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Me: Encouraging…
I start walking again.
Ada: It was meant to be.
Oh man.
After Saturday, I had a firm discussion with myself about maintaining boundaries. Aside from suggesting a dinner meeting, I’ve been perfectly professional.
She texted first.
Maybe I shouldn’t have read into that like I did. I tested the waters with what might have been construed as a flirtatious message, and she didn’t answer for twenty-four hours.
I had a moment of panic—okay, more like a night of it—thinking I’d totally misread her cues.
Ada wanted to get this site visit done. End of story. It was a job to her. And if she gave me come-hither eyes last week, then it was only because she’d had too much to drink.
I move to the side of the street, out of the way, considering her response and what I should write back.
It was meant to be.
What does that mean? Multiple possibilities come to mind, including the fact that Ada might have no idea there’s a flirty vibe to her message. I’m not sure I believe that—I’m usually pretty good at reading people, and there’s an undeniably suggestive tone to it—but I don’t know what else to think. I took away three facts from our dinner:
Fact number one. She considers her father a god.
Fact number two. She knows her job, and potential promotion, will make her father proud.
Fact number three. She would not jeopardize that by fraternizing with me.
All things considered, there’s only one move here.
To test her limits. If nothing else, it’ll help me put my Ada fantasies to bed and get on with my pre-Ada life.
In that case, meet for lunch? Not far from you.
I’d planned to grab a sandwich and head home. Instead, I turn, just for fun, and walk toward Houston Street. If there’s an extra spring in my step, it’s certainly not at the possibility of seeing Ada again as I approach her neighborhood which she mentioned to me at dinner.
She won’t text back. And if she does, she definitely won’t meet me for lunch.
Thursday was all business.
This? I have no idea what this is.
If Enzo were here, he’d lay into me, and with good reason. I’m playing a dangerous game that can only end with someone, or multiple someones, getting burned.
I find myself thinking of something he said to me in college, as a prelude to the most important conversation I’ve ever had.
Do you always get what you want?
I understand why he asked. To him, it probably seemed true. Although Enzo’s parents did really well with their pizza shop, he never felt like he completely fit in at Cornell, both because he’d overcome a reading disability that had set him back at school and because a lot of the kids there came from old money.
Some aspects of my life blew him away. My parents’ mansion. Their house in Switzerland. So the question didn’t seem out of left field. The only reason I remember it so well is because of what came next, after I told him that, yes, I did usually get what I wanted.
Good. Because I think I’ve found something that could be big. Really big. And I need a partner.
I’m still flabbergasted that he chose me. That he believed in me. So it shouldn’t matter that I’m attracted to Ada . . . or even that I like her . . . it should only matter that she’s the person who has the future of our business in her hands.
My phone buzzes.
