Monica’s desk just as she picked up her ringing phone.
“K, send him in.” She hung up the phone and looked at me. “Spencer’s on his way down.”
“I’ll say hi, introduce myself, and then let you two discuss whatever you need to before th e meeting . ” I started to stand.
There was a polite knock on Monica’s door frame. Before I turned to greet Spencer, I saw Monica’s eyes widen in a mix of confusion and shock. I turned around hastily, and was immediately face-to-face with Bo Cavanaugh.
“Bo?” I managed.
Inexplicably, I was standing in front of Bo Cavanaugh. Hair gel manicured the tousled look that had graced Finnegan’s stage - and my fingers - all weekend. Gray suit pants, a pale yellow button down shirt, and a blue silk tie that matched his eyes stood in place of the jeans and sleeveless ensemble that walked out of my apartment two nights before . His eyes were a deeper blue than I observed at night; they were the most beautiful color of ocean blue I’d ever seen. My smile faded as his eyes fell from me to the floor, then to the wall, and back to the floor.
“N-ember? Uhh.” He looked increasingly uncomfortable and his fair skin seemed to pale even further.
“Ooooooo-kaaaayy . . .” Monica uncomfortably attempted to organize the papers on her desk.
I just stood there while a thousand thoughts scattered to the floor of my brain. In the split second before Monica spoke again, I reasoned maybe his brother’s name was Spencer and Bo was standing in - even though he didn’t mention a brother the other night - or this must be some sort of mistake. Judging by his complexion, and his inability to say my name without stuttering, I gathered it was neither of these reasons.
Monica swept papers off her desk with little regard to their order. “So, I’ll let you two talk. Anything I have to say can wait ‘till the meeting.” She said this with such professionalism that anyone walking by wouldn’t have noticed the five-ton elephant in the room.
“Excuse me.” Monica slid past Bo (or Spencer), forcing him in to the room a little ways and placing us in a close proximity. Not more than 48 hours ago, being this close to him had tantalized me. Right now, it made my muscles twitch with anxiety. Monica shut the door.
I walked around my chair and stood behind Monica’s desk, deliberately distancing myself from “Bo” so I could think clearly. It occurred to me that th is was the first time I’d seen him in the daylight, rather than under the stage glow at Finnegan’s. He was slightly less fair-skinned than I’d previously assessed, but just as dreamy. Dreamy, November? Figure out what he’s doing here. I cleared my throat and stared directly at him, handcuffing his eyes to mine.
“November, you work here?” He looked as if he was really trying to work it out in his head.
Seriously? That’s the statement you’re opening with?
“Yeeees.” There was a slight inquisition in my voice, imploring him to feed the elephant in the room.
“Spencer, is it?”
“November, it’s my first name. It was my father’s name. My full name is Spencer Bowan Cavanaugh. David Bryson was supposed to handle the meeting here today, but he had a personal emergency, so he called me this morning to ask me to come here. The only information I was given was to come to The Hope Foundation and ask for Monica. What are the odds?” He spoke faster than normal - faster than necessary. I assumed he was anticipating any follow up questions I might have, which is why he offered up so much right away.
“Wait a minute, Monica said that Spencer Cavanaugh is one of the founders of DROP. You never told me you founded a non-profit agency.” I fel t an annoying itch of betrayal.
Bo chuckled, “I’ll counter your wait-a-minute with my own. You never told me you were the grant writer for a very su ccessful and stable non-profit .” My inner academic cheered a bit at his accentuation of “the” as if I was a prize
“K, send him in.” She hung up the phone and looked at me. “Spencer’s on his way down.”
“I’ll say hi, introduce myself, and then let you two discuss whatever you need to before th e meeting . ” I started to stand.
There was a polite knock on Monica’s door frame. Before I turned to greet Spencer, I saw Monica’s eyes widen in a mix of confusion and shock. I turned around hastily, and was immediately face-to-face with Bo Cavanaugh.
“Bo?” I managed.
Inexplicably, I was standing in front of Bo Cavanaugh. Hair gel manicured the tousled look that had graced Finnegan’s stage - and my fingers - all weekend. Gray suit pants, a pale yellow button down shirt, and a blue silk tie that matched his eyes stood in place of the jeans and sleeveless ensemble that walked out of my apartment two nights before . His eyes were a deeper blue than I observed at night; they were the most beautiful color of ocean blue I’d ever seen. My smile faded as his eyes fell from me to the floor, then to the wall, and back to the floor.
“N-ember? Uhh.” He looked increasingly uncomfortable and his fair skin seemed to pale even further.
“Ooooooo-kaaaayy . . .” Monica uncomfortably attempted to organize the papers on her desk.
I just stood there while a thousand thoughts scattered to the floor of my brain. In the split second before Monica spoke again, I reasoned maybe his brother’s name was Spencer and Bo was standing in - even though he didn’t mention a brother the other night - or this must be some sort of mistake. Judging by his complexion, and his inability to say my name without stuttering, I gathered it was neither of these reasons.
Monica swept papers off her desk with little regard to their order. “So, I’ll let you two talk. Anything I have to say can wait ‘till the meeting.” She said this with such professionalism that anyone walking by wouldn’t have noticed the five-ton elephant in the room.
“Excuse me.” Monica slid past Bo (or Spencer), forcing him in to the room a little ways and placing us in a close proximity. Not more than 48 hours ago, being this close to him had tantalized me. Right now, it made my muscles twitch with anxiety. Monica shut the door.
I walked around my chair and stood behind Monica’s desk, deliberately distancing myself from “Bo” so I could think clearly. It occurred to me that th is was the first time I’d seen him in the daylight, rather than under the stage glow at Finnegan’s. He was slightly less fair-skinned than I’d previously assessed, but just as dreamy. Dreamy, November? Figure out what he’s doing here. I cleared my throat and stared directly at him, handcuffing his eyes to mine.
“November, you work here?” He looked as if he was really trying to work it out in his head.
Seriously? That’s the statement you’re opening with?
“Yeeees.” There was a slight inquisition in my voice, imploring him to feed the elephant in the room.
“Spencer, is it?”
“November, it’s my first name. It was my father’s name. My full name is Spencer Bowan Cavanaugh. David Bryson was supposed to handle the meeting here today, but he had a personal emergency, so he called me this morning to ask me to come here. The only information I was given was to come to The Hope Foundation and ask for Monica. What are the odds?” He spoke faster than normal - faster than necessary. I assumed he was anticipating any follow up questions I might have, which is why he offered up so much right away.
“Wait a minute, Monica said that Spencer Cavanaugh is one of the founders of DROP. You never told me you founded a non-profit agency.” I fel t an annoying itch of betrayal.
Bo chuckled, “I’ll counter your wait-a-minute with my own. You never told me you were the grant writer for a very su ccessful and stable non-profit .” My inner academic cheered a bit at his accentuation of “the” as if I was a prize
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