Hot Mess (18 page)

I realized that Derek just wasn’t going to take no and standing around trying to get out of it was just going to eat into my make-me-look-like-Giselle time.

“Whatever. It will only take a minute. Let’s do it,” I conceded, deciding to skip my shower and just give my hair a once-over with the flat iron. I did shower that morning, so it wouldn’t be too bad.

What should have taken about a twenty-second upload wound up taking close to an hour because Derek couldn’t remember the password to his MySpace account.

“Try ‘DerekTheConquerer’? ‘DorfusAurelius’? ‘Napoleon Dorfaparte’? How about ‘DubyaDorf’?”

After trying several combinations of leaders and dictators, even including some plays on Hitler, Derek finally remembered his password. It was “MySpacePassword.” I would have hit him over the head with the keyboard if I didn’t think it would make me even later.

With the world’s lamest video now up for the World Wide Web to mock, I bolted out of the office and home to get ready. Thank God, Rachel and Jayla were already there and on duty for outfit, makeup, and hair patrol.

“Are you nervous?” asked Rachel, getting a contact high from my excitement.

I was beyond nervous, but in a good way. After several final panty line checks, mascara touch-ups, and last-minute hair fluffs, Jayla and Rachel declared me date ready.

You know this boo-gie is for reeeaaaaaaal.

I flipped my phone open, my heart racing like I just stepped out of a spin class.

“Hey, it’s Colin. I’m downstairs, are you ready? Take all the time you need.”

Wait, you mean he wasn’t just pulling up to my house before prom and leaning on the horn until I stumbled out with curlers still in my hair?

“No, I’m all set. Be right down,” I said coolly into my phone. I hit End and yelped, “Do another panty line check, Rach. Something has to need fixing before I go.”

“You’re beautiful, babe.” She tossed me a Juicy Tube. “Just gloss and go.”

Once I was balmed up and officially ready, the girls wished me good luck and I promised to text from the bathroom with updates. I tried my hardest not to pit out the tank Jayla had lent me on my way down in the elevator, but as soon as I stepped outside, my nerves totally dissipated. Colin was way too cute to even think about anything but his hotness. He was leaning against the taxi, staring down the street in a way that made him look like James Dean, only not a gross smoker. Gorgeous.

“Well, well!” he said with that perfectly perfect smile. “You look fantastic.”

A compliment? That I didn’t have to ask for? Oh God, how was I going to make it through this night without begging him to marry me?

I smiled and pretended like I got compliments from model-level-gorgeous men all the time. “Thanks, you can borrow this outfit any time you want.”

He laughed and opened the cab door for me.

When we sat down to dinner, I tried to steer the conversation away from work, Derek, or employment in general. The upside was that I was so busy trying not to get busted for being a total liar that I pretty much forgot to be awkward. We chatted about our families and sports—he was in Germany for the last World Cup and I confessed my deep, obsessive love for David Beckham. The conversation flowed like a well-written romantic comedy.

“You know, I wouldn’t peg you for a Rachael Ray fan,” he said, finishing off his cheeseburger.

“I love her! I think she’s so cute and spunky. She’s like the Kelly Ripa of food.”

“Eh, she’s not my style. I don’t think she’s cute at all.”

“Really? Okay then, who is your style?” I asked flirtatiously.

“Ooh, let’s see.” He sipped his beer in mock concentration. “I like ’em about five five, green eyes, brown hair, ambitious, from upstate.”

“Uh-huh,” I smiled.

“Obsessed with Posh and Becks, unfamiliar with Brazilian cocktails, and able to make quick and healthy meals in thirty minutes. So, pretty extraordinary.”

I blushed with pleasure as he asked for the check.

“How about you?” he asked, handing the waitress a twenty-dollar bill before I could even reach for my wallet. Normally, I hated this part of a date—the paying. Brian and I usually split it, unless it was a special occasion where he was expected to take me out. He said that going fifty-fifty was only fair because technically we’d be making the same amount over summer lifeguarding. How romantic.

