"Teammates," I say. "Coworkers. Competitors. Right before I left, he was my boss."
Lincoln settles back on his side of the booth. Although I can't see what he's doing under the table, from the way he places an arm along the back of his seat, and how he shifts, I sense him manspreading underneath the white tablecloth. When he relaxes, I relax. I let out a deep breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
I manage a tremulous smile. Our waitress arrives with my usual lunch order, a plate of antipasto. Lincoln also has his usual, one small pork chop with a side of green beans and slivered almonds.
"Chef is trying out chopped walnuts instead of almonds today," the fiftyish waitress says with a smile. She has been on the staff of Cooper's for more than a decade, as she's told me on one of the other occasions I've had lunch here. She always seems to be ready with a suggestion of something else I might try, based on what I’ve had in the past. When she tells patrons about the daily specials, she often recites how the dish is made with appreciative eye rolls, really selling it. This is true of most of the experienced waitstaff at Cooper's. They have tried every item on the menu, and when Chef introduces something new, he workshops the dish, demonstrating how it's made, followed by a tasting. Most of the waitstaff are also very good salespeople.
I'm tempted by this particular dish. Too bad there are walnuts in it.
"Would you like to try this?" asks the server. "I can have Chef whip up an order without walnuts."
I give her a small smile. "That sounds awesome. Thank you."
Over lunch, I take Lincoln through the progress I've made on the community garden sponsorship. I found a small organization that maintains a community garden in South Oak Cliff, and they hold classes for children in the neighborhood. I pitch this organization to Lincoln because not only is it a worthy organization, it works with young people, teaches self-sufficiency, and could be expanded easily to provide internships at Cooper's sometime in the future, yada, yada, yada.
My marketing mind knows this is a good fit for the Cooper Restaurant Group. It would underscore the company's commitment to the community, and I suspected it would appeal to Lincoln for that reason alone.
"I love it!" he says, breaking into a smile.
I find myself sliding into a reluctant smile. Lincoln's enthusiasm is hard to ignore. I stop fidgeting with the cloth napkin, feeling a bit better than I did before. I am making plans for the future, not living in the past. The hot, rich man sitting across from me screwed my brains out, in every position imaginable, over the weekend. Judging by the looks of interest he shot me yesterday, as well as today, I am certain he'd be willing to give me another go, with very little encouragement on my part. I just felt it wasn't a good idea to go there.
I have everything ahead of me in life. A year ago, I'd been given a bushel of lemons, which I turned into lemonade. I should feel proud of myself, and I do.
I go through the details of the partnership I'm proposing between the Cooper Group and the community garden. I suggest we do a launch event sometime before Thanksgiving, and Lincoln agrees.
We finish lunch and awkwardly stare at each other. He has the look of someone working up the courage to ask an embarrassing question. He shifts in his seat and drums his fingers on the tablecloth. I watch these nervous tics wondering what embarrassing thing he’s going to ask me — will it be about Becker, or will it be about the night we spent together?
Lincoln reaches across the table to place his hand over mine. I freeze. I look around the dining room to see if any of the staff have noticed us. Consummate professionals that they are, the waitstaff know exactly when to appear and when to keep a discreet distance so their customers don't feel crowded. There is no one in sight.
"Samantha," he starts, and I shake my head subtly, eyes averted, because I don't want to have this conversation. "I know we said we would only have that one night, but my feelings for you won't go away."
His unexpected words take me aback, startle me. Reluctantly, I look up, and our gazes lock.
Lincoln has feelings? For me?
I can't look away from the sincerity in his brilliant blue eyes, which have darkened despite the afternoon sunlight streaking in from the picture windows on the other side of the dining room. Lincoln is a confident man. Lincoln is used to getting what he wants.
"Tell me, don't you feel the same?" The proud man's eyes now glitter and burn with his unspoken emotions.
I realize in this moment that Lincoln sees me. Lincoln wants me.
