Just a Business Lunch
I waited until midnight on Sunday for Ryan to call—or at least send a message—and it took a ridiculous amount of self-control not to text him something as simple as goodnight. I’m proud of myself for holding out.
I have no idea how big the age gap between us actually is, but even if he isn’t much older than me, the distance in life experience feels enormous. I honestly have no clue how dating works when kids and divorce are part of the package.
And on top of that, I can’t even talk to anyone about it. I’m scared of Adele and Mark’s brutally honest opinions. Especially Adele. Mark, obviously, gets jealous of every man who so much as breathes in my direction.
Ben, meanwhile—the yacht dealer—called whether I wanted him to or not. He’d had the horrifying idea that we should have lunch together and discuss the catalogue.
Discuss what, exactly?
He’d never come up with nonsense like that before. Thessa always handled those things. She loved those business lunches wrapped in fake charm and flirting.
I carefully suggested maybe he should call Thessa instead. She was the boss, after all. If anyone should coordinate with him, it was her.
I’d just started celebrating the fact that I’d successfully gotten rid of him when my beloved boss decided to call.
“Did you seriously brush Ben off?” she attacked immediately.
“But you’re the boss! It’d be pretty weird if I went to lunch with him.”
“You could try being a little more open-minded, Emily. Besides, surely you can imagine how much time I have for things like that right now. I’m barely keeping my head above water while you’re not here.”
I stared into space, mouth hanging open.
Good thing she couldn’t see me silently gasping for air.
Excuse me?
I’m not there? She doesn’t have time?
And what the hell does she think I’m doing exactly? Filing my nails?
“I thought you liked these business meetings,” I said flatly.
She let out a bored sigh into the phone.
“There’s a man I’ve been seeing.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, Thessa.
Seriously?
Are you really that selfish?
“I’m already drowning in Telekom work and the catalogue. I honestly can’t fit anything else in right now… can’t somebody else go?”
“Who exactly?” she snapped. “One of your greasy-haired coworkers in ripped jeans? How could I let someone like that anywhere near Ben?”
I honestly don’t think she even hears herself sometimes. And she’s talking about the people carrying her business on their backs. The people responsible for her newest car. For those absurdly expensive metallic nails.
“I’ll tell him to find somewhere near you,” she said, ending the conversation.
I was furious. I called Adele without thinking. The phone was already ringing when panic suddenly hit me. What if she was in court and I was about to complain because some millionaire wanted to take me to lunch?
“I’m so happy to hear your voice,” she sang.
I practically grabbed my chest. Her excitement startled me that much. And it felt really good. Especially coming from Adele, who treated kind words and compliments like precious resources.
“Adele, for fuck’s sake, you have to help me. Could you come over? I’ll pay for the taxi, just come here for a bit, okay?”
“Is something wrong?” she asked immediately, alarmed.
“No, no. The yacht dealer wants to take me to lunch…”
“That rich guy?” she interrupted excitedly.
“Yeah…” I groaned.
“Oh my God, you lucky bitch!” she squealed.
“But…” I stammered. “It’s just a business lunch or whatever.”
“Send a taxi to my office right now,” she breathed.
Of course. This was Adele’s world. Rich, influential businessmen. Politicians. Elegant venues. Dresses. Expensive drinks. And all of it made me break out in stress sweats. Not that I dislike money or comfort, but to move naturally in circles like that, I think you have to be born into it. Or be Adele. Lawyers probably absorb that kind of thing at university. Although really, they’re some strange kind of service staff for people like that. They clean up their messes. Learn how to hide their money. Wash it clean. And considering what a complete asshole Dave is, I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if that was exactly why he clung so tightly to my slick, razor-sharp friend.
*
Adele exploded into my apartment like a bulldozer. She barely even said hello before yanking open my wardrobe doors. She grabbed every blouse hanging inside and hurled them onto the bed.
I clutched my head.
“Shh.” She raised a finger. “Actually, leave. Go away. Don’t distract me.”
She waved me out of my own bedroom. The whole thing was ridiculous. And weirdly hilarious. Even though it was still early afternoon, I made us drinks. We’re young. The world belongs to us. We’re allowed.
I collapsed onto the sofa and waited for Adele to give birth to what she considered the perfect outfit. About ten minutes later she dramatically threw open the bedroom door and held up her chosen masterpiece.
I raised an eyebrow.
“That’s it?” I asked, disappointed. “Beige suit trousers and a white satin blouse?”
“Exactly,” Adele announced theatrically. “This is a business lunch. You can’t show up looking like some easy lay.”
“I never look like an easy lay,” I said, offended.
“No. But we also don’t want him thinking he might get to sleep with you.”
“Adele, what the hell? Why would he think that?”
“Because you’re starving. You haven’t had sex since Mr. Full Lips.” She started counting on her fingers. “So you’ve basically been deprived for weeks now. And Ben’s hot. I follow his page.”
I stared at her.
“You’re kidding. Seriously? You care about that idiot?”
Adele rolled her eyes. Then, as if she’d suddenly forgotten who she was and where we were, she snapped her fingers twice toward the glasses on the coffee table.
I threw my head back and laughed. The whole situation was absurd. Adele wanted this lunch more than I did. I handed her the drink and grinned, waiting for it to hit her in the head in a few minutes.
That’s what I love about Adele. Sometimes she’s cold as hell, but she’s ridiculously predictable. Her glass emptied quickly, and the real Adele—the one suffocating beneath constant self-restraint—finally surfaced.
“I’m so jealous about Mr. Full Lips… and now this Ben guy.”
“Those are two completely different worlds,” I said carefully.
“I know, but still! One comes, one goes—they’re practically handing each other the baton.”
“They are not! Ben’s my client,” I said, baffled.
Adele held out her empty glass. Without a word, I took it and made another drink.
“Just like the car thief.”
I nearly choked.
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing,” she whined.
I had to put everything down. I stared at my strict lawyer friend rubbing her chest furiously while gazing dreamily into the distance.
“Adele,” I said firmly. “Are you seriously turned on by a twenty-year-old guy who breaks into cars for fun?”
“Oh, stop talking nonsense,” she said lazily.
I didn’t believe a word of it.
“And what exactly is attractive about a criminal almost ten years younger than you?”
Adele closed her eyes.
“I bet he grabs whatever girl he’s with, sweeps all the papers off his desk, throws her up there and then…”
“When was the last time you had sex?” I cut in mercilessly.
She immediately shook her head, startled. Wouldn’t even look at me.
“Well… right now there’s… a little issue down there.”
I said nothing. So she’d caught something again. And obviously not from saintly Dave. Probably picked it up on a bus. I didn’t ask any more questions. I put her in a taxi and sent her home.
Fuck you, Dave.