by Lia London
“Oh, so you’re the prima donna in this duo,” she teased, waving a fry between them.
“Haven’t I always been?”
“Yeah.” She nuzzled his legs a little tighter and smiled. “So, what now?”
“I wait two weeks before the Tribune takes me on in the Entertainment section, reviewing live fine arts events.”
Amaya squealed and bolted from her seat to drag him to his feet. “What?! How did you not tell me this until now? That’s amazing!”
Frank smiled at the soft strength of her embrace and let his palms settle comfortably at her lower back. “Because I’m still focused on the most important news—that you forgave me for being a—”
“Nuh-uh, I—”
He kissed her silent, delighted by the simple salty sweetness of her lips. “Anyway, I’ll have to find an apartment up here. Might have to trade my Lexus for a bicycle.”
“Yeah, that’ll help you fit in. And then you can afford the rent.”
“And I’ll be back to eating like a normal, starving bachelor.”
“Except on Sundays, when you come with me to Grammy MarLee’s.”
“I won’t miss a week.” He soaked in the beauty of her face, and the hope engendered by his time with her. Everything felt new and possible. “Tell your cousins they can bring up their essays every weekend, and I’ll help them.”
“You don’t mind my big, loud family?”
“They’re all real. They’re happy. I’m hoping they’ll rub off on me.”
Amaya brushed her cheek against his and chuckled. “Frank, we’re standing mighty close, right here in the middle of a fast food joint in the middle of the day. You’re not embarrassed by this?”
“We aren’t dancing?” He swayed and clasped her hand in ballroom position. “I thought we were dancing.”
“Oh. All right then.” She grinned. “They’re piping in Top-40 hits. What do you have in mind?”
Frank laughed and began a simple two-step. Amaya followed his lead without hesitation, and when a woman trailing two toddlers bustled in through the side doors, Frank and Amaya swirled right past them and outside, dancing in the damp, spring sunshine to the music of their hearts.
Northwest Locations Mentioned in Amaya’s Dance
This book, more than the others, relied on fictional locations for most of the scenes. The restaurant names and descriptions were all imaginary (because frankly, Amaya’s right: Oregonians don’t tend to get so gussied up for dinner), but I did do some research on the menus of some of the posher places in Portland. Fun fact: I named each place after dance terminology!
The following are real places with links for you to learn more. Come out and visit us some time!
The Northwest Dance Project ~ This is a real performance company and dance school in the Portland metro area, and it does have outreach programs for youth, but the descriptions of Amaya’s “studio” are completely imaginary, as are the descriptions of the specific dance concert. They specialize in original choreography in contemporary dance, and their slogan is “Daring. Talented. Fearless.” I thought that fit Amaya pretty well.
Keller Auditorium ~ This is one of the live performance venues in Portland, though not the normal home of The Northwest Dance Project. Built in 1917, it frequently hosts Broadway shows on tour and a wide array of ballets, operas, and family events.
The Hult Center ~ This is an amazing theater facility in Eugene, Oregon. It hosts over 700 performing events a year! Fun fact: my sister actually performed there in her younger days, starring in a rock opera by The Who.
University of Oregon ~ Most college sports fans in Oregon identify themselves either as a Duck (University of Oregon) or a Beaver (Oregon State University), hence the reference to a civil war at MarLee’s dinner table. The Ducks have been Rose Bowl bound a few times, so football is a big deal. Our family have always been Ducks, but I’ll cheer for the Beavs when they play anyone else. I still think Frank’s idea to combine the teams and the mascots in the might Platypuses (Platypi?) isn’t a terrible idea.
The Portland Tribune and Eugene Register-Guard are real local newspapers but are represented entirely fictionally in this story. Both have considerably smaller circulation than is implied in the story here.
A Bid for Love
Chapter 1 ~ The Professional Cut
“C’mon, Crawdaddy. Take the dumb job. It’s easy money!” Bran’s voice came shrill through the speakerphone. “A photo shoot for a brochure, and a lead in an infomercial.”
