“I forgot, I guess.” The man spoke to the ceiling with his eyes closed. It was a little painful to watch. “Pumpkin, I’m really sorry. I can take the dress to the dry cleaners in the morning; it’s not a big deal.”
Judging by the shrieks that erupted from his phone it was, indeed, a big deal. He glanced at her and shrugged. She looked away, rolling her eyes. Women like that needed a good dose of sleepless nights, a crying baby and a growing mound of unpaid bills to bring them back to reality. Dry cleaners, she sniffed. Auntie would be all over that.
“Ok, ok, pumpkin, I know,” he said. “Yes, right away. I think—” He paused in mid-sentence and pulled the phone away from his ear. He stared at the screen before shoving the phone in his pocket. She softened slightly. He had a very kind face and his wife sounded like a menace.
“Hung up on you?” she asked.
“Again.”
“You might try calling her by her name instead of pumpkin.” Robin stepped through the elevator doors and spoke over her shoulder. “She’s not a vegetable.”
She raced off through the lobby, not waiting for him to respond. Her bag bounced off her hip as she jogged through the parking lot to her car. Get the portfolio, get back upstairs, nail this interview. She reached her car, and spied her portfolio lying in the back— and her keys sitting on the front seat.
She stopped breathing. She grabbed the door handle and tugged.
“No!” she groaned, pulling on the door frantically in defiance of the evidence in front of her eyes. She tipped her head back and moaned.
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” she chanted, dropping her purse to the ground. She dashed to the trunk. “You’ve got this. It’s fine. You can fix this.”
Her best friend Neil was all about positive affirmations.
“You can fucking fix this,” she growled positively.
The lock on Robin’s trunk was broken and she had never gotten it fixed. The muffler was also about to fall off and she was pretty sure there was a hole in the floor on the passenger side, but right now she was glad she couldn’t afford a new trunk lock. She popped it open and stared blankly at the wall of trunk between her and the back seat.
“Those fold down,” she said, walking herself through the crisis. “Just fold one down and Bob’s your uncle.”
She hiked up her skirt and crawled headfirst into the tight fit of the trunk, tugging and pushing on the release lever until she was rewarded with a click. A firm shove pushed the back of the seat forward. She wriggled herself between the child seat and the folded down trunk, but her portfolio was underneath the folded down part of the seat.
“Fuck!” she howled. She cursed several more times as she reached awkwardly over the child seat to pop the lock on the door before struggling her way back out of the trunk.
She scraped her shin sharply on the bumper and knocked her head on the trunk door as she fell backward onto the pavement, landing hard on her bum right beside a pair of shiny leather shoes.
THE BRUNETTE FROM THE elevator dashed across the parking lot and then appeared to have a seizure at the side of her car. He heard her cursing as he approached. She had obviously locked her keys in her car. He hesitated.
Delia was waiting, fuming, for him to arrive and run errands for her endless shopping demands.
He took another step toward his vehicle, then turned again toward the cursing woman who was now halfway into the trunk of her car. He smiled. Her classy red skirt slid up over her knees and her derriere hiked into the sky as she slowly disappeared into the belly of the car.
He couldn’t abandon such determination, even though she had seemed fiercely unapproachable in the elevator. He chuckled as more cursing drifted from the open trunk. One of her shoes fell off as she began to shuffle her way backwards. He picked the shoe off the ground and enjoyed the red skirt as it rutched up over her firm thighs. He politely turned away as the skirt moved into uncharted territory. Those were lovely legs, though.
He heard a bump and a grunt. Just as he turned back to face her, she toppled backward, landing with a thump at his feet before he could reach out to catch her.
He crouched beside her, uncertain if he should speak or wait for the cursing to stop. Her knees were bent, and one had a nasty scrape blooming across it. For a fleeting moment her face opened in surprise and he marveled at her bright eyes and full lips before her frown returned and she turned her head to spit a gob of blood onto the pavement.