The realization makes me suck in a shaky breath. If Lincoln only wanted to fuck me, the way Becker had wanted to, that would be easy to deal with. But Lincoln isn't like that, and that scares the shit out of me.
"Lincoln —" I start to say. My throat is stiff, somehow, and the words don't want to come out. Sexual electricity crackles between us. My heart speeds up, my breathing goes shallow, and Lincoln looks as if he wants to leap over the table and attack me.
The world fades away until there are just two people sitting at a table at a high-end restaurant. The man wants the woman at an elemental level. The woman has the power to crush both of their hearts.
Words hover on my lips, ready to be spoken. I have two options: tell the truth, or pretend I don't know what he means.
He squeezes my hand, giving me a subtle head nod of encouragement. I lick my lips.
"Lincoln, I was involved with Becker," I say. Lincoln blinks in confusion. He holds my hand, but he leans away from me. "It ended badly."
I decide not to go into the humiliating details.
"I'm not telling you not to do business with him," I say in a rush. Lincoln lets go of my hand and crosses his arms over his chest. His puzzlement deepens as he watches me warily.
"I'm just saying that after things ended between us, I decided not to make that same mistake again," I say.
Lincoln looks angry. "So, you think it was a mistake? You think us making love was a mistake?"
I force myself to continue to meet his gaze.
"It would never work," I say.
"Oh really? And you know this how?"
"I just think we should keep our relationship strictly professional," I say. "I really enjoyed our time together. I can understand if you don't want to work with me any longer."
This is turning into another Becker situation. I start to get angry with myself.
Lincoln waves a dismissive hand. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "I can be a professional. You're good at what you do, and I happen to need your help at the moment. Once we get the community garden sponsorship off the ground, we can reevaluate. Sheila should be back by then, and I won't require your services anymore."
Lincoln slides out of his side of the booth. "Just let me know when we're going to meet with the community garden, and I'll be there. In the meantime, you know the way out, don't you?"
Without waiting for my answer, Lincoln gets to his feet and leaves.
My legs are wobbly as I head straight out of the dining room, nodding to the waitress who served us, as well as the hostess, who appears to be reviewing that evening's seating chart with the head waiter. I manage a small smile as I leave. I get into my truck, start it, and turn on the air conditioner. I feel hot all of a sudden, the space between my shoulders is tight, and I have a headache. I feel tired, and I want to cry. I grip the steering wheel, and eyes closed, I take several deep breaths.
After a minute or two, I am startled by tapping on my window. I jump like a frightened cat that has heard a loud noise, place a hand to my chest, and I just breathe.
The sweet, babyish face of Jesus, one of the valets, appears at my window. I let down my window.
"You okay, Ms. Mack?" In addition to his sweet, babyish face, the young man's eyebrows crease with concern.
I manage a nervous smile. I’ve smiled so much this afternoon when I haven't really wanted to, I'm pretty sure my face is about to crack.
"I'm fine," I say. "Just a little impromptu meditation."
Jesus nods at m
e, and I put my car in gear to drive away. It's late Wednesday afternoon, I have nothing pressing to do, and more than anything, I need to relax and regroup.
At home, I put all thoughts of Howard Becker out of my mind. I decide I might be coming down with something and make myself some Theraflu, often used as a global panacea for what ails me. I'm not hungry, so I take a relaxing shower and take myself to bed.
Chapter Eighteen: Lincoln
Dear Ida,
Against your previous advice, I slept with my client. It was a lapse that I am determined not to repeat.
I stayed away from work for several days to give our relationship time to reset, and hopefully, to give my client time to forget we had sex. When I came in, to my surprise, my ex-lover, who also happens to be my ex-boss, came out of my client's office. If that wasn't bad enough, afterwards, when my client and I met, he broached the subject of us continuing our personal relationship, a suggestion I quickly vetoed. Now I'm worried that we can never resume a friendly, strictly professional relationship. What should I do?
Sam in Texas
Great. Samantha is committed to keeping me in the friend zone. Fucking awesome.
