Read Online Love, Accidentally by Sarah Pekkanen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah Pekkanen
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water.”
“He said that?” I asked eagerly.
“Not in so many words,” Matt said. “I was just trying to get you to stop babbling.”
“You’re such a liar,” I said, twisting my head around so I could peek into the hallway and see if Cheryl was approaching the conference room. “How can I trust you when you’re such a liar? God, I hope I nailed it—”
“Look, can I ask you something?” Matt interrupted again, his fingers fiddling with the yellow grease pencil he’d been using to circle the photos he liked the best. “Why do you want the vice presidency?”
I stared at him.
“Seriously, think about it,” he said. “Tell me why you want it so badly.”
“Why did I become friends with someone who was a psychology minor?” I moaned. “I hate it when you do this.”
“Classic case of avoidance.” Matt pretended to scribble something in a notebook. “Look, you’re making plenty of money. You’re working hard. All a promotion would mean is more money and more work. Is that what you really want in life?”
“Lots more money,” I pointed out.
“Okay, lots more money,” Matt said, leaning back and putting his feet up on his desk. “But you make a ton already. And can I be brutally honest? You’re not looking so good these days.”
“Hey,” I said, wounded. Maybe I wouldn’t tell him black was his color after all. Maybe I’d say it was fuchsia. Unless he thought I was getting alarmingly thinner, in which case, all was forgiven.
“Do you even sleep?” Matt asked. “I got an email from you at two a.m . last week.”
“Psychology minors with detective skills,” I joked. “Lethal combination.”
“Linds,” Matt said, using his serious voice, the one he’d probably trot out when he was a dad and his kids had covered the dog with Crisco. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this for a while, but you’re always too busy. I’m worried about you.”
“Matt, that’s sweet,” I said. “But I’m fine.”
I swiveled my head around again to check for Cheryl.
“See? You’re not even listening to me,” Matt complained. “You know you’ve got a lock on being VP. Even if Cheryl gets this account, which she won’t because you’re better than she is, you’ve still brought in tons more business than her. Everyone knows you’re getting it. Donna even sent around a card for people to sign for you. So can you just listen to me for two seconds?”
“Do people really think I’m getting it?” I asked excitedly. “Who did you talk to?”
Matt exhaled loudly, like I was trying his patience.
“You need a vacation,” he said. “When was the last time you took a vacation? And you need to start dating. You need to have something in your life other than work.”
“I do date,” I said indignantly.
“Two dates in the past six months,” Matt said, “doesn’t count.”
I couldn’t argue with that: One of my dates was with a marathoner who carbo-loaded his way through three bread baskets and spent ninety minutes talking about his training regimen—in a nutshell, it entailed putting one foot in front of the other. Scintillating stuff. I’d also gone out with a veterinarian, but since I’m allergic to cats and he hadn’t changed his shirt after work, I spent the whole night dabbing at my watery eyes as I sat beside him on a barstool. A table full of middle-aged women who’d clearly been around the block a time or two thought he was breaking up with me.
“He’s probably got a chippie on the side,” one of them hissed as they shot him dirty looks. All in all, a bit lacking in the ambience department.
“I just really want to be VP,” I told Matt. I picked up the tiny rake in the Zen garden I’d gotten him last year as a joke and smoothed new patterns in the sand (I’d written on the card: “This garden seems stressed. Can you help it?”).
I really didn’t want to have this conversation, not now, and it wasn’t fair of Matt to bring it up. I didn’t just
“He said that?” I asked eagerly.
“Not in so many words,” Matt said. “I was just trying to get you to stop babbling.”
“You’re such a liar,” I said, twisting my head around so I could peek into the hallway and see if Cheryl was approaching the conference room. “How can I trust you when you’re such a liar? God, I hope I nailed it—”
“Look, can I ask you something?” Matt interrupted again, his fingers fiddling with the yellow grease pencil he’d been using to circle the photos he liked the best. “Why do you want the vice presidency?”
I stared at him.
“Seriously, think about it,” he said. “Tell me why you want it so badly.”
“Why did I become friends with someone who was a psychology minor?” I moaned. “I hate it when you do this.”
“Classic case of avoidance.” Matt pretended to scribble something in a notebook. “Look, you’re making plenty of money. You’re working hard. All a promotion would mean is more money and more work. Is that what you really want in life?”
“Lots more money,” I pointed out.
“Okay, lots more money,” Matt said, leaning back and putting his feet up on his desk. “But you make a ton already. And can I be brutally honest? You’re not looking so good these days.”
“Hey,” I said, wounded. Maybe I wouldn’t tell him black was his color after all. Maybe I’d say it was fuchsia. Unless he thought I was getting alarmingly thinner, in which case, all was forgiven.
“Do you even sleep?” Matt asked. “I got an email from you at two a.m . last week.”
“Psychology minors with detective skills,” I joked. “Lethal combination.”
“Linds,” Matt said, using his serious voice, the one he’d probably trot out when he was a dad and his kids had covered the dog with Crisco. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this for a while, but you’re always too busy. I’m worried about you.”
“Matt, that’s sweet,” I said. “But I’m fine.”
I swiveled my head around again to check for Cheryl.
“See? You’re not even listening to me,” Matt complained. “You know you’ve got a lock on being VP. Even if Cheryl gets this account, which she won’t because you’re better than she is, you’ve still brought in tons more business than her. Everyone knows you’re getting it. Donna even sent around a card for people to sign for you. So can you just listen to me for two seconds?”
“Do people really think I’m getting it?” I asked excitedly. “Who did you talk to?”
Matt exhaled loudly, like I was trying his patience.
“You need a vacation,” he said. “When was the last time you took a vacation? And you need to start dating. You need to have something in your life other than work.”
“I do date,” I said indignantly.
“Two dates in the past six months,” Matt said, “doesn’t count.”
I couldn’t argue with that: One of my dates was with a marathoner who carbo-loaded his way through three bread baskets and spent ninety minutes talking about his training regimen—in a nutshell, it entailed putting one foot in front of the other. Scintillating stuff. I’d also gone out with a veterinarian, but since I’m allergic to cats and he hadn’t changed his shirt after work, I spent the whole night dabbing at my watery eyes as I sat beside him on a barstool. A table full of middle-aged women who’d clearly been around the block a time or two thought he was breaking up with me.
“He’s probably got a chippie on the side,” one of them hissed as they shot him dirty looks. All in all, a bit lacking in the ambience department.
“I just really want to be VP,” I told Matt. I picked up the tiny rake in the Zen garden I’d gotten him last year as a joke and smoothed new patterns in the sand (I’d written on the card: “This garden seems stressed. Can you help it?”).
I really didn’t want to have this conversation, not now, and it wasn’t fair of Matt to bring it up. I didn’t just
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