FLIRTING WITH 40

I work for a cosmetics company.”
“Which one?”
“Glam.”
“Nice.” He draws the word out with a nod while he takes a sip of his drink. I don’t think Paul bothered to remember what company I worked for most days. “And your boss. This Heather. She’s new?”
“By a few months. Yes.”
He rests his hand on the back of my chair in a casual pose, his fingers slightly touching my back.
“What’s the promotion?”
“Vice president of marketing,” I muse.
“Big time.” He raises his eyebrows and glances down the bar where a gorgeous brunette meets his eyes for a beat before he looks back my way unfazed. “Why do you think you won’t get the promotion?”
I part snort, part laugh. “Because she’s determined to bring a new, youthful vibe to the office. Easy for her, not so easy for me.”
“And how exactly does one make their employees have a youthful vibe and more importantly, how is she qualified to be the judge of that?”
“The youthful vibe will be demonstrated at the upcoming company retreat in the mountains where we’re to experience team bonding at its finest so that we leave feeling like a family.” I emphasize the last sentence in a singsong voice. “And she designated herself queen ruler of youthfulness.”
“Oh. One of those.” He snorts.
“Exactly.” Why does it feel so good to have someone seem to genuinely understand?
“Do you have something against the mountains?” he asks, his eyes alight with humor.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you said the word mountains with a healthy dose of disdain.”
“I did, didn’t I? I’m a city girl, so unless being in the mountains involves sitting on a porch swing sipping wine, then it holds no appeal to me.”
“You’re missing out big time.” He gives a subtle shake of his head as the bartender slides fresh drinks in front of us. “But what does not liking the mountains have to do with hating your boss? Is it simply because she’s making you go on the group bonding session?”
“I can stomach the team bonding because it’s my job, and I think it’s best I form closer connections with my coworkers. It’s more that I think she’d love nothing more than if I didn’t show up. She’d have a perfectly good reason to say I’m not a team player and make sure the world knows so it would be a ding against my possible promotion evaluation.”
“So, you’re going then, right?”
What does he care?
It doesn’t matter because it feels good to talk to someone who actually listens.
“It’s a catch-22. I miss the event and validate what they think of me—that I’m the matron of the group who’s no fun—or I actually go and look like the matron of the group who doesn’t have a significant other so I’m singled out without a partner in all the activities. I don’t know, I get the feeling that my being over the cute late-twenties, let’s-go-and-get-wasted vibe is a detriment in her eyes.”
“And that’s why you don’t like her? Because she’s younger?” He angles his head to the side and doesn’t back down on his stare.
Of course, I just probably described him.
And then offended him.
That hole I’m digging keeps getting deeper and deeper.
“No. Yes. I mean . . . no.”
“That’s more than clear.” He laughs and holds out a hand to me. “Slade Henderson. Younger than you. Has an affinity for the mountains, the outdoors, and can tolerate team bonding even if I don’t always play by the rules. I’m also amused by long diatribes that I have to decipher from the random, beautiful woman sitting beside me in the bar.”
Slade.
His name is Slade.
Isn’t that so damn typical of a twenty-something-year-old? To have a name that proves his mom tried too hard to make him unique in that cute, I’m-an-awesome-mom kind of way?
She is probably a Pinterest perfectionist who always brings the right dessert to a party, makes crafty homemade gifts that everyone coos over, and who never loses her temper at her kids.
And then there’s me. Not a mom because I was too focused on work and then, once I was ready to have kids, Paul told me it would cramp the lifestyle we had built. And Pinterest? Let’s just say I’m the queen of failing anything I’ve attempted. So much so that I’ve given up even trying.
My inadequacies in the stereotypical female department are shining bright.
Only in my own head of course.
Wait? Did he just call me beautiful?
“And you are?” Slade asks.
“Blakely.” I roll my eyes playfully but reach my hand out to shake his. “I’m Blakely Foxx. Older than you, thankful you are being nice to me instead of asking for me to be removed from the premises—”
“You say that like a woman who’s been removed before.”
“—and obviously having a shitty day.”
“You forgot the part about having an absolute dick of an ex-husband.”
I just look at him and shake my head as I chuckle. “Sorry. TMI.”
“No, really,” he says, “it’ll make you feel better to say it and get it out in the open.”
I eye him and wonder what the catch is. Is this some television show with a hidden camera and I’m the unsuspecting person being pranked?
When he nods in encouragement, I chuckle and look at my glass as if I can’t believe I’m really going to. “Fine. He’s an absolute dick of an ex-husband.”
“See?” He nudges me. “Feels better, doesn’t it?”
I laugh. “Yes. Sure.”
“C’mon. You know it does.”
He’s right. It does. Even if it’s catty and childish, it does.
“So, tell me something, Blakely, do you have something against youthful vibes?” he asks innocently enough, and for the briefest of seconds, I forget that’s the term I used—youthful vibes—and almost choke on my drink.
“No. It’s more than that. It’s hard to explain.” I think back to the meeting I had this afternoon. How Heather shot down every one of my ideas—calling them dated despite their high-performance track record, while touting ideas that any high school student could think up as brilliant when the younger members of the team proposed them. Her disapproving looks and loud sighs