It is Friday afternoon, and I'm in the office, too distracted to focus on anything work related. What else could I do but obsess over my situation with Samantha? That's why I'm reading Dear Ida's newest wave of advice to the lovelorn and hapless.
Slouched and dejected in my office chair, I read Samantha's letter over and over, wondering how I can possibly get her out of the mindset that we can't be involved. I understand now why she didn't want to mix her personal life with her professional one. Sure, she'd had a bad experience with the obsequious and slightly reptilian Howard Becker.
But I'm not Howard Becker. I'm certain Howard called me out of the blue to get to Samantha, who is that triple threat rarely found in a woman: strong, sweet, and sexy. Howard may still be carrying a torch for Samantha, but as far as I am concerned, that's a Howard problem, not a Samantha and Lincoln problem. After Howard pulled that shit in my office, I was barely able to control my rage. I knew something had gone on between Samantha and Becker before she'd even said so. I had hustled Becker, the so-called restaurant investor, out the back entrance and left him to emerge from between the dumpsters of rotting kitchen scraps to find his way back to the parking lot on his own. I doubted Howard would ever return to Cooper's. I feel satisfied that I knew Samantha well enough without her saying so that Howard was trash.
I scroll down the webpage to read Dear Ida's counsel.
Dear Sam in Texas,
Have you ever heard the saying, "You can change a cucumber into a pickle, but you can't turn a pickle back into a cucumber?"
Your once strictly professional relationship drove out of the friend zone the moment you consented to rumpled sheets fun with your client. Leaving the friend zone is a bit like driving on a turnpike and missing your exit. It's going to be at least fifty miles before you can turn around again, so you may as well forge ahead and aim for the next rest stop.
I frown at the screen. I'm not sure, exactly, what Dear Ida means by this tortured analogy. Nevertheless, I sit up and pay attention, because, clearly, Dear Ida is on my side.
It's clear your feelings for your client are strong enough that they've overridden your desire to maintain professional distance. Have you considered why that is? Life is short, Sam, and you should ask yourself why you, obviously a go-getter, would risk it all to share moments of passion with your client? Maybe you feel more than passion for your client, for that matter. Moreover, consider talking to your client/lover about your feelings. Share your misgivings with him. Clear the air, and set the ground rules for how you manage your relationship in the future.
Dear Ida's prose is a bit flowery, but her observations are on point. Samantha is a clear-eyed business woman, and it wasn't like her to give into impulse. Therefore, I mean more to her than she wants to admit. I just need to convince her that it's okay to want me. Piece of cake.
I understand that seeing your ex at work must have been a jarring experience. But just because you were faced with a living, breathing reminder of a past relationship gone sour, doesn't mean you should conclude your next relationship would end badly. As they say, past performance is no guarantee of future results.
Dear Ida's advice gives me hope for my future with Samantha. I pat myself on the back again for kicking Howard Becker out of my restaurant. No one fucks with my woman.
I hit the "contact us" button on the site, which brings up a form used for submitting questions to Ida. I type my question into the box, reading it carefully and making edits, but I hesitate before submitting it. What would be the point? I'm not waiting to hear from Ida before I talk to Samantha.
The weekend stretches before me, full of possibilities. I pack up my laptop and set off to find my woman.
***
Samantha hasn't returned my calls, nor responded to my texts for the past two days, but I need to see her. I drive to her condo and park in front of the building. I see her truck parked in front of the building, so she must be at home. A thought nags at me.
What if she's home, but she's not home alone? What if Howard Becker is with her, in her apartment?
I put the thought aside because it doesn't matter. If I go to her apartment and Howard is there, I'll simply kick him out. Easy.
But on her doorstep, my resolve wanes. I hear the low hum of a television on the other side of her door. No voices, just the television.
I frown at the painted wooden door. There is a peephole there, and although I cannot hear any signs of life, part of me wonders whether she is on the other side of the door, peering at me through her peephole. I check my phone and see I have no new messages. I knock on the door.
I wait, and when I hear nothing, I knock again, this time louder.
