Secret Admirer (2 page)

I wondered if that would now include me. Guessing she wanted me to ask about her boyfriend from the number of times she mentioned his existence, I played along.

“Well,” she began, tossing back her loose curls. “Alec is an attorney. He graduated top of his class at NYU. He’s from an important family, but really driven and he’s a junior partner already.”

She beamed with obvious pride, so I probed further. “Things are serious?”

“Definitely,” she gushed. “We’ve been together for over three years and been discussing getting engaged since the summer. I thought it would’ve happened by now, but finding the time is difficult with his busy schedule.”

She smiled as she told me, but I detected disappointment in her voice. She wanted that ring.

In the afternoon, I met a few more co-workers and received my client assignments. As far as first days go, it wasn’t too bad. While shutting down my computer and tidying up the papers on my desk, I was visited again by my new friend.

Bree poked her head into my office. “I usually arrange for a bunch of us to go out on Friday nights. It’s casual, just drinks and hanging out. Say you’ll join us.”

I smirked, thinking I must have passed her test at lunch to receive an invitation. She wasn’t exactly asking or ordering me. I gathered this was her tactic to getting people to do what she wanted and still let them think they were exercising free will.

“Sure, I’d love to,” I said honestly. I had no plans, didn’t know a soul yet, and couldn’t think of a valid reason or plausible lie to present. Bree seemed a bit intense, but harmless enough, and I’d be foolish to turn away the potential friendship.

“Great, what’s your cell number?” She pulled out her smartphone, bejeweled with pink rhinestones.

The ping indicating my receipt of her text sounded from my bag seconds later.

“I’m off to yoga, catch you in the morning.”

“I’d love to join a class or two once I get settled. Unpacking is my only exercise for now.” I spent the night searching through boxes for my workout gear.

Waking up on Tuesday morning was less exciting as Monday, and I attributed it to first-day anxiety. I dragged myself to the shower and once the steam lifted my morning brain fog, I remembered Cute Coffee Shop Guy and felt fully alert.

Minutes later, while pulling on my tall black boots, I thought how I’d worn them every day for the past few months, but now in my new surroundings, they seemed brand new. In fact, my whole wardrobe was refreshed, creating a nice bonus and yet another testament to my desire to start new, but remain within my comfort zone.

As I was about to leave the apartment, I caught a glimpse of myself in the artsy mirror I hung by the door the night before. Reaching for the door handle, I was surprised to see bangs even now a full week after this other big change. I had a little push from my mom with this one. After moving out of the condo I shared with a roommate one week before Christmas, I spent the interim time at my parent’s house. My mother was all for my move to Hartford as Connecticut was a short drive from Rhode Island, but she worried about me living alone. I was thrilled at the prospect of having my own space. I had no problems with my old roommate, but sharing had become exactly that—old.

My mom gave support by helping me prepare. She took me to big box stores for the essentials and specialty shops to decorate my new apartment. The rooms were unfurnished and the walls bare when we toured it weeks earlier.

“I’ll miss you, but I’m proud of you making this change,” she told me one night before running her hands through my long monotone brown hair. “Maybe it’s time for a style change. How about some highlights?”

“No, that’s not me.”

She frowned.

My mom—from the generation of perms and frosting—couldn’t understand my generation’s option for one length, straight and, in her opinion, boring hair.

“A cut, maybe? It’s pretty long.”

I just shrugged, but when I heard her offer of a day of pampering at her salon, I caved. The result was a block of bangs I hadn’t sported since the third grade. I didn’t let them cut the overall length, and I loved the compromise. The bangs framed my heart-shaped face without overpowering my hazel eyes. This kind of change I could handle.

I gave the bangs a little fluffing and started out on my second day at work. Except work was the last thing on my mind as I entered the coffee shop and searched for Cute Guy who was already in line ordering. I slipped in behind him. This gave me a good view. I did feel a bit petty checking out his appearance, but liked him for sharing the same affinity for the small basic coffee shop instead of the famous name place with the drive-thru across the street. Having established my philosophical reasons, I felt justified stooping to the superficial level for a moment.

