The Ground Rules (6 page)

Telephone receiver in hand, I open my desk drawer and retrieve the card. I’ve asked Gabe to give me five minutes—the last thing I need is him hovering over me. I can’t believe how nervous I feel. It seems ridiculous that I should feel so on edge. I’ve done this before…it’s just a phone call, for heaven’s sake.

As I stare at the gorgeous bouquet of roses on my desk, the line rings repeatedly and relief washes over me—yes, I can leave a message—so much less awkward.

But then, he answers.

Damn.

“Weston Hanson.” His tone is very formal and business-like, and I realize I’m probably calling his cell, not his home phone. I’m still reeling from the shock of his voice when he says, “Hello,” with slight irritation in his voice.

“Oh…hi…” I stammer. “Hi, Weston, it’s Mirella…from the—”

“Hi, Mirella.” His voice is soft and sweet, just as I remember it.

“Uh…hi,” I hesitate. I’m not sure where to start. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like them.”

“I do.” I say, wishing this conversation wasn’t so damn nerve-racking. I’ve got nothing more—my brain is off the clock.

After a few awkward seconds, he’s the first to break the dreadful silence. “Bridget and I…were wondering if you’d like to go out with us…again?” he asks, his words hesitant. I can tell he’s a little nervous too, and it helps me relax a bit.

“Of course. We would love it,” I reply, trying to sound unaffected.

I am
so
affected.

“Great,” he says, his voice cheerful. “Do you two like Malaysian food?”

I’m not quite sure how to answer that. I know I like Chinese food, and Thai, but not Japanese. But I’ve never had Malaysian food, and I don’t really want to admit that and confess that I’m just a plain, boring, unworldly suburbanite—I
am
speaking to Mr. Sophisticated & Worldly here.

“We love it,” I finally say.

He laughs softly. “You certainly had to think about that one for a while,” he teases. “Are you sure you love it? Because—”

“Well, you know…I just haven’t had it for a while,” I explain. Geez, we’ve barely said three words, and I’m already making up crap, trying to impress this guy.

I can’t start off like this.

“I’m sorry. I’ve never had Malaysian,” I finally admit. I hear laughter on the line, and I am mortified. I feel like such an idiot.

“Well, would you like to try it? It’s quite good.” His voice is sweet.

“Sure, why not,” I say, hoping I’ll like it. “As you can probably tell, we haven’t been around as much as you.” I’m unexpectedly very comfortable talking to him.

“Not a problem. We look forward to introducing you to new things.”

Wow.

What does this guy have in mind? I’m curious.

“Do you enjoy art?” he asks.

Now this, I know about, probably not nearly as much as he and Bridget do, but still, I know a few things. “I do. I love a good painting,” I tell him before I can take the words back.
I love a good painting?
Who says that? I sound like an imbecile.

He laughs a little. “Well, I love a good painting too, Mirella. We can enjoy them together. I’m sure we’ll have a great time.”

Is he mocking me? I’m not sure I like that. But his voice is so damned sexy, I don’t care.

“Bridget has a friend who has a showing not far from the Malaysian place we like. We thought it could be a fun night.”

“Sounds great. We’d love it.”

“I know this is short notice,” he says, hesitating a little, “but the show is next Saturday…are you available?”

I think about it for a second.

We’re not available. We’re having dinner with Gabe’s parents. But we have dinner with them
all the time
. I’m sure they can take a rain check this
one
time. But…we’ll have to make an excuse. We can’t just tell them we’re blowing them off to go do who-knows-what with the hottest couple we’ve ever met. That might just sound a little depraved.

“Uh…hello?”

“I-I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I just had to think about it for a minute.” I twirl a strand of hair—an old nervous habit of mine. “Yes…I believe we’re free.”

I am such a little tramp.

“Great, sounds like a plan. We’ll call you with the details.”

“Sure.”

I give him my cell number and say a quick good-bye.

And as soon as I hang up, I long to hear his sexy voice again.

“Drop it, Gwen,” I snap, between bites of my grilled chicken pita.

Gwen, who is munching on an apple, doesn’t seem to care what I think. When she wants to do something, she does it. “Let’s go to the office and satisfy your urges,” she says playfully.

