FLIRTING WITH 40

every time I gave input tell me my concerns are warranted. She looks at me and sees a dinosaur she wants extinct.
“Do you like your job?”
“What?” I ask.
“Do you like it? Are you good at it?” There’s a nonchalance to the way he asks that doesn’t put me on the defensive like it may have had if my boss asked me that same question.
“I’m damn good at it. It’s my passion.”
He purses his lips and nods. “Then what’s the problem?”
“The problem is I’ve worked my ass off for almost twenty years to be where I am. I started with Glam when they were nothing and helped them grow to be the well-known brand they are today. And when other, bigger companies, tried to woo me away, I didn’t stray. I’m a hard worker. I contribute. I deserve my position and the promotion . . .”
“But?” he prompts.
I hesitate because he doesn’t know me from Eve, and I’m definitely not his type, but what does it hurt to use the ear someone offers?
“I’m petrified of losing my position because I’m not who they—who Heather—wants me to be.”
“And who do they want you to be?”
“Hipper. Trendier. Without baggage.” I take a sip of my whiskey. “Whatever it is, I know I’m not it . . .”
He doesn’t respond, and when I glance his way, his lips are pursed and he’s nodding ever so subtly. He slides those mysterious colored eyes my way. “Know or feel?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Feeling is something that is fed by insecurities, knowing is something that is backed by facts.”
“Aren’t we full of wisdom?” I say and earn an adorable shrug and a lift of one of his eyebrows.
“It’s a rarity, but it peeks its head up every once in a while.” He looks to his left where someone has slid beside him and then turns back to me. “How is it you know Heather wants you gone?”
“It’s present here and there. It’s in how she talks to all of us in the meetings. The new people she’s brought on.” I chuckle, but it’s more to myself than him. “They hear how long I’ve been there, and instead of thinking wow, she has a breadth of knowledge that we can benefit from, they think, wow, she’s so old she can’t possibly know what’s trending now.” I add a smile to hide my defensiveness and pretend that I’m not bothered by it, but I’m not fooling anyone.
“You’re assuming though. There’s no way for you to know what they’re thinking.” He shrugs as if telling me my insecurity is what’s fueling my opinions is something I shouldn’t be offended by. “Flip it around. You think they’re judging you, but maybe you look at them as teenagers with acne and braces and judge them for not being old enough instead of giving them the benefit of the doubt that they’re qualified. It’s all a matter of perspective.”
“I can’t hide my age.” I snort, the effects of the whiskey starting to kick in and relaxing me a bit.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he murmurs and has no shame as his eyes stroll lazily up and down the length of my body. They stutter over my legs, which are crossed at the knee, and take in my nude heels before they crawl their way back up to meet my eyes.
I can’t recall the last time I was objectified so blatantly. I open my mouth to say something—to object out of principle—but why ruin the moment when I’m silently pumping my fist?
When the heat that’s left in the wake of his gaze is still warming my skin.
Then reality hits me.
Slade, with his perfectly trendy name and the sexy arm porn, is only doing this to throw a middle-aged woman like me a bone because he’s gay.
He has to be.
It would be a detriment to women everywhere if I was right, but why else would he be sitting in a bar like this on a Thursday night talking to me when he could be hitting on the gorgeous brunette a few seats down who keeps eyeing him.
No longer flustered by his too-long stare, I turn the conversation to him. “What about you, Slade? Why are you here tonight? Killing time until your girlfriend gets off work?”
The roll of his eyes and lightning flash of his grin shouldn’t affect me the way they do, but they do.
“More like avoiding my mom who’s visiting from out of town and who is currently invading my house.” He tips his drink back and emits an audible sigh.
“That bad?”
“Ever had a meddling Italian mother who asks too many questions, berates you because all the women you’ve dated aren’t good enough, and blames you for her not having any grandchildren when she has three other children who are just as capable?”
He isn’t gay.
“Can’t say that I have.” I smile in sympathy.
“If you’d love to experience it, be my guest. She’s probably making some kind of incredible dinner to lower your defenses and win you over before she goes for the jugular,” he says and laughs.
“At least she feeds you before unleashing her full-fledged mother guilt on you.”
“True.” The ice in his glass clinks as he swirls his tumbler, eyes focused on it. “But it’s been quite the adjustment having her stay with me for a bit.”
“Cramping your style.”
“Something like that,” he murmurs and then looks my way again. “Why here?”
“Why where?” I ask.
“This bar of all bars. I’ve never seen you in here before.”
“You frequent it often?” I ask, which earns a low rumble of a laugh from him.
“Now and then when I’m not working, but you . . . you don’t seem like someone who cares about hitting the trendy spots to be seen.”
“What do I seem like?” I ask and then wish I could take the words back because I fear the answer.
His eyes sparkle as they shamelessly take me in, and I want to squirm under their scrutiny. “Cautious but curious. Beautiful but doesn’t acknowledge it. Here but not sure why. And definitely interested in the man