Heidi
Heidi’s next two weeks were consumed by thoughts of Bradley: which journalists were covering him, which outlets were willing to rethink their personal spin on his bad-boy ways, which sponsors were tentatively returning to the table.
Those were the professional thoughts, of course. Her other, private thoughts—well, they were unprintable.
With every charming headshot of his that she saw plastered to the top of an article, Heidi thought of those oversized hands, and imagined what they could do besides throwing a football. But she couldn’t dwell; she couldn’t let a man like Bradley pull her under, or she might drown in his world of charm and debauchery.
She’d set up shop in a cafe down the block, a place called Annie’s that served the best brownies in town. The owner—the eponymous Annie—had taken a liking to Heidi, and soon, the brownies became complimentary. In return, Heidi offered to help Annie with business models, revenue projections, and whatever else might require a master’s degree.
Annie kindly refused, saying all the help she needed was for Heidi to sit by the window and draw in customers with her good looks. In other words, she willingly became the decoration. She had to fend off some thirsty men (and a few women), but mostly, the joint was quiet.
Heidi found herself falling into a routine, with most days looking like so:
6:00 a.m.: Rise and shine, with the help of some pop music from the early 2000s. Check her phone to make sure Bradley hadn’t gotten up to anything while she slept. Every day, she found with relief that he had not.
6:15 a.m.: Out of the house, and off to the gym. Yuck. At least she looked good in athleisure. Watch the morning news on the treadmill, or the elliptical, or the bike. Read some emails, think about how deeply she was not a morning person. Catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror and decide getting up with the sun was worth it.
7:30 a.m.: Return home, eat breakfast, and prep for the day ahead.
8:00 a.m.: Drive to Annie’s, purchase her baked good and caffeinated drink for the day, and settle into the armchair in the corner. Spend the rest of the workday filling out various grant applications, loan agreements, offers of employment, and legal documents. Establish a web and social media presence and dial up former PR buddies to “get drinks,” which was code for “schmooze.”
All this while also putting out the fires of Bradley’s indiscretions, which took metric tons of metaphoric water. Some journalists and websites were happy to oblige; they, too, wanted to resume writing fawning blogs about him and his dashing good looks. Others, well—not everyone was ready to “reimagine,” as it were, his shenanigans.
Screw ’em, she thought.
She also touched base with Meredith, whom Heidi realized was one of the only reasons she’d stayed at Image-ine. Meredith had made Gary’s idiocy bearable with her constant mocking; she did a wicked impression of him that often left Heidi in fits of laugher. There was no way Heidi could forget a friend like that just because they weren’t working together; their relationship ran much deeper than that.
So, with an open invite from Heidi, Meredith would sometimes drop into Annie’s after work hours to keep Heidi company, helping her work out fledgling business kinks and just commiserate. Occasionally, this commiseration would spill over into the nighttime.
8 p.m.: Annie’s closing time, a full 12-hour workday later. If Heidi was alone, she’d go home, watch some trash TV and eat low-calorie ice cream. She was too tired to flick through dating apps, which had previously been a bit of a hobby of hers. Though, having swiped on the entire city of Orlando, that interest had naturally dimmed of its own accord.
If she was with Meredith, as she seemed to be more and more, they’d get cocktails at some hip new bar in the downtown area, one of those places with a live DJ scratching vinyl and bartenders who took their jobs way too seriously. More specifically, the women would get the men around them to buy the cocktails.
Heidi reasoned that, as a soon-to-be new business owner, it would be criminally stupid of her to spend her own money on booze. Flirtatious strangers, on the other hand, were welcome to waste as much of their cash on Heidi as they pleased. And, boy, were they ever happy to oblige. It was almost too easy, and Heidi would’ve missed the chase if she weren’t so damn worn out.
11:30 p.m.: Bedtime. Heidi would strip off all her clothes and clamber naked into the cool, refreshing sheets. The schedule was incredibly rigorous, and a few more hours of sleep would be welcome, but actually—and this even came as a surprise to her—she was really happy.
Doing a job well suited her; it left her exhausted and satisfied at the end of the day. It was kind of like vigorous sex—sweaty work, but worth the end result.
And when she finally did hit the bed, her dreams were all about the very thing she couldn’t have: Bradley Fox. No sooner would her eyes squeeze shut, then she’d begin to see hot scenes of them doing various intimate activities.
She saw herself visiting him for a follow-up meeting, but unzipping her dress and letting it fall to the floor as she walked into his house. She saw him shoving her up against those granite kitchen counters, saw it so vividly she could almost feel the icy touch of the counter on the small of her back. She saw his lips spreading open, and moving close to press against her own.
The dreams were bathed in sunlight, and were so tactile that sometimes she woke with a start, rolling over in bed expecting to find a naked Bradley. Alas, they were still just dreams, and her bed remained sadly Bradley-free.
They’d been in occasional contact over the past few weeks, but nothing more than a text or two, just her running plays by him, no pun intended. Business texting left little room for romantic tension; calendars and email coordination did not lend themselves to innuendo.