“Let’s not,” I deadpan.

“I know you’re just dying to know more about him.”

She’s right. I am.

I down a sip from my neon pink water bottle. “But it would make me feel like such a creepy loser. I’m not Googling him. I told you before.”

A smile slowly stretches across her face. “But you want to, don’t you?”

I smile.

She knows me too well.

I want to so much…it is literally driving me bonkers.

“C’mon.
Everyone
does it. It doesn’t mean you’re a creepy stalker.”

“Well, maybe a little peek…”

“Atta girl,” she squeals.

“What’s up?” Sylvia asks as she walks into the lunch room.

“Uh…” I stammer. “Nothing.”

“We just have a few things to catch up on in the office,” Gwen tells her as she gathers our lunches off the table.

We’re glad to see no one is in the office. I gather we wouldn’t look very professional Googling crushes. But heck,
everyone
does it…

Gwen has officially taken over. If
she’s
the one sitting at the keyboard and doing the actual typing, I can theoretically say I’ve never cyber-stalked him. She enters his name in the field and lets out an, “Ooh.”

There are a lot of entries. I want to take it all in quickly and then sprint off. I am so mortified at myself.

“He’s a popular man,” she says, clicking on the first link. “Sustainable initiatives to help your bottom line…keynote speaker…Dr. Weston Hanson,” she reads out loud. “He’s a doctor? Did you know that?”

No I didn’t. What?

“Are you sure you’ve got the right guy?” I ask, confused.

She clicks on the photo attached to the article, and my heart does a little cartwheel. It’s definitely him, dressed in a sleek suit, looking
delicious.

“Yep…that’s him.”

“He is…gorgeous,” Gwen gushes. “I totally get the obsession now.”

I am
not
obsessed. Well, maybe a little. A
little wee
bit.

“Geez…the guy’s got about a million letters after his name,” Gwen says, still clicking away like a wild badger. “Practically the whole alphabet…a Bachelor and Masters of Architecture, a PhD…”

Oh…that kind of doctor.

“He’s really smart,” I add, like I actually know the guy.

“Yeah,” she concurs. “Went to MIT…Harvard.”

God…this guy is
so
out of my league.

Which is fine.

Because I certainly don’t have any intentions.

It’s just a
little
crush.

Okay…a
big
crush…I admit it.

“Dr. Weston Hanson, in collaboration with MIT engineering students,” Gwen goes on, seemingly proud of her very efficient cyber-stalking skills, “is overseeing a mentorship research program on applying solar energy technology in loft development building.”

“That’s cool,” is all I can think to say. I want to stop her, but I can’t help wanting to know more.

“Building a Greener Future,” she goes on. “Sustainable Urban Development. Panel of Experts. Weston Hanson, Architect, President and CEO, Hanson and Hersch Developments…”

She’s clicking away at lightning speed—the woman should have been a court transcriber. She finally lands on a Wikipedia page. I lean in to get a closer look. I can’t help but be curious—the guy’s got his own Wikipedia page, for crying out loud. What stands out to me is the bit about him entering college at the tender age of twelve.

“He was some kind of kid prodigy,” Gwen points out the obvious. “His IQ was tested at one-sixty-eight,” she adds. “Is that high?”

“I would say so. Einstein’s was estimated to be in the one-sixties or one-seventies.”

“Incredible.”

“I think we’ve seen enough,” I finally manage to say, feeling a little ridiculous. I know
way
too much about him. I will live in constant fear throughout dinner—he might know I’ve cyber-stalked him if I spill something I know about him that I shouldn’t.

I start to feel nauseated. “Let’s stop, okay?”

“Oh…look at this. He’s on the Board of The Children’s Hospital of Chicago,” she reads aloud, clicking away. “Gorgeous…brilliant…and altruistic too. This guy’s a gem.”

I know.

“Ooooohhh,” she swoons. “Look at this. He apparently donated five million dollars to some Cancer Research Center…
five million dollars
,” she repeats for emphasis, her eyes practically bulging out of her head.

Wow. I can’t wrap my mind around that much money.

