Page 38 of Things I Overshared

Forget Emerson and message Chase already!

Ehhhh I don’t know

Think of the transatlantic sexting

[Link to Instagram profile]

I smile at Chase’s profile. He’s got the hot-nerd thing going on, complete with bowties. And even suspenders. Suspenders could be hot. If I’m remembering right from the office, he’s about my height with my heels on, which is not ideal but not a deal-breaker. He has a nice average build, but mostly I’m drawn into his smile. He smiles wide for every photo, like he’s not holding them back, like someothernumbers nerd I know. Also, he posts pretty regularly, out at bars, out with friends, at work.

Me: You might be on to something.

Great smile, right?

Nicole: Right, and that bow tie is working for him.

Ask Emerson about him. He’s his boss, after all.

Right!

But I have a feeling he’ll say he’s efficient and proficient

LOL

Lol. I’m going to bed now. Night!

I should try to go back to sleep too.

Night!

I try.

I fail.

I get back on Instagram. I check out Chase again, and almost follow him from my new private account but stop myself, shame and grief washing over me before I can tap the button.No men, Sam!Without thinking about it, I go to Miranda the Model’s Instagram account. I scroll for a bit past artsy photos of her and her other giraffe-esque model friends and find myself getting grumpy. She is super skinny, like unattainable skinny. But not gross skinny. She still has some boobs somehow.Cough, they’re probably fake, cough.

I almost abandon her profile, and then I find one: a photo of her and Emerson at an event. The man knows how to wear a tux, that is undeniable. And they do look gorgeous together, like they stepped out of an ad for expensive vodka with her bleached hair and his icy eyes. But he’s not smiling a real smile. No teeth, no crinkles. And that makes me glad, even though it shouldn’t. I shake my head at myself and put my phone back on the nightstand. Next to my phone, I find my master binder and decide to flip through and do some review to pass the time.

I manage to get in a few more hours of sleep sometime between two and seven, but at seven, I can’t stay in bed anymore. I throw on a bra under my tee and sleep shorts and grab my binder to head out in search of coffee. As I near the kitchen, I catch Emerson as he turns his back to me and heads into his room.

In a robe.

Emerson in a soft, white robe.

He shuts the door, never noticing me, and my brain is fully scrambled.

To see him in a state of undress, wet hair, coffee in hand. Was he wearing slippers? Barefoot? I’m so befuddled I actually imagine that he’s probably wearing a suit under that robe, and he just threw it on for warmth. Because I can’t comprehend that under there, just feet from me, maybe he was just in his underwear? Or . . . naked?

My pulse is racing.Calm the heck right on down, Samantha!

I take a deep breath and get my coffee and rummage through the breakfast options, making noise so he’ll know I’m also up. In the back of my mind, I hope he’ll appear again in his fluffy, cozy not-suit. Then, as I eat a few microwaved egg bites and flip through my binder at the table not far from his door, I find myself hoping he’ll pop out—fully dressed, half-dressed, I don’t care.

But he doesn’t.

I go to my room and get ready for our day out at one of three Canton Cards shops across London. I’m excited. Walking into a Canton store has always felt like home to me, ever since I was a child. I decide on a bright coral sundress with a black suit jacket and black wedges that will be the least offensive to my feet, which still haven’t recovered from yesterday.

I walk out into the hotel suite to see Mr. Clark in all his suited glory. There at the table, eyeing my binder, he stands with one hand in his pocket. He’s wearing a black suit, black vest, shiny, large black shoes—I should not be noticing how large his shoes are—and a yellow tie. A yellow tie? I feel like I’m being punk’d. Where are the cameras? I’ve never seen him sport a bright color in his life. I let out a snorty scoff sound, causing him to look up at me.

“Nice tie.” It's an accusation. He looks confused. “C’mon, Mr. Brutal Honesty, fess up. It’s just us here. There is no way yellow is your favorite color. In fact, I don’t even buy that that’s your tie. Did you steal that tie from a man on the street? A happy man who likes happy things? Oh, no, did you take that off a dying man? A homeless man?”