“My type? I like girls like that, too.”

He laughed and leaned his calf against mine under the table. Houston, we have contact!

“Ready?” he said in a low, sexy voice.

“Oh yes,” I cooed back. Awkward Emma Who Makes Normal Situations Unbearable, where did you go? When did Sex Kitten Domino arrive?

We walked out onto the busy street and I shivered slightly even though it was at least eighty-five degrees.

“You’re such a faker,” he said, putting his hunkalicious arm around my shoulder and—omigod!—rubbing my arm. I thought my knees were going to give out.

“Huh?” What was I faking? Well, I mean, I knew what I was really faking. But what did he think I was faking?

“You can’t be cold.” I relaxed, realizing I wasn’t getting busted. He leaned forward and whispered the way he had at Plumm, “You just want me to put my arm around you.”

I blushed again—probably setting a world record for number of blushes in one date—and managed to peep out a response.

“Hmm, no, that doesn’t sound like something I’d do.”

He leaned in impossibly closer, turning me toward him, wrapping both his wonderful arms around me. We were so close that our noses grazed each other.

“Oh no? I think you’re a tricky little lady, Miss Freeman. I bet there are all sorts of secrets hiding behind those green eyes.”

For a split second the panic rushed back. I thought maybe he’d peeked at my driver’s license when I was in the bathroom. But as I searched his face for clues that the jig might be up, our eyes locked. I felt a hand wander down to the small of my back and pull me even closer to him.

His eyes were closing and his face was moving toward mine and oh! A kiss! A soft, slow, warm, fantastic kiss! The kind where you start out holding your breath, thinking maybe this is just a smooch thing, but then you exhale and melt into each other and before you know it, you’re full on making out.

We stood there for a blissful eternity, his hand on my cheek and my body pressed against his, letting the lights and the buzz of New York City fade into the balmy night.

After forever, we pulled away and he put me in a cab. I was too smiley to even return his “Good night.”

I was dying to tell the roommates about my evening out of an urban fairy tale, but they were asleep by the time I floated back into the apartment. So I told the story to the next best thing, my journal, and then fell into a happy sleep.

In the a.m., I got myself office ready and then flitted over to Rachel’s room to give her a date recap. I did a running slide onto her bed and started from the cab pick-up as she diffused her hair with one hand and attempted to put on bronzer with the other.

“Rach, I might seriously be asking you to be my maid of honor soon. Last night went so well,” I singsonged.

She shot me a look of distress and stopped me. “I so want to hear about it, but they’re letting me sit in on a phone interview with Lily Allen. And because she’s like an ocean away, they scheduled it for the butt crack of dawn.” She put the blow dryer down and grabbed my wrist to look at my watch. “Shit, I’m already late.” I was bummed and gave her puppy dog eyes. “So sorry, Em. I promise I’ll listen tonight.” She grabbed her bag and nearly knocked me down as she flew out the door. Before slamming the door closed, she paused for a second to turn and say, “Really, I can’t wait to hear. Tonight, okay?”

And even though I was absolutely dying to tell my date story to someone that wasn’t made out of loose-leaf paper, there was no way I was going to wake up Princess Jay at eight-fifteen. So I lumbered out the door and over to MediaInc.

Even before I’d finished my morning iced coffee, Derek was up in my cube, announcing that he had a “Big Summer Project” for me to work on. I seriously considered quitting. Hello! I had more important things to think about. Things like lips and hands and beefy arms and basically anything but Excel spreadsheets and pencils and stuff. This “project of infinite opportunity,” as Derek called it, was to find out everyone’s birthday and put it into a spreadsheet. Yep, that’s it. Oh, wait, I forgot, and then to put it on a master calendar. It was totally going into the journal when I got home that night.

“Whoa! Derek, are you sure you want to leave that critical task to a lowly intern?” I said with mock seriousness that, of course, he didn’t get.

