and check my messages. My sister replied to my email that had my Montmartre caricature attached to it.
Allison: Oh my! Never has a likeness of you and your big mouth been so accurate! Also, love you madly, and miss you much.
That brings me a smile and makes my heart hurt the slightest bit. Understanding my
