Love That For Me by Abby Knox

ChapterFour

Alex

“Wait, can I get your number?”

Jessica pauses in her size eight heels and does a double take. A small dimple appears on her cheek.

Can I get your number?Wow, good work, Alex. Now you’re flat-out trying to pick her up, which couldn’t be more obvious.

While I wait for her to dig out her business card, I slip my glasses off and dab my sweaty eyebrows with the back of my hand. Smooth. Real smooth, Martin.

She holds the card out to me with an expectant look.

“Thanks,” I say, ignoring the rush of energy at the point where her finger brushes against mine as I take the card.

“Usually, I get a number from a source, too,” she says.

Oh, that.

I fumble for my phone and awkwardly send my contact info to hers.

She stares at her phone. “Is this…is this your direct cell number?”

“Yeah. Is that a problem?”

She chuckles. “I can’t believe I’m sabotaging this sort of access, but the one time I interviewed Zuckerberg for five minutes, I had to arrange everything through an assistant to an assistant to an assistant.”

“No takebacks,” I reassure her, immediately cringing inside. Did that sound like I just gave her a gift? Like my phone number is some prize? At best, I sound like a child.

I am sweating through this suit like I just ran a half-marathon.

If I’d been trying to colossally fuck up a conversation with the press, I succeeded.

What sort of a troglodyte allows himself to get distracted by a pretty face and gorgeous hips?

No reporter has ever had this effect on me. I’m a professional, dammit. And so is Jessica.

The board of directors saw fit to keep the nerd who started this company as its public face because I’m good at interviews.

Today, though, my brain saw those huge brown eyes and went on autopilot. As a result, my mouth spewed absolute bullshit.

Every time she broke eye contact with me, I took the opportunity to gawk at her while she took down notes. While she scribbled, I stared at the subtle highlights in her hair. I tried to guess how old she was by staring at the furrows on her forehead. I studied her outfit, noting how the vintage Dior skirt and blazer somehow worked with the statement necklace from Target. Smart. Funny. Good taste. Total ballbuster and a knockout to boot.

She must think I’m a bumbling idiot or a liar.

Women I’ve dated in the past have never made me sweat this much. Maybe that’s because my last serious relationship was in college over fifteen years ago. Since then, it’s been one short-term relationship after another.

It’s not like I can put up a profile on a dating site to find a wife. I tried, but my publicist about had a coronary when she saw it and promptly made me take it down.

But Jessica…Jessica makes me want to circumvent the entire vetting process and run away from all of this.

I’ve never had that before with anyone.

Until now.

Two problems. One, I’m pretty sure she hates my guts. Two: I’m a big fat liar.

Jessica mentioned the town had no housing for the workers, and I panicked. I have people who are supposed to research that shit but apparently dropped the ball. So to save face, I blurted out lies.

And on top of all that, I insulted her shoes. I meant to show off that I recognized what designer they were from, and I thought she’d be impressed by my keen eye for fashion. Instead, I sounded like a snob.

“Sir, they’re ready for you.”

That would be my publicist, Andrea.

Right. I have a groundbreaking to do. Hands to shake. Photos to pose for.

I turn and face my publicist and personal assistant. “Andrea, make sure Ms. Miller has everything she needs for her story. Chapman, please get Ms. Miller some wine and something to eat.”

They both look at me as if I’m talking about a ghost.

“Who?”

I turn back to point out Jessica, but she’s gone.

It feels like an eternity of chatting with one person after another before I can take the time to compose an email to the address on her business card. When the event is over. I stalk to the trailer and retype it, then send it.

To:[email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Let’s try that again

Hi.I would start by saying I’m much better over email, but that remains to be seen. I might make it weird here, too.

I enjoyed meeting you today.I’d love to meet for coffee just to talk one on one. Unfettered access. No publicists, assistants, or anyone else to witness me struggle for words while talking to a beautiful woman. All except for my bodyguards. Those, apparently, are necessary. You get used to it.

If it soundslike I’m hitting on you, that’s because I am.

Maybe I’m notthe sharpest tool in the shed when it comes to walking the line between professional and social relationships. But when I feel something is right, I go after it. I don’t ask what the rules are before I jump, and I only ask for forgiveness later if I truly fuck it up.

I trustyou’ll let me know when I do.