Slim, olive-colored jeans complimented his average height. He wore a short, wool jacket and his nylon messenger bag was slung across his chest. Corduroy sneakers completed his hipster look. Yup, he was a techie. I guessed he either worked at the electronics store down the street as one of the masterminds who could unlock phones and teach anyone to make music videos on his or her tablet. Or he worked in the IT department at one of the large corporations I passed on my commute. I knew judging him seemed quick, but rationalized my behavior because he was my type. Or at least the type I thought I’d like. Either way, I liked what I saw.

I ordered my black coffee and prepared to face the stack of lids again.

“Ah, back for more.”

Cute Guy was beside me, stirring sugar into his cup. Those baby blue eyes distracted me and almost made me lose my nerve, but I smiled with confidence.

“It’s me one, lids zero, so far.” I snapped on the top with ease this time and lifted the cup as if it were a trophy. “I’m on a streak now.”

He laughed. “Some people get all the talent.” He resumed his humming as he walked toward the door to face the cold morning air.

I appreciated his dry, sarcastic tone and was happy I made progress. I turned up my car’s digital radio after discovering a decent station broadcasting actual music, instead of celebrity gossip banter. Not until I parked and cut the engine did I realize I was humming.

Bree was not there to greet me, and I actually felt a little disappointed. Had my status as shiny new toy worn off? I opened my office door to begin what I hoped would be a productive second day. By nine-thirty, I’d read only one paragraph of a new client’s profile. Instead of being productive, I was the opposite, unless scribbling one-liners for a stranger at a coffee shop counted.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Cute Coffee Shop Guy. Friendly, cheerful, and attractive—didn’t those attributes check all the boxes in the guy department? I knew he beat all the duds I’d been around for the last five years, but what could I tell from the three sentences we’d muttered in the past twenty-four hours? Still, it felt fun to have a crush.

“Earth to Andi.”

A familiar voice pulled me down from the clouds. “Oh, wow busted,” I said to Bree, pushing back in my chair. “I was really lost in thought there.”

She remained in my doorway, wagging her pointer finger. “That was no work blank-out, you were thinking about a guy.”

“No.” I sounded unconvincing, even to myself.

“I’d say nice try, but that was pathetic.”

I gave in and laughed. “I’ll tell you over lunch?”

“Better. Meet you outside at twelve-thirty.” She pivoted on her wedged heels and sashayed out.

Over another limp salad, I related the very little I knew about Cute Coffee Shop Guy. She hung on to every word as if his outfit and my infatuation was very vital information. I sounded and felt like a fourteen-year-old girl, but I kind of liked the rush of attraction I hadn’t felt in years.

She clapped her hands rapidly. “A challenge, I love it! Now, we just have to think up reasons to talk to him and learn his name. I’m totally helping you. This will be fun.”

Fun?
How? My new friend’s delighted expression encouraged me to let down my guard. Sure, why couldn’t this be fun? I forced a smile in return matching her enthusiasm.

Chapter Two

My first lunch meeting as Accounts Director was on Wednesday, sparing me any reprimand Bree prepared to deliver over salads for my lack of progress with Coffee Shop Guy. I saw him again in the morning, but he was leaving as I was arriving—not an opportune time for introductions. Still, he held the door for me and told me to have a great day.

If only he knew the impact his words had at making that happen.

At two-thirty, several faint pings sounded from my desk drawer. I’d like to say I’m professional enough to ignore my personal phone at work, but I immediately retrieved it and checked the screen. Bree initiated a group conversation. Hers was the only name listed, the other contacts appeared as numbers. I tapped the message bubble opening the application and watched the exchange unfold.

Bree—Drinks Friday? 7 @ Jake’s

860-555-1325—Absolutely! Abbie’s phone died, I’ll tell her

860-555-0489—Wouldn’t miss

860-555-1516—Can’t. Paper due Mon :(

Bree—Aren’t U done yet Mags?