“Gorgeous…brilliant…altruistic…and
rich
,” she gushes.

Enough. Enough.

“Okay, enough already Gwen. I think we know all there is to know. This is really reaching the point of cyber-obsession.”

“What are you girls looking at?” Sylvia chimes in. I didn’t even hear her come in. I can’t help but wonder if she’s spying on us.

“Oh…nothing,” Gwen tells her, quickly clicking off.

“You girls look like you’re up to something.”

“Of course we were,” I joke. “Aren’t we always?”

Sylvia smiles and eyes us suspiciously.

“I love your skirt,” I add, trying to distract her. Anyone who knows Sylvia knows a conversation about fashion will do the trick.

“Thanks,” she says, beaming. “I had an impossible time trying to find a top to go with it…”

And she goes on.

And I barely hear a word.

All I can think about is Weston.

I want to see you again.

“D
ID
Y
OU
E
AT
A
NYTHING
A
T
A
LL
T
ODAY
?” Gabe asks. “I saw you make lunch for the kids, but I haven’t seen you eat anything.”

He knows me too well. He knows I can’t eat when I’m nervous.

“I’ve been sustaining on lemonade and gum all day,” I confess.

He shakes his head a little. “Bad girl.” He reaches over me, opens the glove compartment, one eye still on the road, and hands me a granola bar.

I take it but have no desire to eat it. “I can’t eat.”

“Why are you so on edge? They’re just people. Just relax and have a good time. It’ll be fun.”

I’m sure it will, but still, I can’t seem to calm my nerves. I fiddle with the hem of my dress—I’ve worn the quintessential
dinner with friends
piece—the LBD—or “little black dress” for the layman. The chunky, amber, Bohemian necklace I picked out to accentuate the dress is nice. It seems like a fitting outfit for dinner at a Malaysian place and an art showing. I was kind of going for that
I just threw this on
look, but really…I spent a gazillion hours putting it together—like I was prepping to be on the cover of
Vogue
.

“You look nice, by the way,” Gabe tells me, and I light up. I was hoping he’d noticed.

“Thank you.”

“Nice dress,” he says, looking me over a second too long.

“Watch the road,” I say, a smug smile on my face.

“I just have one problem with it. I don’t think it’s short enough.”

I laugh. “It falls just above the knee. How short do you want it?”

“Shorter.”

I smile, catching my reflection in the side mirror. “I’m not trying to be sexy, just sophisticated.”

“Well, if you’re trying
not
to be sexy, you’ve failed miserably.”

I laugh. My chances of getting lucky tonight are probably pretty good.

We park near the restaurant, and I wobble in my heels a little. Why does restaurant dining always involve heels? I could have worn more sensible shoes, but Bridget is likely to show up in stilettos, and then everyone will tower over me. With the four inch heels, I stand at a proud five-foot-eight.

There’s no sign of Weston and Bridget when we get to the restaurant.

“Let’s go in,” Gabe says, resting his hand on the small of my back. “They’re probably inside.”

The warm atmosphere is cozy. The walls are lined with striking rosewood paneling set against stained glass windows. The filtered sunlight creates a warm glow.

The hostess welcomes us and we tell her we’re meeting friends. She informs us they haven’t arrived.

Surprisingly, I don’t care. I just want to stand here and take in the room. Large paper lantern lighting fixtures hang at varying heights, casting a soft orange light. I stretch my neck to peek into the dining room—people enjoying their meals, seated at white linen covered tables. I spot booths in the back—they look so fun and comfy. I really want to sit in a booth—I’m like a child discovering a new playground.

I love this place.

“Check out those booths,” I tell Gabe. “Don’t they look cool?”

He laughs. “You’re such a kid.”

I hear the doorbell clang, and I turn to see Bridget and Weston enter. He’s holding the door for her, and they both smile warmly at us. He looks very sleek in a cream-colored fitted suit and flashy orange shirt.

And suddenly, the room gets a few degrees hotter. I’ve never seen a man in a suit like that, and he certainly makes it work. I’m so busy looking at Weston, I barely notice Bridget who happens to be wearing a little black dress too, under her cream-colored pea coat.

