She believes in the power of manifestation and that crystals make you feel better and can solve most of your problems, while I trust in facts, statistics, and science, and I don’t buy into that woo-woo stuff she gets excited about on her social media accounts.
We couldn’t be more different.
For example, standing next to her right now in my gray suit makes me feel incredibly lackluster compared to the pink-and-purple tie-dye floaty skirt and whimsical-looking top she’s wearing today.
She’s not just a lover of life, she lives it to the fullest. Every day.
Her favorite activity is swimming in the ocean, naked, I might add. When she told me that, all I could picture was her dying a horrible death after being eaten by a shark or stung by a jellyfish.
I shudder at the thought again. I prefer my feet on solid ground, where I can see what’s beneath me.
Sapphire waves her hand in front of my face as her voice begins to fill my ears, pulling me back into the moment.
“You’re staring again,” Sapphire points out. “Are you okay?”
With each encounter, I catch myself staring at her more and for longer periods of time. I clear my throat and turn away. “Sorry.” It’s getting so ridiculous that it’s embarrassing. And yet, I can’t seem to stop myself.
Why?
Because Sapphire is stunning. Nope. That’s selling her short; she’s… damn… there are no words to describe how gorgeous she is. Like a human glitter bomb, she illuminates every corner of space she enters, bathing it in her kaleidoscope of cheer, fun, and energy.
I like her.
But that doesn’t make any sense. I hate overly chatty people—something she does more often than anyone I know—and yet, I could listen to her all day.
That’s also confusing me.
Even her name suits her. Sapphire.
Although she sparkles brighter than the world’s most expensive gem.
I scan the large ballroom where Sapphire is suggesting we hold our annual staff conference. I pretend to be interested and tuck my hands into my pockets. “Are there breakout rooms for the afternoon workshop preferences?” I ask, trying to focus on anything but her.
“Yes,” Sapphire replies brightly. “Out the main door on the right. There are seven in total. That’s exactly how many we need. Once they clear out the tables and chairs, they’ll be perfect for the meditation class, energy management, and dance therapy.”
“Dance therapy?” I frown, my eyes fixed on her beautiful face because I’m drawn to her like a magnet. “We are not including dance therapy as an option.” My voice is steady, my answer definite.
Sapphire tilts her head to the side and eyes me suspiciously. “Yes, we are.”
“No. We are not.” Did she not hear me the first time?
“Oh, yes, we are, Eli. You already signed off the list of options.”
Did I?
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Don’t tell me, you didn’t even read the document I sent over, you just signed it off?”
I did. Shit. “We need to review the list of options because you can’t seriously think that Roger from accounting, who is retiring later this year, and is one of the most uptight men I know, will choose dance therapy or meditation,” I scoff. It’s fucking laughable. She’s deluded.
Sapphire rolls her eyes at me, something she’s done several times today. “I don’t know who Roger is, and you’d be surprised at who chooses what workshops to attend. Also, you’re lying; you’re the most uptight man I’ve ever met.”
“I’m not uptight,” I snap back.
“Yes, you are.”
“I’m not.”
“Oh yes, you are. You need dance therapy.”