“I bit my tongue,” she lisped. She looked so forlorn he was overwhelmed with the desire to hug her. He held out her shoe instead.
“Are you ok?” he asked gently. He wanted to lift her to her feet and wrap her in a warm blanket, but she held up one hand as a shield while she wiped her lip with the other. He felt like a first responder at an accident scene where the victim was about to yell at him for saving her.
“So not ok,” she muttered. Ignoring his hand, she levered herself to her feet. He threw caution to the wind and took her elbow as she flexed her leg and grimaced. Her ponytail came undone in a tousled tangle as the sun caught flecks of gold and red in the chestnut mass. He dropped her shoe by her foot and she balanced against him as she slid it on. She was warm and soft. They stood quietly for a moment leaning together.
“I’m having quite a day,” she said. “And now I’m bleeding and my skirt is dirty.”
They both glanced over the front of her skirt now bearing a distinctive smudge of grease. A tiny trickle of blood oozed down the front of her shin. She spit on the ground again.
“Can I drive you home?” He put his arm around her shoulder impulsively. She didn’t seem in much of a state to walk across the parking lot, never mind drive home to get cleaned up.
She stiffened and pulled away from him, glancing at her watch with a gasp.
“Oh, my sweet flying fuck.” She pushed him out of the way and yanked open the rear door. He took a step back, hoping she wouldn’t fall over again. She reached over a child’s seat and grabbed a portfolio out of the back of the vehicle, almost bumping her head again as she threw herself out of the car. She slammed the door and took several steps toward the high-rise office building. She stopped and called over her shoulder before turning and racing up the steps.
“Close my trunk, will ya?”
He blinked as she disappeared inside the wide double doors of the office building. His phone blatted at him as he reached up and closed her trunk. He muted it, wondering what he should do about her keys which still sat neglected on the driver’s seat.
He could still feel the warmth of her pressed against him. He glanced at the child’s seat in the back. Some man was incredibly lucky to have such an independent woman in his life. Foul-mouthed as a sailor, but lovely.
On an impulse, he took out his business card and dropped it by her keys on the seat, made sure her doors were unlocked and turned to deal with his demanding girlfriend.
Chapter 3
Back in the elevator, Robin took several deep breaths and closed her eyes. She could do this. She smoothed her skirt and strode purposefully into the fourth-floor hallway, finding the door with Proxly and Son engraved on the frosted glass. One more deep breath, a broad smile pasted on her face and she walked in.
One glance told her this space needed her. Pale grey walls, boring framed certificates, not a single plant or piece of artwork to break the monotony. A severe looking woman sat behind an austere desk, with several very stiff office chairs pushed against the wall. A low coffee table hosted an array of hunting and fishing magazines that looked to be from the 1970s. She could do this. She could fix this. She had created her business for exactly this kind of challenge. She welcomed the surge of confidence that propelled her across the room.
“I’m Robin Nelson, of Design by Robin.” She approached the desk using her best professional voice. “I have an appointment with Mr. Proxly.”
The secretary looked her up and down sceptically.
“And did you happen to wrestle a monkey in preparation for said appoi
ntment?” The woman peered at her over her half-glasses. Robin blinked. Same hairdo as Auntie, same prim body language, same age. Her rush of confidence drained away like old dish water.
“I, uh, no?” Robin frowned.
The woman scanned her from head to toe, stopping to raise her eyebrows and make a coughing sound like she was choking on bad manners. Robin glanced at the name plate on the desk. Mrs. Davies.
“My dear, I’m sure you haven’t met Mr. Proxly if you intend to have a successful interview looking like that.”
The woman tilted her head in Robin’s general direction.
She looked down at her untucked blouse, her grease stained skirt and the trickle of blood running down her shin. Her hair hung down in her face and she tugged it back, realizing she had lost her clip and that wrestling monkeys was a pretty good guess for the disaster she was in.
