All of Me

I Can't Smell the Flowers

Naomi Monroe

I drag my feet as I enter the elevator to go to the ninth floor of the building where NotionX's office is located. I was working late last night after doing Gianni's hair to iron out some bugs in my app — PVR Network — which stands for: Philanthropy, Volunteerism, and Relief Network. Not the sexiest name out there, but that's what acronyms and cute logos are for, right? Anyway, I really want this app to expand across the country and even internationally some day, which means I need it to be perfect before I start pitching to potential investors. Ironically, Mr. Laurent was on that list before I learned I'd be interviewing him. I didn't want to seem like I was scheming or anything and even downplayed the app when we were talking yesterday.

As a result of my late night of coding, I missed my alarm, which meant missing my morning coffee and barely making it here on time. In summary: I am groggy and grumpy. But, at least it's Friday and then I can just spend the weekend continuing to work on PVR and maybe binging something on Netflix.

When I reach our floor, barely anyone is here other than my editor Katie and three other junior staff. I make a beeline for my desk to get started for the day and my stomach is now in knots because it just hit me that I'll be spending half of it looking at Mr. Laurent's face while I review my footage of the interview and plan out articles that will accompany it.

My face scrunches when I reach my desk because what the hell are these flowers doing here? I look around the barren office and no one else seems to have a delivery on their desk, so I assume it's a mistake and these flowers were meant for Katie — her husband is always sending her flowers or gifts or food. I notice a card sitting between the stems of the flowers when I get close enough to my desk and realize it has my name on it.

No way.

I open the card to see that it's been signed by Mr. Laurent. Still, I am confused. Yes, we spent hours together yesterday and yes, we did kiss, but it's not like I agreed to be his bootycall and went home with him last night. Even if I did, I don't understand why he'd send flowers.

~

Ms. Monroe,

I wanted to reiterate my appreciation for you taking the time to show me around the beautiful city of Atlanta last night. I enjoyed it so much that I've decided to extend my time here for at least a week and plan to learn more about the up-and-coming startup scene here.

Additionally, I would like to show you my thanks in person. That brunch spot you were raving about — The Bistro — had a few open reservations for Saturday afternoon if you are available. I've enclosed my number if you are interested in going. It is totally up to you.

~

Again, my face is scrunched with confusion as to why this man went through the hassle of sending me flowers and is now asking me to my favorite brunch spot that I only passively mentioned when we walked by it yesterday. Whatever, I need to get to work on this man's interview anyway. I put the card in my purse and push the flowers to the corner of my desk.

Opening my laptop and hovering over the file with Mr. Laurent's interview, I contemplate simply listening to it rather than watching it, though it could cause me to miss some important nonverbal communication. The man is attractive, we kissed, and now he's sent me flowers. In any other world, I'd say he likes me, but in this world, I know that is not realistic. He's either looking for a sugar baby to satisfy whatever fetishes he might have going on, he's bored and just wants to play with a stranger without consequences, or Nicolas is somehow in on this with a creep angle. I mean, having a sugar daddy doesn't sound too bad, but I'm not sure if I'm about that life and from what I've heard, plus-size sugar babies have it worse.