Cream of the Crop
Page 78

“Not your boyfriend—that’s hilarious!”
“Fourth of all, I’m not asking you to babysit Oscar’s cows; I’m asking your boyfriend to do it. So Oscar can spend the entire weekend in the city with me.”
I held my breath and waited. We’d been texting all day about this, and I’d finally called her to see if I could work some magic this way.
It was Thursday afternoon, my desk was covered with All Things Bailey Falls as I worked on the Hudson Valley campaign, and all the pictures of fall leaves and glacial lakes and down-home family fun were making me horny.
In my head, that sounded better . . .
I’d woken up this morning with the brilliant idea of asking Oscar to come into the city a day early and spend the entire weekend with me. A real New York weekend.
Oscar didn’t have the same kinds of responsibilities a regular boyfri— Er . . . guy would have. It wasn’t as simple as canceling a tennis match or theater tickets; Oscar’s plans involved other people each weekend. Not to mention bovines.
So I was trying to get Roxie to help me smooth the way before I broached the subject. Since Oscar’s herd seemed to enjoy pasturing over on Maxwell Farms occasionally, maybe they could have a weekend getaway, too?
Oscar would have the final say, of course, but my analytical mind liked to always present problems with solutions, getting out ahead of any possible no’s in order to make it a yes. Or at least a very firm maybe . . .
Because when it came to firm, I needed it. Bad. I’d been strung out in orgasm withdrawal all week, and if I didn’t get some this weekend . . . well, then . . .
“Just talk to Leo, see what he says. If he says no, then fine. But if he says yes—”
Roxie laughed. “It’s not like watching somebody’s dog for the weekend, Nat. It’s a little bit bigger deal.”
“Yeah, but all you farmers are tight up there, helping each other out all the time and all, right? Don’t the Amish always get together, raise each other’s barns and such?”
“We’re not Amish.”
“Semantics. Say you’ll do it,” I commanded, pounding on my desk with my fist, trying to be as forceful as possible. “I need to get laid.”
Intern Edward walked in during that last part, turned beet red, and walked right back out again.
“See, I may have just contributed to a hostile working environment. Someone needs to step in and save me from myself,” I whined.
“Oh, shut up already, fine,” she snapped, and I gave myself a fist bump. “You owe me. Next time I’m in town, you’re taking me to any restaurant I choose.”
“Done.”
“And you’re paying.”
“I figured.” I grinned, doodling pictures of cows on my scratch pad, and drawing little hearts around them. “Now when I ask Oscar to spend the weekend, he’ll see how responsible I am.”
“You do that. And the next time I talk to Oscar, I’m going to ask him if he’s your boyfriend. He usually comes into the diner for lunch on Wednesdays . . . Maybe I’ll just pop on over and see if he feels chatty.”
I sat up straight in my chair. “You wouldn’t.”
“You know I would.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Gotta go, I’m feeling the sudden urge to have a tuna melt,” she cackled, hanging up the phone.
“Sonofa . . .” I muttered, dialing her back immediately. Of course she didn’t answer. Or when I called her again ten seconds later. Or answer the nine texts I sent her over the next five minutes, each one laced with increasingly creative obscenities.
“Natalie, you got a minute?” my boss, Dan, asked, sticking his head inside the door.
I looked up, sighed, and put down the phone. “Of course. What’s up?”
“Remember that gourmet food store you worked with last year?”
“Brannigan’s? Sure, they just opened their fifth store—in Chicago, I think.”
“There’s a sixth store now, in San Francisco.”
Huh, I’d missed that in the trades. “Wow, good for them.”
“You still in contact with their marketing team?”
“Yep, want me to reach out?”
He nodded. “If they’re in San Fran, they’ll be expanding again. If they do that—”
“—they’ll need a new marketing strategy. I’m on it.” I cleared a spot on my desk and started making notes. “I’ll reach out to Sara; she’s heading up creative over there now.”
“Perfect, keep me in the loop,” he said, walking back out of the office, pausing just before he left. “What happened to your usual stacks? What gives?”
I was known for having multiple, very neat stacks all over my office. It was how I kept the creative and analytical parts of my brain together. Spread it all out so it was easier to see, but the stacks were always squared off.
I looked around. It was messier than usual. “Just keeping all the plates in the air. They’ll be back in their stacks before I leave today; no worries.”
“Who’s worried?” he said.
Still, I made a mental note to tidy up a bit while I pulled up Brannigan’s website. They’d updated it recently; it had a great new look. After running a mom-and-pop gourmet store here in the city for forty years, the actual mom and pop had retired, passing along their pasta and escargot empire to their kids. The “kids” had turned the business into something new and exciting, which was rare in this niche market. They’d opened a second store in the city, then branched out to the outer boroughs with a flagship in Park Slope over in Brooklyn just when the neighborhood was becoming the most fashionable place to live in in New York City. A fourth store had opened in Philadelphia, and then Chicago. Oh yeah, and now San Francisco.