Crossing Paths by Melanie Stinnett Page B

high-strung personality will make lunch pretty awkward.
    “Try to find something in common with him, and talk about that,” she says.
    “Okay, I can try that. I need to get going, but I’ll try to text you later and let you know how it goes.”
    “Have fun and do lots of things your mother would disapprove of.”
    “You are almost as bad as my mother.”
    “I know. Bye.”
    “See you later.”

    The restaurant is within walking distance from the office, so we make our way while we briefly talk about his company’s contract and the new media campaign taking off this year. Even though our discussion is short, I can hear the passion he has for his company’s products and services. His enthusiasm excites me for the ongoing project we’ll be working on together.
    We enter the restaurant, and the hostess seats us at a booth by the window. Sitting across from one another, we scan the menu in silence for a minute or two. I’ve been trying to think of a way I can bring up the flowers without making a big deal about them. I don’t want him to think that I thought more of them than he had intended. Since he hasn’t mentioned anything and the text message reply wasn’t quite the response I was looking for, I’m sure they were purely congratulatory in nature. As much as that disappoints me, I still feel that I should express some sort of gratitude for the gesture.
    “Thank you for the flowers,” I blurt out, peering at him over the top of my menu.
    He doesn’t move his menu, but I swear he begins to smile as I see wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes.
    “You’re welcome,” he states simply. After a short pause, he lowers his menu to the table and makes eye contact with me, holding my stare. “Listen, June, I need to tell you—”
    The waiter chooses this moment to stop by the table and collect our drink orders.
    “Can I get you something to drink?” the waiter asks.
    Cohen looks to me, offering me the chance to talk first.
    “I’ll take a sweet tea,” I say.
    “And I’ll have a water,” Cohen adds.
    When the waiter walks away, I continue our conversation.
    “You don’t need to say anything. I feel like I should apologize for being so unprofessional in New York,” I say.
    About that time, another waiter arrives at the table to take our food order, and we give him our entrée choices in quick succession.
    “Unprofessional? Don’t be crazy. I just wanted to say that your suggestions at the meeting in New York were refreshing, and your input on this project so far has been outstanding. Your company is lucky to have you.”
    “Oh.” I push a smile through the disappointment I’m feeling. I knew I was reading too much into our shared meal in New York and the flowers last week. Things like that must be typical in the business world. “Thank you.” It’s all I can say without allowing my voice to falter.
    From my point of view, the remainder of our meal is a little awkward, but I go ahead and try to make small talk about work and family. Cohen is kind, but he doesn’t seem overly engaged. I guess I can move on—to what, I’m not sure. Past the hope that Cohen had any level of interest beyond business, I guess.

    On our way back to the office, our conversation becomes more casual.
    “Have you ever been to the Museum of Fine Arts?” he asks, his eyes focused on the sidewalk. “I was thinking of going to view one of their exhibits while I’m in town.”
    “Sure, I’ve been a few times. I don’t think it’s too hard to find. It’s over on Bissonnet. I can show you a map when we get back to the office.”
    “Actually, I am pretty directionally challenged. Do you think you could come with me? I mean, if you’re interested in seeing the exhibit.”
    “That is a strange thing for a man to admit.” I laugh. “Sure. I don’t mind. It sounds like something I would like to see.”
    We part ways at the office as he goes into a meeting with Mr. Hargrove for the afternoon. I head back to my