Crawford squinted at his sweltering reflection in the massive mirror he’d installed in his apartment home gym. “Will there a be a bunch of rehearsals?”
“No, no. You won’t have to worry about lines. They’ll be using voiceovers. You just show off your gorgeous self.”
“From the neck up,” scoffed Crawford. “I’m really supposed to pretend I’m an architect?”
Bran returned to his usual pushy charm. “You’ll work a day or two and walk away with a cool $5,000. What’s your hang-up? It’s September in the Pacific Northwest, Crawdaddy. You’re not going to get more beach-themed commercials for a while, unless you want to head down to Australia.”
“Tempting.” Crawford dropped the barbell and crouched beside the cell where it lay charging. The patchy reception made his agent’s voice whinier than usual. “I know it’s a fantastic deal, Bran, but the hair! Do I really have to cut it short?” He ran his fingers through the shaggy, dark gold locks at his forehead. “That’s my second best real estate behind the body.”
“You’re a model, Crawdaddy. There isn’t any other real estate than the body. Your hair is part of your body. The producers want it in a short, professional cut.”
Crawford grunted. He knew his sculpted muscles paid the bills, but he hated being reminded he had no other marketable assets.
“Hair grows back, Crawford. Five thousand bucks doesn’t grow as fast.”
Crawford could hear Bran sighing and knew he’d need to accept soon or lose the job to one of the other actors on the PDX Prime Agency’s list. With a tug, he yanked the cell from the charging cord and began pacing. “You’re saying no one will see this stuff outside of their corporate connections? This is all in-house?”
“In-house Spokane.”
“Wait, what? Where’s Spokane?”
“It’s up in Washington. I’m sorry it’s not more exposure for you, but—”
“No, no,” said Crawford, shaking out his legs, still thrumming from the weighted squats he’d been doing. “That’s the only thing that makes this a maybe. I don’t want to be on TV in a dorky business suit, but if you’re sure no one will see this—”
“Oh, gotcha.” Bran laughed, his tone relaxing. “No worries on that. This is low profile, big bucks. It can’t possibly hurt your sexy-man branding, Crawford.”
“Good, because the cash is good.”
“No kidding. It’s ridiculously good.”
“And it’s just a couple of days in Spokane?”
“Yes.”
“Are they paying for the hotel?”
“Uh, I couldn’t swing that, but Crawdaddy, come on! 5K. You can afford to put yourself up for a couple of nights, right?” Bran’s voice cracked.
“Right.” Crawford clutched his bangs in tight fingers and posed in the mirror from three of his best angles. He really loved the longer hair framing his face like a lion’s mane. A lion with a huge pride of babe lionesses who loved the mane, too.
“Is that a yes?” pressed Bran.
“Take it.” Crawford exhaled with frustration and gave himself a noogie. “I’ll find a way to spike the hair up cool after the job.”
“Sure, sure, Crawdaddy,” cooed Bran. “We’ll still get you the hot guy slots whenever they come up. You’ve got the goods even with a nice-boy haircut.”
Crawford gave a smug nod. He might be from Portland’s soggy streets, but his body was San Diego sunshine all the way. “All right, Bran. Thanks, man. Send me the details, and I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful, Crawford. It’s a great opportunity.”
Dropping the phone onto the weight bench, Crawford sat down with his elbows on his knees. Cutting his hair in a professional style ranked on his Top 5 Ways to Lose the Ladies list. Girls might marry the “good boys”, the responsible ones, but they had way more fun with the “bad boys”. Crawford excelled at all the daring moves that earned the swooning groupies, and he planned to keep it that way. If he lacked any other career prospects, he gladly accepted a bid for Sexiest Man Alive.
He straddled the bench, ready to start some ab work when the ringtone announced a female caller. All women, except his relatives, chimed in with “Tonight’s the Night.” Glancing at the caller ID, he groaned.
Bonni. Her last name started with a G, or maybe a W. Super cute with a bleached pixie cut and silicone in all the right places.