“You look fantastic,” she says, kissing me on the cheek.

“You too,” I reply. I’m sure she hears that a
lot.

Weston speaks to the hostess, and she takes our jackets and leads us to the dining room, to our table. Weston pulls a chair for Bridget, and Gabe does the same for me—apparently, the boy is learning some manners. I smile up at him.

“Booth next time,” he says.

“Next time,” I say, a little disappointed.

Weston looks at us, a quizzical expression on his face. “Would you rather sit in a booth?”

“No, we were just saying…they look cozy.”

He looks over. “Yes. Actually, they do. I’m sure we can make that happen.”

The hostess smiles at us warmly as she walks us over to one of the booths. Like all the others, it’s an enclosed space—a little room of its own. Plush orange patterned cushions are meticulously lined up against the rosewood benches.

I slide easily along the wood bench and set my purse beside me.

Bridget smiles at Weston and signals him to slide in and sit across from me—the woman sure likes to share her man.

I’m not complaining.

She gingerly sits next to him and tilts her head, her blond curls bouncing slightly against her shoulder.

The server hands us our menus and takes our drink orders. Bridget and Gabe fall into conversation—and it flows so smoothly and effortlessly. There doesn’t seem to be tension between them, like there is between Weston and me.

Bridget asks me how my week was, and I tell her all about my rambunctious kids.

“But at least I’m not dealing with accused murderers, like you do,” I add, a pathetic attempt at conversation.

She laughs. “I think a class full of five-year olds is a lot scarier.”

I like her…I like her sense of humor.

Bridget tells us about the menu items and gives us her recommendations. I tell her I’m having what she’s having. I realize I’m trying to emulate her a little, but who wouldn’t?

I bury my face in my menu, checking out the dessert choices. I look up at Weston. He smiles and opens his menu.

I was right—the booth is cozy…real cozy—it’s very intimate.

The atmosphere is charged.

And sensual.

I don’t think Weston could have picked a sexier restaurant if he tried, and I wonder for a second, if he did so on purpose.

Of course not. Of course he didn’t.

Get your mind out of the gutter.

Obviously, I really don’t mind sitting across from Weston—there are worse things to look at. I take in the details of him for a second—crisp orange button shirt, tiny black fish dotting his tie, a silver-trimmed, amber tie clip, and matching oval cufflinks. It’s all in the details, they say. He may be the most stylish man I have ever met.

My fingers trace the edge of my own silver-trimmed amber pendant, a larger version of his cufflinks.

We look at each other, but we don’t say a word.

I finally summon the courage to speak. “I like your cufflinks.”

“Thank you. I like your necklace,” he says, his gaze intense. “We make quite the pair.”

Oh…I wish.

“Did you purposely color coordinate with the restaurant?” I tease, looking up at the soft orange light fixtures above us.

He laughs, looking up. “No. It’s purely coincidental.” His laugh is soft…beautiful.

“Well, you look very nice.” Geez…is this my attempt at flirting? Well, if it is, it is a feeble attempt at best.

“Thank you. You look quite nice yourself.”

I smile at him, and I suddenly feel shy.

“I confess,” he says. “I really can’t take the credit for my appearance.”

“Bridget picked it out?”

“Actually, my stylist did.”

Wow…the man has a stylist. I thought only movie stars had stylists.

“Trust me,” Bridget chimes in. “He needs her.”

I hadn’t realized Bridget had been listening, and I’m a little embarrassed—because of the despicable flirting. But then again,
she
has been flirting shamelessly with my husband too.

“He is such a nerd. He has no clue when it comes to style.”

“She said she wouldn’t be seen with me in public if I didn’t hire a stylist,” Weston explains.

“You should have seen the looks of him,” Bridget tells us between giggles. “He used to wear these horrid tweed jackets.”

I find her words a little harsh. Geez…give the guy a break. Weston seems mildly uncomfortable—she’s probably shared too much, and I get the feeling she does that a lot.

“Well, the stylist did a great job.”

He blushes a little—which makes him even sexier.

God help me.

The truth is…he fascinates me.