860-555-1516—Never

860-555-4535—Not sure yet, will lyk

Me—Thx. Sounds like fun

860-555-0489—Who’s the RI number?

Bree—Andi, she’s new at our office. Say hi everyone!

860-555-1325—Hi Andi, C U Fri

860-555-0489—ditto

860-555-4535—Welcome

860-555-9229—Hi there, catch u on the later end

Bree—W/Sam?

860-555-9229—Hope so, will C

860-555-2080—Can I go Maggie?

860-555-1516—LOL! Permission granted

A minute passed without further comments, so I assumed the conversation was over. The thought of joining this group of established friends intimidated me, but what was my alternative? I had to meet new people, and here was the chance. The first night might be awkward, but I told myself venturing out was a vital part of the start-over plan. Plus, Bree was acting as my self-appointed ambassador. I should consider myself lucky and quit worrying.

On my way home, I stopped at the grocery store. I’d yet to shop in Hartford, living off the convenience store provisions and the freezer meals my mother had sent. Passing through the automatic doors, I was accosted by Cupid. A Mylar Cupid balloon had broken free from the florist department and the rush of air from the door sent it flying into my face. I batted away the arrow-wielding cherub like it was an angry bee.

Once disentangled from the balloon, I was assaulted in earnest by Valentine’s Day. Gigantic advertisements announcing the holiday, which was still five weeks away, were displayed virtually everywhere. The bakery department featured heart-shaped cookies with red and pink frosting, the card aisle was a sea of red, and a singing card must have been left open as a fading, distorted, rendition of Love Me Do droned on. I sped through, hunting for cereal. My biggest mistake occurred in the candy aisle, ending up there accidentally, being unfamiliar with the store’s layout. Realizing my blunder, I zipped my cart over one aisle but was blocked by a family of six picking out boxed valentines, the kind to hand out in classrooms. I thought the purchase premature, but as a kid I remembered being eager to pick out my favorite characters early too.

While stuck behind the family, I couldn’t help browsing the offerings. I didn’t recognize the majority of the cartoon characters, only the old standbys and the timeless comic book supe
r-
heroes who had come back into popularity. Then something caught my eye I did recognize and remembered well. My mouth watered, remembering the sugary treat.

Candy Hearts.

I used to love their fun sayings and crunchy sweetness. I remembered sorting and trading the boxes back in grade school with my friends, but I hadn’t thought about them in a long time. Why would I think about such a juvenile pleasure? I inspected a package containing six small boxes, the size designed to distribute. Next to them were bags of large hearts by another manufacturer with different sayings I’d never seen before. I was curious and my sugar tooth was aching, but somehow I resisted and pushed my cart to the cereal aisle for granola without succumbing to the hearts.

Back in the warmth of my apartment, I was delighted to discover my cable had been activated. I spent the night playing with my new remote, navigating the menu and setting up the DVR. I finally settled on a show I watched semi-regularly, a dancing competition I got hooked on back in college. During the commercial breaks, the Valentine’s Day reminders began again.

“Don’t forget your sweetie this Valentine’s Day,” an online florist said.

“Come into Fay’s Jewelers now to see our exclusive sweetheart collection.”

“The Valentine clearance sale begins this weekend,” announced a mustached, used car salesman.

Ugh. Even my own home wasn’t safe from the Valentine’s Day onslaught. I selected the “record all episodes” option for my program so I could fast forward through the ads in the future. I didn’t need more reminders I would be alone, again, on Valentine’s Day.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. I wasn’t alone the past few years on Valentine’s Day. I was busy with people and activities. We had dinner, chocolates, and cards. I babysat my brother’s twins so he and his wife could go out for the evening.

I wondered if they would stay in this year or pay a real babysitter so they could continue the tradition I started and supported months after the babies were born. The first time was a genuine offer. They were new, tired parents, and I was just out of college and unattached. The following year, they asked, and I was once again free so I agreed. From then on, me babysitting on Valentine’s Day was just assumed. They assumed I had no life and I assumed they needed me.