But now, after working some backbreaking hours, she was ready to give him a call. She found herself excited to hear that melodic voice saying her name, as though it was a song he sung gladly. Besides, away from the confines of what was acceptable to say over text, perhaps he would get a little…freer…with his words.
Stop that, she instructed herself. No ‘free with words’ nonsense. You are Heidi Morris, and you are a professional. Totally. Always. No room for argument.
From the comfort of her armchair at Annie’s, on exactly day 14 of her bravely fighting media fires, Heidi took out her cell and dialed Bradley. She held her breath as the dial tone came through. At last, on the final ring (was he taunting her?), he picked up.
“Heidi?”
There was that damn voice, the voice that sounded more like a late-night radio broadcaster than something that belonged to a regular human. She wondered how many women he’d hooked with his baritone, and how well that voice lent itself to dirty talk. But she never lost her composure for a man; it was against her principles.
“Yes, it’s me. Hey there, Bradley. I’m calling with some good news.”
She paused, letting the excitement mount in the silence.
“Assuming you’re on board with some meet-and-greets post-games next season—just a few of the big fans and donors you know, nothing excessive—as well as at a couple of choice parties, plus putting in charity appearances where I expect you to make sizable, public donations…”
“Of course.”
“Assuming you do all that, I’d say that the crisis has officially been averted.”
On the other end of the line, she heard him let out a whoosh of breath and a small laugh. She suspected it was the first time he’d laughed in a while.
“God, Heidi—thank you. I’m in your debt.”
“No, your bill is all squared up; I’ve already received the deposits.”
“You know what I mean. I wish there was some way I could show you just how grateful I am.”
She certainly knew one way. However, Heidi wanted to keep it professional, to make a good name for herself in this town as she began to build a brand. But she was still a woman who was attracted to men. Especially men who looked like he did. Which is why she said:
>
“I’m sure you can think of a way.”
“How about,” he replied, “taking you out for dinner tonight?”
“Sounds great. Let’s make it tomorrow, though. I need to catch up on some sleep.”
“It’s a date. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Okay,” she blurted out, mentally stumbling over the word ‘date.’ “See you then.”
Is it a date? she thought, mind racing. Do you want it to be a date?
She groaned, confused—and a little bit aroused—and put her head in her hands. Since when did PR management get so emotionally complicated?
Chapter 8
Bradley
Bradley let his car idle in front of her apartment; he’d arrived fifteen minutes early, but didn’t want to appear too eager. Bradley had spent the best part of 24 hours hemming and hawing over the details of the date—er, meeting. Where would they go that was both upscale and intimate? He wanted to impress her, but also exhibit a tasteful restraint.
What exactly were the professional lines in the sand? Would she cross them? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so taken by a woman, so utterly baffled over how to conduct himself.
It wasn’t just that she was hot—though, of course, that didn’t hurt things. He’d met and dated and slept with more than his fair share of hot women, and they were no longer a novelty to him. Rather, it was her unquenchable drive—that roaring ambition that had somehow righted the sinking ship of his public reputation—that turned him on.
She’d neatly resolved seemingly insurmountable dramas that would’ve taken any other PR rep months to solve. Heidi Morris was a powder keg. He saw himself in her—the way she demanded what she wanted, and then found a way of getting it. Like him, she called the plays, and executed them to perfection.
He passed the minutes listening distantly to a podcast, though in reality, he was thinking about how close she would be to him in the minuscule sports car, which was only barely a two-seater. It was designed to go fast, not fit a whole family. The podcast included a series of stories by random people on a specific theme, and he paid close enough attention to get the gist of them until one woman started recounting how she lost her virginity. At that point, he got a little hot around the collar and silenced the sound system.
Luckily, he didn’t have too long to wait between turning off the podcast and the date; he’d neatly elapsed the entirety of the fifteen minutes, though it had been a testing wait.
Suddenly, through the glass walls, he could see her in the lobby of her apartment building. She was adjusting her skirt and settling a chain that lay around her neck. Her actions were fidgety, a little self-soothing.
Good, he thought. She’s nervous too. Nervous, but timely.
He appreciated timeliness more than most people knew, a trait instilled by his mother and endless childhood football practices that started precisely when the clock hit four in the afternoon. He had, to his mild shame, even ditched dates for leaving him waiting past their original appointment time. What could he say? Sometimes, he was just kind of a dick.
As Heidi approached his car, he noted that she’d transformed from the nervous, jangling girl he’d spotted through the glass. Now, she was a tigress: long, bold steps in her strappy heels, arms swaying at her sides, walking as if down a Parisian runway. Remembering his manners, he jumped out of the car, made his way to the passenger side, and held open her door.
She stopped in front of the car and adopted a sober expression.
“How could you take me out in something so shabby?” she asked, deadpan, gesturing to the vehicle. It was one of only one hundred in the world, hand crafted by a team of five in the Italian countryside, and gleamed with black iridescent paint. In other words, ‘exclusive’ didn’t even begin to cover how obscenely nice it was.
Bradley laughed, thankful that she wasn’t cooing over his wealth. He already had enough friends who wanted him for his cash, and didn’t need another. Plus, maybe it would be interesting to see if he could win a woman who couldn’t give less of a shit about how loaded he was.