He first comes off as hard, sleek, cool, and collected, but underneath the armor hides a sweet, sensitive introvert. I shift my gaze to Bridget—bubbly and outgoing. They are perfectly suited to each other—she’s the yin to his yang.

Gabe looks over my menu and decides he’s having the beef. He suggests I try the red curry chicken. I’m not sure why he always feels the need to order for me. It’s probably about him wanting to eat my food too and making sure I’ll order something he likes.

The server takes our orders and leaves us. Bridget digs for something in her flashy purse, creating a lull in the conversation.

“Thank you again,” I tell them. “Thank you for the beautiful roses.” I know I’ve thanked Weston already, but I feel the need to thank Bridget as well.

She smiles, pulling out a tissue from her purse. “It was our pleasure. You should really thank Weston. He was the one on top of it.”

I’m thrilled to hear it. I don’t know why. Just the thought of him picking the flowers and…

“You wrote the card?”

He pulls out the familiar small plastic bottle from his suit jacket. “Yes, I wrote the card,” he informs me, his expression neutral, “or rather, I dictated it. The woman at the flower shop wrote the card.” He rubs his hands with disinfectant.

He’s put on his “all-business” face again.

Which is fine.

I decide to drop the subject.

But…

Just one more thing.

“The flowers she chose were beautiful. Please thank her on my behalf.”

He smiles and looks over at Bridget and Gabe who are discussing the restaurant’s furniture…I think—I’m not sure—I’m not really listening to them.

“I chose them,” he corrects me, his eyes are dark and absolutely devastating. “I chose the flowers.”

This is where I should offer a simple thank you, but my intuition tells me we’re having a between-the-lines conversation.

I bite my lip and after a long, intense moment I ask, my voice quavering, “Why lavender?”

He doesn’t answer me. He doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he fiddles with his place setting, readjusting the cutlery just so.

The man is driving me insane.

I seriously start to think he might be missing some synapses in his brain, particularly in the lobe responsible for social interaction skills. Or something like that…

And just as I look away, he says, so softly, I barely hear him. “You know why.”

The server comes over to top off our water glasses, and my head is spinning. Suddenly my senses are heightened. I’m overwhelmed by the clatter of dishes and utensils and the buzz of the conversations around the room.

I’m smothered, suffocated, trapped in this wooden hell of a booth.

I can’t breathe.

And I seriously worry I’m about to have a full-on panic attack—I’m very prone to them. I close my eyes and suck in a deep breath. I nudge Gabe who’s still in conversation with Bridget and completely oblivious.

“I need to get out. I need to go to the washroom.”

He slides out, not even taking his eyes off Bridget—I might as well not even be in the room. I glance at Weston as I leave the table.

He’s noticed my sudden panicked reaction.

He looks mortified.

I’ve overreacted. I press my back against the cold hard tiles of the bathroom stall. I’m safe here, relaxed.

Away from the situation.

But something is happening between Weston and me.

And it’s scaring me to death. I’ve never faced this kind of situation before. Yes, I’ve found some men attractive, but never like this. I’m simply not equipped to handle this. I vow to keep my composure around him, from now on.

All business—no more flirting, no more between-the-lines conversations.

Surprisingly, the rest of dinner flows smoothly. We talk about our children, our families, and our lives. I bore them with stories of my Irish Catholic upbringing. Bridget can’t believe Gabe and I have been together for eighteen years, and I’m shocked to learn Bridget is actually a year older than Weston.

Weston and Bridget met in Boston. He was doing his Masters, and she was a freshman. Despite this, he was actually a year younger than her—he had skipped six grades.

“A real mathematical prodigy,” Bridget comments. Weston’s mouth curves up at the corners as he looks away, and I can’t quite tell if he likes the attention or not.

“He was such a cute sweet little thing. I absolutely had to corrupt him.”

“Well, I’m sure he didn’t mind,” Gabe chimes in.

Weston smiles a little, still not quite looking at us.

“Then I fell in love,” she says, looking over sweetly at Weston. “I never thought I would fall for a nerd.”

Well if he was a nerd, he surely isn’t anymore, I think, eyeing the clean smooth lines of his build and fantastic head of hair.