The Lineup(20)

“Mr. Orson—”

“You can call me Jason.”

Exhaling, I fold my hands together. “Jason, thank you for stopping by, but I have work to get done.” I motion to the door. “Jessica will see you out.”

“I heard you the first time about Jessica, but I’m in no hurry to leave. You paid for a date with me, so I’m here. Let’s date.”

“First of all”—I hold up my finger, my irritation of him not listening starting to grate on my nerves—“I did not pay for a date with you. My assistant accidentally donated money to your Charity Hustle fundraiser that was supposed to be donated to a different charity. I, by no means, was looking for a date with you, nor do I care to go on one either. So, please leave.”

His face falls and for a brief moment, I feel guilty for telling him the truth. I’m sure no one wants to know a donation to a foundation that’s close to your heart was a mistake. I should clarify that I was impressed with his charity, but hadn’t chosen to donate at this time. But of course, out of my depth, I remain mute.

With a brief nod, he sets the flowers on my desk and then backs away, making my conscience take over my emotions.

Man, I feel like a dick.

And I wasn’t even that bad. I’ve said worse, more harsh things to people, but the way he’s walking out of here like I just told him he has the worst swing in baseball, it cuts me deep. Which is EXACTLY why I need to stay true to my decision. I don’t need someone cutting me deep with emotions.

Emotions can destroy your demeanor in the boardroom, it can throw you off your ability to make a deal. They can affect your head, play games with you, making it impossible to be the stiff-armed, businesswoman I’ve trained myself to be.

One of the biggest things I’ve learned about being in this position of power, one that’s usually held by a person with a penis, is there’s a stigma; women are too emotional. They base their decisions off emotions rather than facts, making them weak. At least that’s what I’ve heard from many chauvinistic assholes—thankfully, none of them have been my dad—and I’ve made it a point to never be that woman they speak of.

I’ve become strong, inflexible when necessary, and I go after what I want with no shame.

That’s not going to change because the boy from college, who I deemed the perfect man, just came waltzing into my office with flowers and the idea of taking me out on a date.

He leaves, and I keep my chin held high when I sit back in my chair and pull myself closer to my desk. That was the right decision.

Sending him on his way so I don’t spend another second soaking in his masculine scent or the smooth, alpha-like movements of his body.

Yup, the right—

“I hope you like burgers,” his booming voice declares. Instead of flowers, he’s carrying a cardboard tray of food and two drinks . . . into my office.

What on earth . . .

Without even asking, he moves some of my papers to the side, along with my jar of pens, and makes room for the food. He unfolds a few napkins and lays them across the cool glass of my desk. Next, he goes back outside and then brings in a canvas bag. Like Mary Poppins, he starts extracting plates, cups, silverware, and a vase for the flowers, which he expertly shuffles the daisies into followed by a dash of water from a water bottle.

“What are you doing?”

“Setting up our date. I know what you said about me leaving. Don’t think I didn’t hear you.” He pulls on his ear. “Because I did, I heard you loud and clear, but I chose to ignore it.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “What did Knox tell you?” I ask, cutting to the chase.

“Nothing actually. So, no wishing one-fifty batting averages on him.”

Okay, sure, Knox didn’t say anything.

“He clearly told you something if he let you know about the threat.”

“Nothing gets by you.” He looks up and smiles, and brilliant white teeth flash at me. Damn it. “But he told me he wasn’t telling me shit because of your threat. Carson was the one who figured everything out.”

Crap, how could I forget about Carson?

I don’t hang out with him as much, it’s quite rare actually when we’re in the same room, but if I wasn’t so bogged down with staring at the bulge in the “towel picture” then I might have sent him a quick message to keep his mouth shut too.

See what happens when I’m distracted? I lose my ability to think clearly.

“Honestly, I was offended that you cancelled the date. After spending so much money, I thought it was because I posted something you didn’t agree with on social media. I was scrolling through my feed trying to figure it out. I knew it wasn’t my potato salad.”

What the hell is he talking about?

“I don’t follow you on social media.” I unfollowed him after I graduated, because I realized following him was once again, another distraction.

“What? You don’t?” He looks hurt. I’m sure he’ll get over it. “Then how did you find out about the fundraiser?”

“Amazingly enough, I don’t get all my information from Instagram posts.”

“Snarky, okay. Then how did you find out about it?”

He unwraps the burgers and fries and sets them carefully on the plate, making an entire presentation out of it by making a swirl across the white surface with ketchup and mustard. Uh, is he a baseball player or is he competing for a spot on Top Chef?