I hear faint shuffling noises on the other side of the door, the sound of locks being turned, and then Samantha opens the door. She wears a blanket with arms covered with SpongeBob wearing various expressions of glee. Sleep marks crisscross one side of her face, and the hair on that same side is mashed and stands on end. She looks a bit like a troll doll, assuming the troll doll wore an Afro. She has dark circles under her eyes. She is not wearing any makeup, and her complexion is sallow. Also, she looks like she needs a hug, which I am happy to administer.
But when I make a move toward her, she puts a hand up. "Don't get any closer," she croaks. "I'm sick."
I blink at her. No wonder she hasn't been returning my calls and texts.
"Let me in," I say, making another move to enter her unit.
"Didn't you just hear me?" she asks, sounding nasally and, frankly, miserable. I roll my eyes and barge in.
"I heard you," I say, headed for the kitchen to wash my hands. She shuffles after me. "How long have you been sick? Don't you have anyone to look after you?"
"No," she says stoically. "I'll be fine."
She sags into a chair at her kitchen table, her head drooping to one side. She draws her armed blanket around her, then self-consciously fingers her hair. It looks like she's wearing a tank top and boy shorts under the volumes of fabric. If she wasn't sick, I'd be all over her. As it is, she looks to be barely conscious and out of it, her skin shiny and feverish-looking. I look inside the refrigerator and see nothing more than a carton of eggs and a few takeout containers. The last time I was here, she at least had pancake mix and milk of dubious vintage—fine for making pancakes, if not for drinking.
My intention is to make an egg drop soup for Samantha. But the carton of eggs is alarmingly light. When I open it, I see she is one of those people who—wrongly, as it turns out—puts empty shells back in the egg carton. I make a mental note to tell her later not to do that.
I find bouillon cubes, a few limp scallions, and look at the meager makings of a meal.
"When was the last time you ate?" I ask Samantha, who appears to be struggling to keep herself upright. She squints and shrugs her shoulders. I’m
not surprised she resists being taken care of. Samantha Mack likes to be in charge. She likes to be the person providing the help, not accepting it.
Sighing, I pull her to her feet gently, pick her up in my arms, and settle her on the couch in front of her flatscreen TV. I sit on the coffee table in front of her and take her hands.
"I'm going to take care of you," I say. I lay the back of my hand against her forehead. She does not appear to be feverish, but I decide to hunt for a thermometer later, anyway.
"I don't want to get you sick," she croaks. "I can take care of myself."
I roll my eyes.
"Nonsense," I say. "I spent summers on my maternal grandmother's farm. As a result, I rarely get sick."
She slumps into the couch cushions, sighing. "Fine," she says, looking grumpy but resigned. The television show on the flatscreen appears to be some other dating show.
"Do you watch anything other than trashy shows like this?" I ask. "Surely, there's a Nova on."
She rolls her eyes, picks up the remote control, and waves me away.
I spend the next few minutes taking stock of her cold remedies, taking her temperature, and whipping up a passable egg drop soup. When I present this light fare to her, she wrinkles her nose, gives the bowl an experimental sniff, and reluctantly sips the concoction. She frowns, takes another sip, and proceeds to make murmurs of appreciation. I watch as she drains the small bowl. Then she holds it out to me.
"More," she states.
"Not yet," I tell her. She pouts.
"I'm going to Walgreens to pick up a few things that you don't have. Give me the key to your door so I can let myself in when I get back," I command.
She blinks at me. "My keys are on the hook by the kitchen door."
At the pharmacy, I pick up cold remedies, a new thermometer, tissues, cough drops, and a few cans of chicken noodle soup. I'm not interested in grocery shopping at the moment. I just want to get back to Samantha's place, get some drugs in her, and get her settled in to rest.
When I return to her condo, she's asleep on the couch, her lips parted and drool dribbling out of the side of her mouth. A photograph of this scene might prove useful in the future, but even I am not that big of an asshole. I get drugs in her, take her temperature, which is normal, settle her into bed, and kiss her forehead.
Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel Page 13