Uh, no, he muttered in his head, interrupting the train of thought. You’re not trying to win her, you stupid son of a bitch.
“Well, it was either this or the minivan, so consider yourself lucky,” he shot back at last.
She grinned and swooped gracefully into the passenger seat. He shut the door, and walked back to the driver’s side, settling himself into the comfortable, hand-stitched leather upholstery.
“What do you like?” he asked, gesturing towards the chrome radio.
She reached for the console and let her fingers flutter over the stereo. After a moment of fiddling with the buttons, she settled on the local classic vinyl station. He raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Really?”
“Oh yeah.”
“I would’ve pegged you for a 2010s pop kinda girl.”
“Nah, but I like that you were trying to peg me.”
He blushed and looked over to see if she caught the accidental (?) innuendo she’d made. The color was rising in her cheeks, too. How naughty, he thought to himself with a touch of glee.
Heidi quickly changed the subject, which Bradley noted with a little internal chuckle; she was a bit of a novice when it came to subtlety. The laugh caught in his throat when he noticed how high the skirt was rising around her legs; its hem was caught on the edge of the seat, and thus laying bare more and more of her tan thighs. He flashed back to the dreams he’d been having recently, in which those thighs played a big role: wrapped around his back, kneeling on the ground, splayed across him, spread-eagle style.
Eyes on the road, he thought sternly. Make small talk.
And so he did make small talk, though Bradley wasn’t sure how convincing it was.
“Are you going to that Orlando Museum gala next weekend?” he asked, having fumbled for something to chat about.
“Uh, no. I can’t possibly sit through that many speeches about nothing. Too much rambling by old guys who spit on the microphones.”
He nodded in agreement. “They asked me to make an appearance.”
“I know,” she said with a smile, “the organizers ran it by me.”
“Right, of course.”
“I’m not that demanding—you don’t have to attend that bore-fest.”
He laughed, and added, “I don’t know if I could take another round of overcooked pasta. Last year’s catering almost made me puke in the champagne fountain.”
Heidi emitted a chuckle at this, and he was pleased with himself for getting one out of her.
From then on out, the conversation flowed naturally. They talked about their various neighborhoods, other current events, an art show that Heidi wanted to see. Bradley eagerly offered to buy her a set of tickets, and she beamed.
He pulled to a stop in front of the valet just as they were settling into the comfortable familiarity of friends. After a long internal debate, he’d settled on Mochu’s for dinner. Not intimidatingly high-end, but no slouch either. He once again jogged around to the passenger side, which was no easy feat in a well-cut, three-buttoned suit and tight Oxfords that the football league had actually claimed were damaging for feet, and advised against players wearing.
Worth it, he thought. This suit is doing good things for me.
He helped Heidi get out of the car before the valet could butt in. She placed her hand in his, and pressed gently on it, using him as leverage, and he let his fingers hold onto hers for just a beat too long. They both stared at their locked grasp, unsure what to do about it. Quickly, Heidi pulled away, and Bradley mirrored her lead, coughing with embarrassment.
Dinner was in a dazzlingly white room. Brushed glass ran across all four walls, and the ceiling was at least two stories tall, with an enormous skylight fixed in the center. The restaurant was bathed in moonlight and the glow of candles which hung in sconces. Candelabras were centered on every table, so that each group looked to be their own pinprick of light. It was
like something out of a fairytale.
The maître d’ led them to what was plainly the finest table in the house; it was positioned on a raised dais—almost like a wedding, Bradley thought with some concern—and afforded them a good people-watching view over the rest of the luxuriously dressed diners.
Bradley pulled out a chair for Heidi, and soon, his wedding-related fears were assuaged; they were once again in close conversation, heads bent near to each other, quiet laughs bubbling from both throats.
He watched as Heidi’s hands trailed up and down her arms, tracing unintentionally sensuous paths over goosebumps.
“Are you cold?”
“A little,” she admitted.
He took off his blazer, careful to keep the designer label hidden from sight. Wouldn’t want her to think his gesture was merely an opportunity for peacocking. He leaned in close, suspended the jacket in air, and deftly swooped it around her shoulders. He saw her throat move up and down in a quick gulp.
Once more, he had to instruct his body to move back from hers, and leave enough distance to keep operating under the word “professional.” It took a pretty concerted effort on his part, one that would have toppled a lesser man.
“So,” he began, looking for something to cut the tension induced by his jacket, “I saw on your resume that you went to Miami U.”
“I did, yeah.”
“With a business degree?”
“You did your homework.”
He actually had done his homework, though only once that first electric meeting had taken place. He’d gone on a guilty deep-dive through Heidi’s social media, which was frustratingly empty for a woman who worked in image management. Her business page offered the most well-rounded view of her life, but even that was meager pickings. He’d been able to find out the basics of her life—the years, the locations, etc.—but nothing personal, nothing that couldn’t be gleaned from a yearbook or resume.
He was anxious to learn more, so he went on, asking, “What was it like for you? College, I mean.”
Baby Surprises 7 Book Box Set Page 110