But three calls in one week?
Crawford swiped the Decline button and blocked her number. The last thing he needed—besides a dorky haircut—was a girlfriend pinning him down and expecting him to act like a husband, or an accountant, or something. If he ever accidentally bumped into her somewhere, he’d claim his phone fell in the toilet and he lost all his contacts. He’d probably even get some fresh action from the ploy because she’d be so grateful to see him again.
And if not, whatever. Bran would get him another beer commercial, and he’d have a dozen more girls lining up to try him on for size.
“Dad, I got the building on 12th!” Maris bounded into her father’s corner office and stopped short. “Ooops. Sorry, I didn’t know you were in a meeting!”
Rickert Conway, President and CEO of Conway Community Builders, beamed at his daughter and indicated the other executives present. “Maris, come on in! We were just talking about you.”
Maris gulped and tucked her long blond hair behind her ear. Always awkward with the business elites in their expensive shoes and hair weaves, she swallowed. “Me?”
“Yes, we were hoping you could help us with something.” His authoritative tone brooked no argument, and Maris got the impression he’d once again covered for one of her bumbling arrivals.
“What’s up … sir?” Maris groaned inwardly. She’d never get the hang of talking like a high roller with phony buzz words and protocols. She’d much rather be down at the soup kitchen doling out warm rolls and kind words of encouragement.
She swallowed hard and dialed down the exuberance. “I really am sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to let you know that I secured the long-term lease on the 12th Street building at 20% of their original asking price.”
“The 12th Street building?” Claudia Fremont, her father’s right hand at Conway Comm, lifted a questioning brow. “You can’t mean for the rec hall.”
“No, no, no.” Maris ventured further into the room a step, then faltered. Once again, she’d left her shoes under her desk in her office at the far end of the hall. She tried fruitlessly to hide her bare toes by covering one foot with the other. The futile gesture made her feel smaller, and her voice shrank with her fast-waning confidence. “It’s for the homeless shelter. The Annex.”
Claudia’s gesture immediately dismissed the conversation. “Oh, this is one of those pro-bono things.”
“Yes, yes. Good,” said her father, his eyes flickering to Maris’ bare feet with the slightest hint of annoyance. “I’ll get the full report from you later. What we needed now was someone to head up the Recreation Nation publicity package.”
A man coughed in obvious protest, but her father continued. “We have a team arriving to film the brochure shots and do the infomercial about the campaign, and I need a liaison.”
Maris drooped even more. “Isn’t John handling that?”
“Well, yes, of course. He’s on the ground, per se. But I’d appreciate having you there in case any troubles arise. Can you make that a priority?”
“But the shelter …” Maris withered. Her father traditionally did not ask someone to make something a priority. His courteous words should never be interpreted as flexible or his requests as optional.
She blinked back her irritation. He never took her work as the philanthropic outreach coordinator seriously.
“Yes, of course,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Good. Thank you, Maris. Bess has all the information downstairs ready for you.” His pleasant smile communicated an affectionate but clear end to the discussion.
“Right.” Maris nodded and backed out of the office, breaking into a speed walk down the hall until she skidded into the breakroom, one door shy of her own work space.
“Someone walked into the Hornets’ Nest,” said a figure bent halfway into the fridge.
“Adi!” Maris backed against the wall in surprise, accidentally turning off the lights. She flipped them on again with a squeak of frustration. “Did you know they were meeting? How could you not tell me?”
Maris and Adi had assigned the code name Hornet’s Nest for the executive board three years before when the buzzing gossip and general animosity of the meetings swelled with the arrival of Claudia to the team.
Adi, a rotund woman with the balmy complexion of her Pakistani heritage, emerged from behind the fridge door with a footlong sandwich in hand. “You went zipping by so fast, I didn’t have time to stop you.” She pointed the sandwich at Maris’ feet. “If you’d wear shoes, like everyone else, I’d have heard you coming and tripped you or something.”
