Cream of the Crop (28 page)

“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.

I looked through my client files, shot off a quick email, and was on the phone with Sara by that afternoon. I'd spent the interim pulling stats on some of the brands and vendors they
featured in their stores, and noticed they seemed light on . . . cheese.

An idea began to take shape.

After the usual pleasantries were exchanged, congratulations on all the success (due in no small part to the fantastic campaign my team had crafted for her before they began expanding), I told her that of course Manhattan Creative Group was looking forward to working with them again in the future and that when they were ready to begin the next phase, we were ready to launch them into every major city in the country, making them a household brand. And I might have mentioned, several times, this wonderful new cheese maker from the Hudson Valley, the next big foodie scene in the culinary world . . .

By the end of that call, I'd not only secured a firm commitment for future advertising business with our firm, but planted several seeds about Bailey Falls Creamery, and had arranged to have some of their best cheeses sent to her and her team at their corporate offices in Midtown.

I'd tell Oscar the good news once I knew his cows were being babysat. And after I knew the outcome of Roxie's conversation with him, about whether or not he was my boyfriend . . .

The outcome came that night when I got a text from Roxie.

Leo will babysit your boyfriend's cows. Pretty sure no one has ever said that before. Welcome to life in the sticks.

I texted back:

Brilliant! I'll tell Oscar

he's free and clear to
spend the weekend with me. I thank you, and my future orgasms thank you.

You're welcome. To both of you.

So? What the hell did he say when you asked him?

Number one: I said he was your boyfriend first, so I get bragging rights.

Wait, did someone else say it?

Your boyfriend said it, too.

There was a long pause . . .

Hello? Are you still there?

I'm lying on the bed, kicking up my heels and squealing into my pillow!

Why the hell isn't there a pom-pom emoji? Here you go—closest I could come up with.

That's a football

Well, they shake pom-poms at football games. And he is Mr. Football . . .

I love you.

I know you do. Gotta go. I wonder what kinds of snacks you buy for a cow sleepover?

I set the phone down, still feeling giddy that I had a boyfriend. And then, not too long after, felt the first pangs of
Holy shit
 . . .
do I have a boyfriend?

I was indeed able to convince Oscar to drive into the city a day early, and I didn't even have to try that hard.

“What good is it having employees if you can't trust them to do their job on their own once in a while?” he'd said, then told me that one of his interns from the culinary school had already stepped up and was in charge of bringing in everything they'd need at the market on Saturday. He was well and truly off the clock, for the first time in a long time.

And I was ready to show him another side of my Manhattan. The glitz, the glamour, the secret nighttime hot spots, and the members-only clubs that I belonged to. It was the side of Manhattan you see on television and reality shows. I'd run in those
circles since I was a kid, and I couldn't wait to show Oscar. And to show him off a little—let's be honest.

My absence from the social scene over the past month had been noticed. And I was aching to get out and about, eat some gorgeous food, drink some fabulous wine, go dancing at the hottest clubs in town, and shake my ass all over my city.

My plans were 100 percent derailed when Oscar showed up at my apartment Friday night, took one look at me in my replacement thigh-high Chanel leather boots with the four-inch heels, growled “Fucking hell, Natalie,” dropped his duffel bag, threw me over his shoulder, and took me straight back to the bedroom.

Did I forget to mention I was wearing only the boots, a brand-new apron I'd had designed with Bailey Falls Creamery emblazoned across the front, and a long string of pearls?

Yeah, it really wasn't fair of me.

He fucked me for three solid hours, and then we ate Moroccan takeout at 11 p.m.

I kept the boots and the pearls on the entire time. The apron went by the wayside.

We didn't see the outside world again until Saturday morning, when we headed to the market. I'm sure New York missed me, but I wouldn't trade that night for the world.

“So, about tonight.”

“Tonight? I thought we'd have another night like last night, but if you want to go out, I could be talked into those dumplings again,” he replied, dropping a kiss between my neck and shoulder, to the dismay of the woman at the front of his line. The dismay was shared by the next woman, the woman after that,
and the man after that. I understood; I'd been in that line only a few weeks before.

But back to tonight. “No, no dumplings. And yes, obviously last night was incredible,” I said when he moved my apron strap over and dropped one more kiss just below my ear, making me go all shivery. “But tonight, we're going out.”

“I still can't believe you had these made for everyone.” He gestured at the rest of his team, now proudly wearing the new aprons. He wasn't sure about them at first, wondering why in the world he needed to wear an apron that said Bailey Falls Creamery when he was standing under a sign that said the same thing, but eventually he acquiesced and slipped it over his head with a sheepish look. “So, where are we going tonight?” He handed an order of cheddar to the next customer with his usual “strictly business” expression.

“How would you feel about going to the opening of a new art exhibit?”

He looked back at me while handing over a wheel of Brie. “What, like paintings?”

“No, it's an abstract exhibition—a photographic study of New York City trash cans juxtaposed with large-scale plastic installations, designed to represent man's overarching reach toward industrialization, and its impact on the environment with its waste.”

The entire line had fallen silent, as had Oscar's team, listening to what I was saying with confused looks on their faces.

“It's garbage art?” he asked, looking beyond skeptical, then noticing that the line had stopped. “Here's your cheese,” he grumbled, handing over a package and putting the line back in motion again.

“I can't describe the work as well as the artist; you'll have to
ask her for her explanation.” I sighed, rolling back and forth on my ankle.

He instantly spotted it. “Why are you nervous about going to see garbage art?”

“Because the artist is my mother,” I squeaked.

“You want me to meet your mom?”

“And my dad? Is that too weird?” I said, pulling at my apron.

It
was
weird, it was totally weird. Why was I doing this? This was too much too soon, and it was suddenly very warm in this stall.

Oscar studied me carefully, and I wondered what he was thinking. Would he say yes? Would he say no? Would he order me out of the stall? Would he run screaming in terror at the idea of meeting my parents? What the hell was I thinking? I never did this!

“Okay,” he replied, turning back to his customers. “What do
you
want?” He always accentuated the
you,
making it sound like the customer was somehow putting him out.

“Wait, so, you'll go?” I asked, breath moving back into my lungs.

This was happening—this was really happening! The budding panic was gone the instant he said yes, and I realized how very much I wanted to introduce him to my world and my family. This. Was.
Happening
.

He turned toward me with a grin. “Sure, no big deal. Not sure I have anything to wear, though. I didn't bring anything fancy.”

“We can go shopping after we're done here!” I squealed, giddy over the idea that my boyfriend and I would be stepping out on the town tonight. “I can call Barneys or Bergdorf's and have them set some things aside for you—”