Page 16 of The Frog Prince
“How’re you doing, Holly?”
He says it’s Tom, but nothing in his voice resonates. I don’t remember meeting him, can’t picture him, feel no connection to him now. It’d be pointless to have drinks. Just because he’s a man and I’m a woman doesn’t mean we’d have anything in common. “Good.” What else can I say?
“I really enjoyed getting to know you last night.”
Getting to know him? Just how long did we talk? “Yes.”
Glancing up, I see everyone file into the glass-walled conference room, and the idea of being the last one to the meeting makes me warm and prickly—and not in a good way. “How do you know Aimee?”
“I don’t. She’s a friend of a friend of mine. We only met last night.”
Oh, God. I really don’t want to go out with him. Aimee doesn’t even know him. Aimee’s just passing out phone numbers because she’s bored today. “Listen, Tom—”
“So you’ve only been here three months?”
“That’s right.”
“How do you like San Fran?”
“It’s good.” The glass door to the conference room is closing. Everyone’s taking seats at the massive ebony-and-chrome table. Everyone’s there but me. “A little chilly.”
“It’ll warm up. Fall’s always nice. October especially.”
“You’re a native, then?”
“Hell, no. Moved here from Detroit.”
Ah. No wonder the weather doesn’t bother him. He’s used to humidity and ice storms. I didn’t have either in Visalia. “Listen, Tom—”
“So we’re on for drinks tomorrow night?”
“Uh…” I can see Olivia flip open her laptop, watch David take his position at the head of the table while everyone else settles into their chairs, pens lifted, ready to take copious notes. “I’ve a meeting—”
“You’ve got to go.”
“Right.”
“Promise me you’ll still have drinks—”
“Tom.”
“Promise.”
Olivia’s looking at me, frowning. I know exactly what she’s thinking:Holly, you get your ass in here now.
“Promise,” he repeats, a singsong in his voice.
Damn it. “I promise.”
“Give me your home number; I’ll call you later.”
I do not want to give him my home number. I do not want to continue talking as if we’re old friends, but the meeting’s started, I’m terrible at fibbing, and I have to get off the phone.
I rattle off my number, hoping that perhaps he’ll write it down wrong, and say a hurried good-bye.
It’s not until I’m taking my place at the conference table that I realize I’ve just accepted—even if inadvertently—my first date in two years.
Two years since I went out with a man who wasn’t Jean-Marc.