Addicted To The MC President

Chapter Twelve Ginger Notices

~ Lily ~

By midday, I had attended two meetings, approved a merger proposal worth an absurd amount of money, rejected three acquisition offers, and spent forty-five minutes pretending to care about a presentation that could have been summarised in a single email.

My attention span was deteriorating rapidly.

And unfortunately, everyone around me seemed determined to test exactly how far it could go.

“…and if we move the projections into the fourth quarter,” one executive continued, pointing toward a graph, “we could potentially increase shareholder confidence by another three point seven percent.”

I nodded. Not because I was listening, but because years of practice had made me exceptionally good at looking like I was.

My phone vibrated beneath the conference table. Normally I ignored notifications during meetings but today was clearly not a normal day.

*Ginger: Lunch break. Starving. Save me from hospital cafeteria food?*

A smile pulled at my mouth before I could stop it. The executive was still talking, the graph was still graphing, and the meeting was still somehow happening. I typed back beneath the table.

Lily: Give me ten minutes.

Then I locked my phone and stood up at that moment the entire room stopped as ten pairs of eyes followed me, and the guy that was talking paused mid-sentence.

“Miss Ryder?” he called.

“Continue without me,” I said, gathering my tablet.

Confusion spread across several faces. One director actually looked alarmed. “I have another appointment,” I added, which was technically true. Lunch was an appointment. An important one. At least that was the justification I used while leaving a meeting that could cost me to go eat pasta with my best friend.

My assistant caught up with me outside. “You have another meeting in forty minutes.”

“Move it,” I said.

“You have a call with London.”

“Move it.”

“You have dinner tonight with—”

“Move tomorrow,” I repeated, still walking.

She blinked. “Are you taking the afternoon off?”

I pressed the elevator button. “Yes.”

The doors opened. My assistant looked genuinely concerned. “Are you sick?”

I laughed. “No.”

The doors closed before she could ask anything else.

Twenty minutes later I was walking into a small Italian restaurant three blocks from Ginger’s hospital. The place smelled like garlic and fresh bread — actual food, a drastic improvement from the boardroom's musty smell, I immediately spotted Ginger, mostly because her bright red hair made subtle entrances impossible. She was already seated by the window, still in scrubs, still looking exhausted, still beautiful in that effortless way other women hated.

When she noticed me she immediately narrowed her eyes. “That smile,” she said.

I stopped beside the table. “What smile?”

“That smile.”

I sat down. “There is no smile.”

“There absolutely is,” she insists, I immediately grabbed a menu to avoid the question. “You’re going crazy from working sleep-depriving shifts for too long.”

“You’re glowing,” she said.

I almost choked. “Glowing?”

“You’re glowing.”

“I’m twenty-nine, Ginger. Not pregnant.”

Her eyes went wide. “Jesus Christ.”

We stared at each other for a second and then we both burst out laughing. The waiter arrived looking deeply uncomfortable from our laughter.

By the time we ordered, Ginger was still staring at me suspiciously, the way doctors stared at lying patients. I pointed my breadstick at her. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to diagnose me.”

She leaned back. “You seem happy.”

The simple observation caught me off guard. Happy. Such a small word for such a complicated thing.

“I’ve always been happy,” I said.

She laughed so hard that nearby diners looked over.

“Lily,” she called

“What?” I answer l.

“You once described happiness as an overrated feeling,” she adds

I opened my mouth, then closed it, because unfortunately, she had a point. The problem was I wasn’t entirely sure when things had changed. Maybe it was the way a certain biker somehow made ordinary things feel important.

The thought arrived uninvited.

So did the smile.

Ginger immediately pointed. “There.”

I groaned. “Oh, God.”

“Who is he?”

“There is no he,” I replied

“Liar.” she accused.

“Ginger.”

“Liar,” she repeated.

Immediately the food arrived I changed the subject before she could continue. “How’s the surgeon?”

The effect was immediate. The teasing vanished, and so did the smile and I regretted asking the question instantly.

Ginger stared down at her pasta. “He’s fine.”

That answer alone told me everything.

“How’s his wife?” I asked.

Her jaw tightened, and I sighed. Not fine, then.

“He says he’s leaving,” she muttered quietly, like she was embarrassed.

“He’s been saying that for two years.” I snapped.

“I know.”

“Ginger.”

“I know,” she said again, and the frustration in my heart wasn’t entirely directed at her. It was directed at the situation, at the invisible man who somehow kept convincing one of the smartest women I knew to settle for crumbs.

“He says they’re working through legal stuff,” she added.

I closed my eyes. “Ginger.”

“I know.”

“He always says that.”

“I know.”

“Then why are we still having this conversation?”

She looked away, and for a long moment neither of us spoke. The answer eventually came anyway. Because she loved him. Sometimes love was embarrassingly stupid. I knew that now, maybe better than I wanted to admit.

“He calls every night,” she muttered quietly. “He remembers things, he knows how I take my coffee.” She pauses then adds “He remembers my birthday.”

That one hurt, because the bar was so low, meanwhile, she deserved so much more.

Across the table, she suddenly let out a sad little laugh.

“I sound pathetic,” she said.

“No, you don't,” I replied

She looked at me and said “You know what’s funny? You always tell me to leave him.”

“And yet,” she continued, “you’re hanging around a guy you’ve known for what, a few weeks?”

I stared at her. She stared back. Then she smiled slowly, dangerously. “Got you.”

“Oh, shut up,” I muttered.

The grin widened. “There is a man.”

“There isn’t,” I denied.

I know there is I just want details like what’s his name, what does he do and is he hot?” she insisted.

“Ginger,” I called out.

“That’s a yes,” she said, and I threw a breadstick at her. She dodged it, barely, and the conversation dissolved into laughter. For a while things felt normal again.

Then my phone vibrated. Neither of us moved. I already knew who it was, and the realisation alone was embarrassing.

Hector: You alive?

Two simple words. Nothing romantic, yet warmth spread through my chest anyway. Before I could stop myself I smiled.

The second it appeared, Ginger saw it. Her expression changed instantly.

“Oh,” she said.

I looked up. “What?”

“Oh.”

I locked my phone. Too late. She’d already seen my smile and my reaction.

For several seconds she simply studied me. Then she leaned forward across the table, and for once she wasn’t laughing, wasn’t teasing.

She looked oddly serious then she whispered. “Whoever he is, he already has you.”

The words landed harder than they should have. I opened my mouth to argue, to deny it, to explain why she was wrong but nothing came out.

Because somewhere deep down, a small, irritating part of me suspected she might be right.

And that was a much bigger problem than any merger proposal waiting on my desk.