"Nice to meet you guys," I murmur, letting the other girls squeeze into the booth first. But they all follow Blythe and I'm left taking the seat next to Patrick, which isn’t really a bad place to be, except I'm suddenly hyperaware of really ridiculous things. Does my breath smell? Am I taking up too much room? Is my hair too flat? Am I too close to him? Should I fold my hands on my lap, or maybe put them on top of the table, or cross my arms? And then I do all three of those things…twice. Before I start to look like I'm having a seizure, I finally put one hand in my lap and one on the table as a compromise.
"So, Skylar," Patrick asks conversationally, "are you an assistant too?"
Before I can respond, Blythe chips in, "She's the sex columnist."
Josh perks up, lifting his head out of his pitcher and looking at me with newfound admiration. Well, thanks for that, Blythe.
"It’s more of a dating column," I rush to say, biting back the rest of my nervous chatter before I accidentally confess how far from a sex columnist I really am. Hey, it wouldn’t be the first time. I need to change the subject. "What do you guys do?"
"Investment banking," Dan responds.
"Ah," I sigh, looking around at the sea of pinstripes with understanding. Bankers. The unattainable group of Manhattan men single women seem to chase with total abandon—they're wealthy, good-looking, known to have a wandering eye, which in an odd way makes them all the more attractive. It seems like I've inadvertently found the jackpot—too bad those are all traits I've never really been interested in. Well, haven’t been interested in until now, I correct myself, meeting Patrick's flirtatious gaze.
"Ah, what?" he asks, the hint of a friendly challenge in his voice.
"Oh, nothing." I shake my head. "I didn’t mean anything by it. It's just, you know, now I get why you're all in suits."
He narrows his eyes, letting me know he sensed the sidestep, but then a waitress comes over to ask if we want anything to drink. Blythe gets a cosmopolitan. Rebecca orders a glass of white wine. Isabel decides on a dark and stormy, whatever that is. And then it's my turn and there's really no doubt what I need—a cold beer. It may not be the most fashionable drink, but as I take a long sip, relishing the citrus tinted taste swirling down my throat, all I can think is oh, yeah—this is what I've been waiting for all week. Instantly, I'm a little less on edge. It's really amazing what a little bit of cold beer can do.
While I'm still sipping, Patrick leans over and whispers, "You don't really seem like someone Blythe would normally hang out with."
"Why?" I ask after putting my cup down. "Because I'm not a size zero, and I think spending thousands of dollars on a handbag is insane?"
Whoa, where'd that attitude come from? I'm not really sure, but I sort of like it. Apparently Patrick does too because he laughs, not pulling away. The gentle caress of his breath tickles the spot of skin just below my ear, and I know if I turned to look at him, we'd be close enough to kiss. I mean, I won't. But just knowing that sends a little thrill down my spine and raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I take another sip, feeling flushed.
"No," he finally says. "You look like the kind of girl who could go sailing without worrying that the wind would ruin your hair."
Huh. A little random, but I'll go with it. "Do you sail?"
"Don't you?" he responds, as though the very idea of not sailing is utterly insane. But isn’t it really the sort of thing only fifty-year-old men with too much time on their hands do? I try to picture it—the ocean, the sun, the idea of being all alone with no one and nothing in sight. Patrick's smiling face pushes its way into my imagination, but now he's wearing a bathing suit, six-pack abs, and nothing else. And I'm in a bikini—stomach maybe a little flatter than it is in real life, but hey, this is my fantasy! And we're floating, sipping on champagne. We're surrounded by sparkling sapphire blue, stuck in a gemstone.
I shrug. Suddenly sailing doesn’t seem so bad. Actually, it sort of seems like the most romantic thing in the world.
"I could get into sailing," I say almost subconsciously, not realizing I spoke aloud until Patrick's grin deepens and I feel mine doing the same. I'm about to turn and look at him, finally meeting his gaze, when—
"Ow!" I howl, jumping about five-feet in the air as I reach for my shin. What the heck? I rub the sore spot. Someone kicked me. Someone wearing pointy-toed shoes. I look up.
Blythe is staring me down from across the table. She blinks and the look is gone, replaced by concern. "Oh my goodness, Skylar, I'm so sorry. I was just crossing my legs."
Little brat. Of course, I can't say that. So instead I do that secret loathing smile Blythe taught me—she is the master after all—and say, "Oh, don’t worry about it. I'm totally fine."
But Blythe has already forgotten me, turning her attention on her brother. "So, did you hear that Dad wants us to spend Christmas with Grandma and Grandpa in Connecticut? I mean, how lame."
And just like that, I've lost him. Patrick turns to his sister, pulled into family drama, and I'm completely forgotten by his side.
Oh, she's good.
She's very, very good.
For the next forty-five minutes or so, I nod politely while Dan and Josh switch between arguing about some multi-million dollar deal they're working on and arguing about football. Then I try to edge my way into Isabel and Rebecca's conversation but fail miserably when I realize they're discussing designers I know nothing about. Blythe is still whining about spending Christmas outside of New York City, which really doesn’t seem like more than a five-minute conversation to me or all that terrible, truth be told. And I realize my job here is done. I bonded with my fellow assistants a little bit, maybe have enough to pull some sort of column together for next week, and would rather go home to binge watch reality television with Bridget then remain here and feel obsolete.
"I'm going to go," I mutter and stand up. No one really seems to mind. They're all too deep in their own worlds and I wonder if this is one of those social cues Rebecca said I have a hard time picking up on.
Just as I'm halfway down the street, someone calls my name.
"Skylar!"
I turn, unable to stop the little flip my heart makes inside my chest. "Patrick?"
He runs over, completely confident as he lays a hand on my arm. "Why are you leaving?"
I shrug, sort of wondering the same thing as I start to get a little lost in the evergreen edges of his eyes. "I, um, I just have some work I need to do for tomorrow."
He nods, not hesitating for a second before replying, "What are you doing on Saturday?"
I gulp, unused to a guy with such unbreakable confidence. Is he even the slightest bit worried that I might turn him down? I mean, I won't—at least if my racing pulse is anything to go by. But I could. And against my normally neurotic nature, I decide to make him guess a little bit. "Why? What’s happening on Saturday?"
He bites his lower lip, ensuring that my attention is brought to that exact part of his very kissable body. "Well, I sort of hope that answer will be going out with me."
Straight to the point, and I kind of like it.
Patrick is the sort of boy Victoria wants me to date. I can tell just by looking at him. Definitely sexy. Confident if not cocky. With deep enough pockets to take me on lavish dates that our readers will love to sit in on. And just far enough out of reach to make me insecure in where I stand—which, I'll admit, scares me. I mean, he's the opposite of my ex. John was steady. He was safe. But then I blink, heart-pinching—John broke my heart anyway.
"Sure," I find myself whispering, caution blown away in the wind. What have I got to lose?