DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. These are fictional characters created by someone who isn't me, but used in an even more far-fetched situations to satisfy my own sick ends.
Her efforts were exhaustive. She hadn't realized how many women she had gotten to know on a better than acquaintance scale since she moved to New York. She managed to call up most of them, under the guise of follow up thank yous for various past work engagements. She probed for marital status, hobbies, education, music preferences, even birth order. She was ruthless, turning away dozens of possible applicants that didn't even know they had applied for the job.
At long last, she'd narrowed it down to two. She went over both in her head, trying to picture each with Tristan. The first was Amelia, a writer for the Lifestyle section of the Times. She's originally from Virginia, loves to water-ski and graduated from the top of her class from Brown. Her favorite music is Big Band, which was the only thing that Rory was unsure about. The second choice was Sarah, from payroll. She was from Maine, graduated from Stanford and plays guitar in a band on the weekends. Granted, it was a country band. Rory wondered how many country music lovers lived in Maine, but held back from asking when she stopped by to ask a made-up question about her paycheck yesterday.
Both were brunettes, and both could carry a conversation, which was the most important thing in her mind—she had to break him out of his mindless blonde routine. She sighed, thinking it didn't really matter. Each was just as good—it's not like she was looking for the love of his life here. Just someone that he could talk to over dinner without wanting to pull his pretty blonde hair out.
'Amelia. Definitely Amelia,' she smiled, thinking to herself. A frown came over her face almost immediately, and she picked up her cell phone and hit a button. She waited, tapping her foot lightly under her desk. She mindlessly flipped through some papers that desperately needed her attention until he answered.
"Dugrey," his voice was hard and hurried, his work voice that let everyone know from the get go that he was a force to be reckoned with.
"Okay, so I have a million things to do, projects on my desk leaping out and calling my name, but am I doing them? No. No, I'm not, because I'm trying to figure out the perfect girl to send you out with, obsessing over which type of music would piss you off the least, and hoping that you'll still talk to me afterwards," she rambled at him, gesticulating with her free hand to the growing sea of paper around her.
"Uh, Rory, Rory, slow it down," he said, his tone much softer than his greeting, interrupting her stream of consciousness meltdown.
"No, no, I can't slow down. Do you know how hard it is to pick a girl for you?"
He smiled into the phone, despite the fact that all his associates could see into his glass-walled office. He noticed some on lookers and turned his chair around to face the window that overlooked Manhattan. He tapped his fingers along the armrest of his leather desk chair. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, and leaned back, ready to enjoy her own unique brand of freak out.
"Have I done something to you that I'm not aware of?"
"What? No, I just want you to enjoy your date," she said quickly, stopping her side-to-side movements in her swiveling chair. She moved her hand out, palming the computer mouse as she waited for his next comment.
"Well, that's very kind of you. Actually, I'm glad you called."
"Oh, yeah?" she smiled, catching her reflection in her computer screen made her do a double take. She had the goofiest smile plastered across her face. She sat up straighter and turned away from the monitor.
"Yeah. I was just thinking, since we were setting each other up, maybe it would be less awkward if we did a double date."
She swallowed. He wanted. . . did he really. . . Hmm.
"Rory?"
"Yeah? I'm here."
"So, what do you think?"
"Uh, yeah, that sounds fine. I mean, if we can get all the schedules to match up and everything."
"Well, the guy I'm setting you up with is pretty open in the evenings."
"Wait, you know the guy already?"
"You don't have a girl in mind?"
"Well, I have a few," she could hear his smirk, and didn't want to give him the satisfaction of winning. She had hoped he'd be having the same hard time she was.
"My, my, a few. I didn't know you cared."
"Tristan, I have it narrowed down. And I know which one I'm going to set you up with."
"Then the unintelligible rambling at the beginning of this call was. . .?"
She thought quickly, tapping her fingers on her desk, knowing each second she didn't answer was an actual eternity. She felt each moment pressing her down further into her chair, like an oppressive gravity.
"It was, I mean, it. . . Just never mind," she finally uttered, wanting to crawl under her desk. If anyone walked by, they'd see how red she'd turned, a bad habit she thought she had ridded herself of. She hadn't blushed since high school. Now she was blushing all the time. She hated that she had such little control over her emotions lately.
"Are you okay?" he asked now a little concerned. She usually at least made a point. Today she just seemed more wound up than usual. He'd been struck at how her mature sophistication laced with silliness has become turned around anytime they've talked about this dating venture. She gets flustered and starts sentences that she can't seem to finish. Very un-Rory like. Actually, very un-Gilmore like, from what he's heard of the family.
What he didn't know is that is exactly what was happening to her thoughts when she talked to him—her mind just seemed to stop, wind down and all that she can think of is the way his hands had felt so powerful around her waist that night in the park. Great, now she was concentrating on it actively.
"Yeah, I'm fine."
He decided to give her a break and help direct the conversation back to the task at hand. She likes direct, organized problem solving. He can do that, even though he always finds it more amusing to get off on tangents with her. Not only does it frustrate her, but it's also when she laughs the most. Her laugh is infectious and it makes his breastbone reverberate. Logically he knows that it has something to do with the pitch of her voice, but no one else has ever made him react in such involuntary ways before.
"So, what night is good for you?"
"Uh, this Saturday is fine, I guess."
"Right, and you're sure that--, I'm sorry, what did you say her name was?"
"Huh?"
"The girl that you're setting me up with, what did you say her name was?"
"Oh, I didn't. It's Amelia, though."
"Amelia, I like that."
She frowned a little, not enjoying the tone of his voice. Not that she didn't want him to have a good time, but he just seemed a little. . . too excited. She shook it off and focused on making plans.
"Who are you setting me up with?"
"Oh, a buddy of mine, Charlie," he replied calmly.
"So, Saturday?"
"Yeah. I was thinking of this Indian place in SoHo, it's--,"
"I love that place! What time?"
"You like Indian food?" He was surprised, as most women hated Indian food. Actually now that he thought about it, most women he dated hated any place that they couldn't get salad and bread. Then again, he knew Rory actually had an appetite.
"I love it. I have a hard time finding people to eat it with, but those who do are on a special list," she smiled.
"What kind of list?"
"My favorite people list," she said seriously.
"I'm on your favorite people list?"
"Well, you weren't, but you like Indian food, so I might be forced to make an addendum," she consented.
"I'll see you Saturday, Rory," he smiled to himself due to this new knowledge.
"Bye, Tristan."
She hung up the phone and picked up the most pressing assignment, moving her mouse a little to clear her screensaver so she could start typing. She wasn't sure exactly what Saturday would be like, but she was excited to find out how the night would unfold.
AN: Sorry it took me so long. Stress-filled weekend kept interrupting my best intentions to work on writing. Thanks to Kathleen to making me smile and giving me the nudge I needed to sit and write.