“Mrs. Davies.” She pressed both hands flat on the desk, hoping there wasn’t any blood on her lips. “Where is the washroom?”
“Robin Nelson...” Mrs. Davies said thoughtfully. “You wouldn’t be Rosalee’s great-niece by chance?”
Sweet Jesus, we’re going to talk about laundry.
Robin closed her eyes, still leaning over the desk, still bleeding down her leg.
“I am,” she said. “And believe me, Auntie would be appalled to see me in such disorder.”
Mrs. Davies smiled, her face transformed into a benevolent grandmother who Robin wanted to snuggle. Robin desperately needed a snuggle. Mrs. Davies opened a drawer and rummaged around, pulling out a stick of laundry repair.
“Rosalee is a lovely woman,” she said, handing Robin the stick, a package of baby wipes and, miraculously, a hair clip. “I see you have your portfolio.”
She held out her hand.
Robin passed her the folder.
“You totter off to the washroom.” She gestured to the right. “I’ll pass this on to Mr. Proxly and tell him I’m collecting your contact information while you sort yourself out. Those laundry wands are like magic on grease.”
Mrs. Davies scuttled out from behind the desk, her head barely coming to Robin’s shoulder. She waved her out the door, clutching the cleaning products in both hands.
Robin found the washroom. She thankfully locked the door and leaned against it. A laundry stick. She made a mental note to add that to her list of needs. She did a quick inventory of her tarnished self and sighed deeply.
A quick shake and tuck and her hair was neatly pinned back. She scrubbed the grease on her skirt and was amazed that it faded like magic. She washed her leg and tucked in her blouse and rearranged her boobs so everything was in the right place and pointing in the right direction.
“You’ve got this,” she said to her reflection, hands on her hips, legs braced. “You are fabulous! You are strong! You are a winner!”
She stared at herself, daring her reflection to defy her.
“THESE ARE VERY ORDERLY.” Mr. Proxly turned the pages of her portfolio and nodded agreeably.
“No one has ever described my work as orderly, Mr. Proxly.” She smiled winningly. She intended to do everything winningly, to ensure that she won.
“I am an admirer of order and diligence in all things, Ms. Nelson.”
She liked him. His watery blue eyes and bald head reminded her of a Saturday morning cartoon character.
“I can tell,” she said, gesturing at the military precision of his desk. Phalanxes of files and papers awaited their marching orders.
“Yes, my son finds it all a bit much also,” he said. “Order and reliability, Ms. Nelson. Hallmarks of Proxly and Son Legal Services.”
“I want to assure you that my designs can reflect your own aesthetic, Mr. Proxly. If you don’t mind me saying, your current design is austere to the point of vacancy. You’d be amazed at what some color and a few points of interest can do to achieve an orderly design that is pleasing to the eye and appealing to your clientele.”
She hoped she was saying the right things.
“And plants” She added, when he said nothing. She waited in silence.
“Maybe an aquarium?” She’d bring in Moby Dick himself if it meant she got the job.
“Oh, I am a fan of a nice aquarium.” His eyebrows rose on his shiny forehead like bushy caterpillars.
“I think, if I may...” She needed to hit just the right combination of poised and pushy, without being too pushy, but without being too poised either. Robin had never been able to master poised. “You are looking for something a bit more modern, probably to accommodate your son’s tastes and the younger clients he may attract, but without losing the classic professional charm that is more your style.”
He looked at her.
“Are you suggesting that I am old, Ms. Nelson?”
She swallowed.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
“Because I am, and it is quite refreshing for someone as lovely as yourself to acknowledge that fact with such grace and tact.”
She sat forward in her seat. “Mr. Proxly, sir, I would really, really love to do this project for you. Your office space deserves to reflect your personality and vision. I can take some measurements if you like, and give you a quote—”
“I admire your enthusiasm, Ms. Nelson.”
He stood up and came around the huge mahogany desk, taking her by the elbow as he passed her back her portfolio and led her to the door. “We will be in touch.”
