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There is a reason Jack Morgan has climbed the company ranks so quickly.
Sales is about people, and Jack clearly knows his craft.
It is an incredible feeling to be seen. And that’s what Jack does. He peers into me, fishes out what’s important, and fearlessly talks about it.
His openness is contagious.
That might be why I’m letting myself get gabby.
“And… see how he nods like that when he chews?” I say, pointing to Chester the Sea Turtle. “Totally reminds me of my old therapist. He nodded at me during our Zoom calls exactly like that. The real Chester had the saggiest neck.”
Jack tips his head back and guffaws.
He’s getting a kick out of me. I like it.
We’re standing side by side on the walkway by the lagoon. I rest my forearms on the rough wooden railing.
We’ve laughed a lot this past half-hour since we left the Tiki Grille. It’s been nice to stroll around the resort, enjoying the scenery and wildlife. We watched a peacock fan his tail out and prance around, a flamingo stalk through a shallow fountain, and a dolphin play.
Now, we’re watching the sea turtles. In particular, Chester.
“I mean, understandably saggy,” I add. “He’s seventy, by the way. Seventy, and still working because he loves his job. Excellent therapist, too. Super passionate about his work.”
“I love that… when people are still into all their things as they age. I’d like to be eighty, still riding my dirt bike.”
“That sounds like the fastest way to earn yourself a stay in the hospital ever. If I make it to eighty, I’m going to use a walker whether they tell me I need it or not. Just for the extra stability. Why not?”
He laughs again. “No way. Not me. I hope to still be doing some jumps. Maybe go for a world record. There’s a guy out there these days who’s riding at eighty and gets serious press for it. Sponsors, the whole deal. Not a bad gig, if you ask me. And if I added jumps in?—”
“Wait, isn’t the whole ‘jumps’ thing ridiculously dangerous? You’re talking about catching actual air… right? Like, never mind feet on the ground, you don’t even have tires on the ground.”
“Exciting feeling, unless it goes wrong.” His eyes pinch as though with a painful memory for just an instant. But then, the twinkle is back. “It’s like I tell my sister-in-law. Dangerous usually means fun.”
“Whew… Nope, not the way I see it. I don’t do danger, thank you very much.”
“You’d like dirt biking, I bet.”
“I like sports that involve both of my feet on the ground.”
“I’d get you in a helmet, pads, the whole deal. You could sit on the back of my bike and hold on. If I kept the speed slow, you’d get the feel for it without any adrenaline rush.”
Is he trying to impress me?
To his credit, he is.
He’s adopted that gentle, caring, protective attitude I loved so much when he lifted me out of the hot tub.
I have no doubt that he’d take care of me if I ever agreed to get on the back of his motorcycle.
Which I won’t.
Will I?
No.
This is nothing in the big picture of my life. I’m getting a brief glimpse of what life would be like if I had a man like Jack Morgan circling in my orbit. Brief. That’s the keyword. We’re two coworkers on vacation.
This vacation will end.
