Irresistible — SteemCN

The ones we’re not supposed to have are the most irresistible.
― E.M. Denning

She shows up one day out of the blue—Tom Cranston hired her and assigned her to our editing staff.

Rafe is mystified. “I had no idea we were taking on a new hire,” he grumbles.

“Are you disappointed?” she laughs. It’s a soft musical laugh that lightly hits all the notes of an expensive chiming clock.

And that was that, for me—I thought she was totally charming.

“No, nothing like that,” Rafe fumbles for words, “it’s just that Tom usually brings me in on the interview, or at least informs me if he’s really pressed.”

“Maybe he was impressed,” she giggles and smiles knowingly at me.

Go away little girl, I muse, and force my eyes back to my computer monitor.

She’s young. I’m forty-five and I’m guessing she’s twenty-five, give or take a few years I can’t spare, so there’s no point in even going there.

Mark here will show you the ropes,” he says, deftly flipping me the nuclear football. Rank has its privileges, they say, but what they don’t tell the subordinates is how to get out from under—and I’m already caught in her gaze.

“I’m Callie,” she smiles. I notice two things—her hair is dark brown and her eyes are hazel—and already my head is spinning around, and I have to get control.

“Where are we going to put you?” I say, and look helplessly around for a desk.

“Maybe we can share for today, and I’ll talk to HR on my lunch break and see what they can arrange.”

Close proximity is not good I tell myself, but already I inhale the subtle fragrance of her perfume and I know I’m slowly giving in.

“By the way, what does everyone do for lunch?” She stares at me with those innocent eyes.

This simply is not fair, and I find myself planning Rafe’s sudden demise while my mouth is saying, “you can dine with me,” and my soul is becoming lost in her eyes.

We end up at The Gabardine on Bay Street, eating cheeseburgers and sharing a plate of fries.

Her smile is infectious and she has a way of teasing disclosures from me. By the end of the meal she knows I’m divorced and live alone in a condo—that I collect fine art, love noir jazz and have a calico, long-haired cat named Winnie who runs my life.

All I know about her is she had a boyfriend who spent all her money and is now long gone—and I’m ashamed to admit I was happy she was available, but feigned sadness at her tragedy.

On the way back to the office, the November wind buffets us and she suddenly asks, “So what do you on these dark and cold Toronto nights?”

“Not much,” I laugh, “I stay home most nights, except Thursdays, when I spend a few hours at The Rex Jazz and Blues Bar listening to jazz noir.”

“You’ll have to take me,” she says flatly.

I’m a little taken back. “Yeah sure, we’ll have to go sometime.”

“Okay, so we’ll go Thursday night,” she says, and grabs my arm and leans into me, sheltering from the wind.

As usual, in my conflicted way I’m thinking two things—I don’t want this to end, and its antithesis—where is life leading me?

But a giddy euphoria takes hold of me and it doesn't matter that nothing makes sense.

Photo