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He awkwardly motions to the chair opposite his.
I sit, noticing my shoes sitting on the end of the desk like a pink billboard sign to remind me why I’m here and why it’s so awkward.
I sheepishly pick them up. “Sorry I threw these at you. Not exactly my finest moment.” I put them in my bag. They don’t really fit, but I’d rather not look at the cause of my demise. “It was immature and childish of me. And I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay”
“No, it’s not. I got mad, and I didn’t think. I just acted. As you can tell, impulse control is still a bit of a problem at times.”
“I’m sorry I upset you. I really didn’t mean to. I was just trying to help.”
I open my mouth to, what, argue? Mark stops me.
“I had no right to step in where I wasn’t invited. You are more than capable of taking care of yourself.” He runs a hand along his well-defined chest. “Your aim alone proves that.”
I bark out a laugh. “This whole situation is rather ridiculous.”
“It is,” Mark smirks. “It’s not like I was going to wear them.”
I have an image of Mark wearing pink heels, and it’s a good thing I wasn’t drinking anything because it would have been an epic spit take. “Bubble gum pink not your color of choice?”
“I much prefer Pepto-Bismol pink. Those clash with my suit.”
I snort as I try to hold in a laugh. “You picked the only pink thing you could think of, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
My insides flutter. I can spend time with Mark. I want to spend time with him; he makes me laugh. He’s taken every curveball I have thrown at him the last couple of weeks, and he still wants to spend time with me. At least he did before I threw shoes at him.
“Do you have plans for lunch?” I blurt. I can’t read his expression. Surprised? Pleased? Confused? I’m going to be overanalyzing every movement from now on, aren’t I?
“Nope. Do you have any ideas?”
“Why don’t you pick? I picked last time.”
You can do this, Millie. You can spend time with Mark. You want to spend time with Mark.
“What kind of food were you thinking? Or not wanting? Both are very valid when choosing food.”
“It doesn’t matter to me.” I don’t have the brain capacity to choose food right now. The longer he looks at me like that, the longer it’s going to take for oxygen to reach my brain. I’m sure I’m completely flushed. I probably match those shoes.
“Oh, no, I’m not falling for that.”
“Falling for what?” I am genuinely confused.
“The whole ‘it doesn’t matter what we eat’ thing that women do.”
“That’s not a thing. At least it’s not a me thing. I really don’t care where we go. I’m not picky.”
“But you are opinionated.” He stops me before I can argue. “Don’t even deny you are. You are a Jacobson, and the whole lot of you are stubborn and opinionated, especially with food.”
I can’t argue with that, but I also can’t let him win. “I’m not picky or opinionated. I’m particular.” I look at him indignantly. “It’s different.”
“You just have to have the last word, don’t you?”
“Not at all.” I challenge him to respond. I swear I hear him mutter under his breath, but I can’t make out any words.
“We obviously won’t come to any decisions just sitting here.” I get up and grab my purse, forgetting the added bulk of the shoes. “Do you want to drive or should I?”