“Em,” he said soberly, and leaned his khaki-clad butt onto my desk, prompting me to wonder whether I had Purell in my bag, “Derek Dorfman doesn’t take very many things seriously.” Including business-casual fashion. “But birthdays is one of them!”

If only Brian had cheated on me months earlier. Then I might have gotten off my ass and applied for a cool television internship or something. I could be a PA for
The Hills
right now. But no, I was stuck on birthday patrol.

I assumed the project would take me ten minutes tops, but only a few people actually responded to the “When’s your birthday” mass e-mail. And the responses that pinged their way into my inbox weren’t pretty.

What is Derek going to do with this information? Embarrass me like he did Debbie Hannigan with an “I just got lei-d” themed party? I’m not volunteering myself for that.

Tell him I’m a leap year baby.

So he can “buy” me another keyboard wrist rest from the supply closet? Please let him know that I already have enough supplies this year.

When is he going to be out of the office on vacation? Tell him my birthday’s then.

I ended up trotting around office to office, cubicle to cubicle, begging people for their birth date info, all the while dodging and weaving and trying to avoid Colin. This lame project was undeniably intern work and I couldn’t let him see me.

It was a total pain in my ass, but at least now I had hard proof that I wasn’t the only one who hated Derek. I was wondering how everyone else here had dealt with his bucketful of obnoxious for so long. It turns out they were just doing their best to plug their ears to his nails-on-chalkboard personality, too.

After I’d made my rounds and collected just about everyone’s birthday—poor Debbie Hannigan refused to share her birthday, still scarred from last year—I stared at my color-coded birthday grid and sat back to daydream about my next run-in with Colin:

“Oh, hi! I didn’t expect to see you here. I was just licking and pursing my lips for a reason completely unrelated to you.”

“Lunch at Cité? Of course. Let me just run and grab my purse. Oh, no need for the purse because you’re paying? Okay, then let’s go. And make it Cipriani instead.”

“You were watching an episode of
Grey’s
last night and the perfect curves and Crest smile of Izzie Stevens reminded you of me? You’re too sweet, Colin dear.”

I should mention that in all of those above situations, I’d be wearing a button-down shirt, unbuttoned one button too sexy for work, revealing the lace of my purple bra; a tight leather skirt; and killer heels. I should also mention that I don’t own a lace bra or leather skirt. But maybe my silver flip-flops and Old Navy polo buttoned all the way up would look the same to him? Whatever, a plan is a plan, realistic or not.

I was startled out of my office operator fantasy by a husky man’s voice. “Hey, Emma. Whatcha up to?”

I looked up into two aqua eyes, reflecting the blue from his shirt. Is it possible to be caught off guard by someone when you’re thinking about them?

“Colin! Oh, hey. I wasn’t expecting…I mean, what am I doing? I’ve just been making out with Microsoft Excel all day.” What? What just came out of my mouth? That was not coy or sexy or lace-boob revealing. Totally not part of my plan.

He chuckled awkwardly and headed into Derek’s office to discuss whatever it was that people who actually have real jobs talk about. I slumped down in my chair, positive that I had just canceled out our hot post-date smooch with one lame computer joke.

After a few self-loathing seconds, I decided to take some action. If Colin walked past my desk to go into Derek’s office, he was definitely going to pass me again on his way out. I glossed my lips and unbuttoned my shirt, nowhere near the point of sexy, but at least I didn’t look like Mr. Garrison. I streamed in some jazz on my Media Player because listening to jazz was probably something a twenty-two-year-old would do. My legs were crossed in a way that showed a fair amount of thigh. My eyes were on Derek’s door, stalking Colin like paparazzi outside celebrity rehab. After half an hour the door finally opened and out boomed Derek with the crush of my daydreams following behind.

“The homers make the game that much more interesting. That’s why I don’t care if they use steroids,” Derek bellowed so loudly that a deaf person in China could hear him.

He and Colin walked past my desk, not glancing at me or my strategically exposed thigh.