“Oh, um?”
She wanted to know now. She wanted to grab him by his crisp lapels and shake him until he told her she had the job. A small voice inside her told her that this was a dance, and she had to be a willing partner if she wanted to stay on the dance floor.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Proxly.”
She shuffled into the waiting area, completely drained. His door closed behind her and she willed herself to believe it was just a door, not the momentous click of destiny. Mrs. Davies looked at her over her glasses. She carefully removed them and folded her hands on her desk.
“I know, dear.” She held up both hands to stop Robin. “You young people want to know yesterday that you’ve been successful today, but that is not the Proxly way.”
“I just really need this, Mrs. Davies,” she said, glancing at her watch. She had to pick Izzy up, get groceries, make supper. She wanted to tell the older woman all of it. Every item on her list and every deficiency in her resources but instead she smiled and slung her purse over her shoulder. “Thank you for your help. It meant a lot.” She pulled out the baby wipes and the laundry stick, holding them out with both hands.
“You keep those, dear. There may be more monkey wrestling in your future. Do give my regards to your Great-Aunt Rosalee.”
Robin smiled and made her way back down to the parking lot. Her stomach clenched in dread as she remembered she had left her keys on the driver’s seat. If she was locked out of her car again, it would take more than a laundry stick to clean her off when she was finished. She stood by the car door, her hand poised on the handle.
“Please, whoever is up there,” she whispered and pulled the latch. The door opened and she sagged in relief. She tossed her bag and portfolio into the back seat and scooped up her keys— and a business card. She dropped into the driver’s seat and looked at the card.
“Proxly and Son.” A blush rose from the very soles of her feet to her flaming cheeks. “Hudson Proxly, lawyer.”
The son.
The son of Proxly.
The son of Bernard Proxly had watched her catapult herself backward out of the rear end of a vehicle. Had heard her cursing like a sailor on shore leave. Had seen her with her skirt rutched up to her...
She thumped her head against the steering wheel.
There was no way she would get the job now.
Chapter 4
Hudson worked late for the rest of the week, determined to prove to his father that his work was both careful and exemplary, even at the risk of Delia’s displeasure with his absences. On Friday
he left a bit early, planning to get in a workout before they went out to dinner. Hudson drove slowly down the main street of Heartswell Harbour. Delia waited, impatiently, for him to arrive at their apartment, but he turned his vehicle in the opposite direction.
The tree-line streets of the town passed slowly, flowering baskets hanging outside of store windows, benches lining the wide sidewalks. He rolled down his window to enjoy the late afternoon breeze coming off the ocean.
He knew he shouldn’t bother, but he pulled into the construction site where Thompson Construction was building a series of condo row houses on an abandoned stretch of road just outside of town. It had been a brilliant purchase by the company and would benefit the community by bringing more money into the area as wealthy retired businessmen bought up the condos for their families. Or their mistresses. Working as a lawyer in a small town, Hudson held no illusions about the fidelity of some of the town’s wealthiest denizens.
He sat for a moment in the parking lot.
His father had checked his files five times.
He knew this situation inside out and backwards. There was no harm in dropping in and offering a personal reassurance that everything was moving ahead.
Doink was the foreman on site.
Doink was a three-hundred-pound chunk of furry muscle with a handlebar mustache.
“The ‘stache drives the ladies crazy,” he yelled, thumping Hudson on the back so hard his teeth clicked together. Doink yelled everything. He’d been working construction since he was sixteen and had only worn hearing protection in the years since his wife left him because she got tired of him ignoring her. “You should think of working on some facial hair there, my son.”
“I haven’t shaved for three days,” Hudson said, rubbing his chin. “I think I’ve got a nice stubble goin’ on.” At thirty-two, Hudson still had the smooth skin that seemed to be in the Proxly genes.
Doink laughed and pounded him on the back again.
Love by Design: A Heartswell Harbour Romance Page 2