I Got Trouble

Damian

Mitchell drones on for way longer than he needs to about ideas for this hydrogenated oil campaign. None of them sit right with me, but I’ve put so much effort into encouraging my team to make decisions on their own, I’m battling between speaking up or not.

Finally, I remind myself that my duty is to our client, not my co-workers, so I have to put the paying customer first.

Before I can clear my throat—the international boss sound for ‘let me speak now’—my phone buzzes. Normally I wouldn’t check my messages during a meeting, but I can’t shake my curiosity. After my date with Angel on Friday, she’s been on my mind non-stop. I was even trying to find a way to get her a job here, which was motivated more by her obvious talent than anything else. Having her in the office every day would just be a bonus. Ultimately, I decided against it because I promised her I wouldn’t interfere.

Her message reads that she got a job, and I’m hoping it’s the one she interviewed for on Friday. If our celebration for an interview went that well, I can only imagine how incredible a getting-the-job celebration will go.

My mind has drifted so far from the meeting, as I text Angel back, I don’t notice everyone staring at me until I lift my head up from my phone. I transform my deer-in-headlights look to one of authority as fast as I can.

“What do you think, Mr. Taylor?” Mitchell asks from his position by the projector screen.

I do not know what he’s talking about. It wouldn’t look good if I admit I just tuned him out for five minutes because I was thinking about a job-celebration evening with this woman I can’t get out of my head. “Send me your notes on this and I’ll go over them in my office. We have a lot to do on this campaign, so I’d like to know where everyone’s at.” I sound like such a jerk. That was not my intention, but as soon as I finish my sentence, everyone is packing up their files and pushing their chairs back to leave. You’d think I lit the room on fire.

I drag myself back to my office, once again feeling defeated for failing to inspire or motivate my staff. As a result, my own motivation wanes, and the only thing that’s inspiring me is a curly-haired spitfire with a snorty dog.

With my office door closed behind me, I dial Angel’s number.

“Hello?”

“Hello, working girl.” Well, that came out wrong.

She laughs, at least, so that’s good. “Not that kind of freelance job, Damian. I got the job I interviewed for on Friday, but I can still take on other stuff. The best part is, I can work from home most of the time!”

The excitement in her voice melts away the disappointment from my meeting. “That’s great. I bet Genie will be happy.”

“She’ll be happy I can afford food.”

My stomach twists in a pretzel-like knot. Was she not able to afford food? For how long? I let her pay for tacos. What if she can’t afford her rent? “Why didn’t you say something? I could have given you money.”

She pauses for a second before she laughs again. “I’m just being dramatic. I promise, I’m totally fine. You are not giving me any more money.”

If she says it, she must mean it, so that untwists my stomach. “Okay. So, where are we going to celebrate?” I have no doubt that I want to see her tonight. It’s gravitating more toward needing to see her than wanting to.

“We can go to the taco truck. Or McDonald’s.”

The last of my post-meeting tension melts away when I realize she didn’t resist at all or try to feign interest. She just came straight out with a reply.

“I think we can do better than that. Even though those tacos were epic.”

“If you can top those, I’ll be really impressed.” She’s practically singing everything she says, making her excitement both recognizable and contagious.

“What day do you start work?”

“Um… I’m not sure yet. I’m waiting for an email confirmation, but he said the sooner the better.”

“Wow. So I should get as much time in as I can before you’re too busy for me.” After the words leave my mouth, I regret them, because I’m sounding desperate. She didn’t take well to Caveman Damian, so I’d imagine Clingy Damian won’t be a huge selling point, either. I blow out an exaggerated breath, trying to calm my nerves. This girl has me unhinged. “What time are you free?”

“I’m still free as a bird, so whatever works from you. Just let me know what to wear and what time so I can take Genie out.”

I know she didn’t mean it that way, but if I had a say in what she’d wear… focus, Damian. “Why don’t we take Genie to the waterfront and try a different food truck, then?”

After a brief discussion where Angel argues on behalf of my backseat, trying to protect it from Genie’s drool, we agree that I’ll pick her and Genie up at seven. So now begins the countdown.

By the time I get off the phone, my email inbox is flooded with project details from our earlier meeting and I’m conflicted over how to handle it. I’m not cut out for this job. People’s approval never bothered me before. I never sought it, nor did I care when I got it. But in this position, I’ve found myself constantly at war with the idea everyone has of me and who I really am. I can’t seem to get anything right.

I politely word my reply to each email, reading and re-reading each one multiple times before sending so I can be sure nothing will be taken out of context, and before I know it, Paxton is peeking his head through my door to tell me it’s time to go. I asked him earlier to let me know when the clock struck six, which if I hurry, gives me enough time to go home to change and get to Angel’s in time.

My journey to the parking garage is full of uncomfortable elevator silence and obligatory “Mr. Taylor” nods. I can’t get out of here soon enough.

My condo is only a few kilometres away, yet it takes twenty minutes for the drive on account of traffic. That’s part of the reason I stay late at work so often, because this small-town guy is not cut out for vehicle congestion and constant horn honking. Today, I have no issue braving the tension-filled drivers so I can get to Angel’s on time.

It’s a sad state of affairs in my closet when it comes to casual clothes. Most of my wardrobe contains suits, dress shirts, ties, and polished shoes in various colours. I settle on a pair of dark jeans, a grey long-sleeve tee, and casual sneakers.

When I get back to my car, I text Angel that I’ll be there in twenty minutes, and she sends back a winking face. I have no idea why, but that winking yellow blob has me smiling all the way to her condo. I go to pull into her parking space, but there’s already a car in it. A silver Toyota Camry. With no other choice, I park in the temporary guest parking and get out to meet Angel.

I’m no more than five steps from the car door when I see her exit the building wearing a baby pink cardigan, light-wash jeans, and gleaming white sneakers. If we stop anywhere for a drink, she’ll get ID’d for sure. She looks sweet and innocent and… perfect.

“Hey.” I smile at her, and bend down to pet Genie who is pawing at my leg. “Hi, girl. Are you ready for a car ride?”

The way her entire body wags instead of just her tail makes me chuckle every time. With my eyes on Genie’s wiggle butt, I stand upright and Angel is within reaching distance. I pull her toward me and plant a kiss on her I’ve been dreaming about since Friday. She doesn’t show an ounce of hesitation and each ticking second with her lips caressing mine makes me feel like she’s been the missing part of my life all this time.

When we break apart, Angel is smiling with blush painted across her cheeks. She looks even more gorgeous than she did thirty seconds ago.

As if I’m seeing her for the first time again, I say, “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself.” She glances down at Genie, who has parked herself right between us. “I think someone is jealous.”

I’d never admit that I was jealous of her too, because she got to wake up next to Angel this morning. “Your chariot awaits, Genie. Or your magic carpet…” I twist my face, recalling any Genie knowledge I have. “Your lamp?”

Angel gasps and my heart stops for a split second.

“Not a lamp, Damian. She cannot be contained. She’s not calling anyone master; trust me.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and laugh because I’ve only been around Genie a few times, but I know that to be true. I open the back door, and Genie jumps in, taking in her new gear.

When Angel opens her door and climbs in, she spots the new addition. “Did you buy that?” she asks, pointing at the ‘dog hammock’ on the back seat.

From my position at the back, driver’s side door, I reply, “I didn’t want you stressing over her slobbering on my seats. She has her own seatbelt now, too.” I hold up the leash clip attached to a silver buckle.

Genie is less enthused about being restrained, but I want her to be safe. I think she has become my master.