This is the first time Claire meets Christopher. She’s just arrived at the hotel where she will interview him.
There
was no time for my eyes to adjust from late morning on the street to
the softly lit lobby before my surroundings faded and my vision focused
on a point. The image ahead left me considering an abrupt turn on my
heel and a swift escape.
There he sat, no more than ten feet away, reading the New York Times while wearing silvery sunglasses. I decided he must be napping because he didn’t strike me as the type to read the Times.
He
wore an artfully distressed pair of jeans and a black t-shirt under a
tan canvas jacket, much too light for such a cold day. His short,
chestnut brown hair was arranged into a tousled mess.
I
mulled over my best approach and then he confounded me a second time by
making eye contact, through the sunglasses no less, folding his paper
and striding toward me. I looked behind me assuming he must recognize
someone else.
“You must be Ms. Abby.” He held out his hand. “Chris Penman.”
Countless thoughts and questions erupted in my head. Wow.
I’m glad I wore heels. He’s tall. His accent is different in person.
It’s like butter. British butter. Did I remember perfume this morning?
Oh crap. My breath. I should have had a piece of gum in the car. Are my
hands clammy? Why do they always get that way when I’m nervous?
“Yes.
Oh, Claire.” I offered my sweaty hand. “Please. Thank you. Hi.” Cotton
candy had graciously stepped in to take over for my saddled brain.
“Oh
great, uh, it’s Claire then.” He cocked his head to the side. “Please,
call me Chris. I Googled you this morning and found a photo. I like to
know what I’m up against.” He chuckled, removed his sunglasses and shook
my hand in one seamless movement.
I
caught a glimpse of his eyes and everything turned syrupy. I began
searching for words, an intelligent response, and it happened—I became
tangled up in his eyes, drawn into them because my mind was convinced
there was nowhere else to go. The color was so astounding that it
deserved its own name, calling them “green” would have been so
dismissive, it couldn’t begin to capture the hypnotic nature of the hue.
Apple, forest, grass, jade, emerald, moss, clover—somewhere, there had
to be a name for his green.
Christopher duly noted my disorientation and nudged the day ahead. “Shall we?” he asked, motioning for the lobby door.
“I’m sorry. I thought we were doing the interview in the hotel,” I pleaded as I shuffled along with him.
“If it’s all the same to you, I was hoping to skip that. A bit contrived, isn’t it?”
“Uh, sure.” I stopped. “I need to check my bag…” My voice feathered away.
“Here.”
He plucked my overnight bag from my hand and marched it to the front
desk. “Please hold this for Ms. Abby. She’ll be checking in later.” He
returned in a flash. “Better?” He towered over me, seeming annoyed.
“Yes. Thank you. Where are we going?”
He
didn’t bother with an answer, but instead sent a profusion of warmth
over me by hovering his hand near the small of my back as the doorman
held the door.