“The more fashionable the shoe, the more it cramps my toes or makes my arches ache,” said Maris, pouting. She glanced down at her white blouse and tan, floral skirt, rethinking her classic style. It was more frumpy, not timeless.
“So, what was your good news before you got bad news?” Adi unwrapped one end of her sandwich and took a bite, still standing in front of the open fridge door.
“How do you know there was either?”
Adi smiled and chewed, bumping the fridge shut with her bum and leaning on the counter that lined three walls of the room. “You always hurry when you’re happy or scared. No one in their right mind would rush to Mr. Conway’s office if they were scared—even if he is your dad—so I assumed you were happy on the way there and scared on the way back.”
Maris sucked her cheeks in. Adi knew her well. “How do you know I wasn’t happy on the way back?”
“Because the Hornet’s Nest was meeting. Who’d be happy to stumble into that?” Adi shrugged. “And you came here for your secret stash of chocolate.” When Maris’ mouth flopped open, Adi laughed. “I relocated it behind the plastic cups down there.” She pointed. “I didn’t want anyone else stealing your stuff.” She winked. “I may have taken a small portion as a fee for my services.”
“You deserve it,” said Maris, shoving aside stacks of red and white cups in the shelf under the counter. She wrapped her hand around the small paper bag nestled in the dark corner and pulled it out. “This is the cure for what ails me.” She fished out her favorite chocolate caramel square from the gourmet candy shop down the road.
“Are you going to tell me about the good news and the bad news?” Adi wrapped the waxy paper around the end of her sandwich and returned it to the fridge, drawing out a liter of soda instead.
“The good news,” said Maris, letting the chocolate melt on her tongue, “is I found a place for the Annex.”
Adi slammed her drink down and stared at Maris. “That’s amazing! How did you do it?”
Maris smiled and shrugged. “I made a lot of phone calls.”
“That’s it?”
“Phone calls before the phone calls,” clarified Maris. “I did my research about everything that people would get hung up on, and then came up with solutions. By the time I needed to get the building, they couldn’t find an argument I didn’t have an answer for.”
A grin climbed up one side of Adi’s face. “Maris Conway, you are the smartest little angel I ever knew!”
“Thanks.” Maris wriggled her bare toes. “Yo
u have to say that. You’re the sister I always wanted.”
“You got that right,” said Adi with an air fist-bump. “And as your big sister, it is my duty to get a full update on your love life. It’s been two weeks since you filled me in.”
“Two weeks of nothing happening, Adi.”
“How is that possible? You’ve got guys pawing at you all the time.”
Maris blushed and rolled her eyes. “Because all the guys want sex on their dates, and once they figure out I’m not giving out, they stop asking out.”
She frowned down at her toes. Her mother had taught her high moral standards but had not lived long enough to guide her daughter into adulthood. It seemed to get harder, not easier with time.
Adi shook her head. “Maris, you don’t have to do any of that on a date. You be you. You’re a doll. You’re cute as a kitten. Angels can afford to wait.”
Cramming another piece of chocolate into the pouch of her cheek, Maris bundled up her goodies and tossed them back behind the stacked cups. “I know, but it stinks that they aren’t willing to enjoy the rest of me.”
“Maris, go back to saving the world. There aren’t any guys out there good enough for you, anyway.”
“Thanks, Adi, but I doubt that. I’m nothing special.”
“Hey, what was the bad news that needed the chocolate?” asked Adi, following Maris into the hall.
“Dad wants me to do liaison with the production crew for the new infomercial, which means working with John. You know how he is.”
“Totally anal retentive.”
“I wish you wouldn’t use butt analogies. It only makes me feel worse about him.” She groaned. “I hate managing commercials. I have no clue what I’m doing.”
“You watch them, don’t you?”
“Duh.”
“Then you know what works and what doesn’t. Just make sure it’ll sell.”
Maris shook her head emphatically. “I’m going to come across as a complete and utter, total, world-class, clueless idiot. Everyone already says I got this job thanks to Dad.”