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“Maybe I’ll write a book about you too,” he fires back.
“That’s destined to be a bestseller. What will you call it?”
He leans in toward me as if we’re not sitting in a parked car next to his building.
“I’m still working on a title. When I’ve got one, I’ll let you know.”
His eyes close, and I wait for the increasingly familiar touch of his lips. The kiss ends much too quickly.
“So you have plans tomorrow night, but we’re still on for Tuesday?”
I figured he’d laugh his ass off when I told him about the science club Karlene and I run, and sure, he did laugh for a minute. But after learning we mostly just drink wine and talk about how to bring more girls into STEM, he asked if we needed a donation. I’m pretty sure Hayden is used to tossing money at things, which makes me really sad.
“We’re on for Tuesday for sure. I guess we should probably stay in? Your apartment or mine?”
“Actually, I have an idea,” he says, something flashing in his eyes. “Let me work on something and then we’ll talk tomorrow. Sound good?”
“Sounds good.”
He gets out of the car, and I feel a strange heaviness as I watch him walk away—something that just gets worse as I make my way through the heavy evening traffic. I can’t help but wonder if I feel this way because the weekend has come to an end, or because I know what’s ahead and it’ll be anything but an easy path for us.
Either way, I am determined not to overthink it. To take this as it comes, one step at a time, and do my best to keep work and this new relationship as separate as possible.
I can do this. It’s just temporary.
A year. Or two.
Which seems like a lifetime right now.
* * *
“Girl, start talking. Now.”
Qasim popped in earlier and told me we’d be eating lunch today in my office. He didn’t ask, which is how I knew he wasn’t going to let this go. He literally said, “Do you have a lunch meeting? No? In here, one o’clock. I’m buying.”
“What’d you get for lunch?” I ask.
“Salad, extra cranberries for you”—he pulls out a plastic container—“and a turkey club, spicy mayo, for me.”
I move some papers around as he pulls up a chair.
“And waters. I assume you have your water killer?”
“Otherwise known as lemon flavoring?” To horrify him, and also because I really do like it, I pull out the container from my top drawer and laugh at Qasim’s horrified expression when I squirt a healthy dose into my water bottle.
“If you haven’t fucked Hayden Tanner already, I’ll buy you lunch every Friday for the rest of the year.”
I nearly spill the entire water bottle.
Half laughing, half mortified, I just stare back at Qasim’s all-knowing face.
“The sexual tension between the two of you . . .” He whistles. “Off the charts.”
This is not good news.
“Was it that noticeable?”
Qasim takes a bite of his sandwich, chews, and gives me an innocent (although really not-so-innocent) look.
