Page 13 of Mr. Hotshot CEO

I need a game plan.

Or does having a game plan to learn to relax sound completely ridiculous? Is it silly that I’m feeling some sibling rivalry here?

I am so out of my depth.

I ball up the napkin and throw it across the table.

There are footsteps on the stairs, and I suppress a groan. It’ll probably be a group of people who will have a loud, annoying conversation about which Chris is the cutest or something equally inane.

But it isn’t.

No, it’s a single Asian woman, who takes a spot at the counter against the window.

I know this woman.

Well, not really. I call her Latte Lady. I come to Chris’s Coffee Shop about twice a week, and occasionally I see her here.

Actually, to my embarrassment, I time my visits so I have the greatest chance of seeing her. Usually she comes at lunch time, around twelve thirty.

Now, though, we’re both here at nine thirty on a Friday night.

I never order lattes. They’re terribly inefficient. A straight espresso, with a little sugar if you absolutely need it, is best. However, Latte Ladyreallyloves her lattes. Not only does she always get a latte, but she smiles at her damn latte, as though she’s happy to see it. She doesn’t take pictures of the foam art to put on Instagram, as some people of my generation might do, but instead, she just enjoys it, her hands wrapped around the wide cup, no phone in sight.

I find this fascinating, I admit. I like seeing her.

It doesn’t hurt that she’s also quite attractive. She’s a little younger than I am, maybe thirty, and her black hair is cut in something that I believe is called a bob. She often has a serious expression—she’s not one of those perpetually cheerful types, whom I find obnoxious—but then she has that smile that just lights up her face, and that smile happens for something as simple as a latte.

A gingerbread latte. At least, that’s what I heard her order the one time I was behind her in line, and I’ve held onto that scrap of information.

She puts her purse on the counter before setting down her drink. Then she stares at the foamed milk for a moment, as though it can tell her the mysteries of the universe, before bringing the cup to her lips and taking a sip. Her mouth curves into a smile as she sets the cup back on the saucer. She really does have the most beautiful smile.

I don’t know Latte Lady, but I’m positive she would have no trouble filling the next sixteen days without going to the office.

To be fair, most people wouldn’t have my problem, but something sets her apart from all those other people.She’sthe one who could probably spend a couple hours lying in a meadow, staring up at the clouds, and enjoy it.

Perhaps she’s the answer to my problem. She knows how to get pleasure out of the simplest of things, whereas I do not. She has what I want, so maybe I could get her to teach me.

Who said I wasn’t a creative problem-solver?

Well, my brother didn’t say that, not precisely, but he suggested that attending an orgy would be good for creativity and implied that was something I needed.

Screw him.

I’m quite fond of this idea, and since I’m a man of action, I immediately stand up and walk over to her, my half-finished espresso in my hand.

“I’ve seen you here a bunch of times,” I say as an opening.

She looks at me and tilts her head to the side. She’s wearing dark jeans and a simple black shirt with a wide neckline that nearly exposes her shoulders.

I feel overdressed.

And nervous. I’m going to ask a woman to teach me how to have fun, and that’s not the sort of thing I’m accustomed to doing.

“Do you particularly like men named Chris?” I ask.

“Is this a lame pick-up line where you tell me that you, too, are named Chris?”

I bark out a laugh. “I assure you, that is not the case.”