The Client

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "We would need somewhere to wrap the gifts."

  "On the dining room table or the living room floor like normal people."

  "What about this one?" I asked, grabbing the next binder.

  See, Wasp wasn't the only one capable of running a little con. I had showed her two obnoxiously ostentatious homes first. Then I saved the one I really wanted for third when her expectations had been shifted. It was an old marketing trick. You offer someone something at a high value price point and when they refused, you offered them something at a lesser price point. The trick was, you never intended to sell the first thing, and people really hated saying no to people. So when you offered them the thing you really wanted to sell them and they had already needed to be the 'bad guy' by saying no, you increased your chances of them biting by ten-fold.

  This was our future house in my hands.

  I knew it because I knew her.

  She didn't object to oversize houses. She just wanted them to be somewhat practical. She was attracted to beauty, but not necessarily something showy.

  This was the house.

  It was a Second Empire house built in eighteen-eighty. Two and a half floors with a Mansard roof—hipped with two pitches, dormers, black shingles, deep-set eaves and decorative brackets. The siding was cream. There was an abundance of windows in a two-over-two, one-over-two style, in both rectangles and rounded topped, all of them framed with black shutters. There was a wrap-around porch on two sides, original hardwood flooring throughout all the levels, and even stained glass in the master bathroom.

  It was a big house with five bedrooms, four baths, a living room, a family room, a den, and a study. There was an extra room up in the attic that could act as a bedroom, office, workout room, gift wrapping room, or, let's face it, a place to store all the souvenirs we would collect over the years.

  The price was set around three million thanks to a four-acre property that was uncommon in the area and the fact that it had been painstakingly restored by a previous owner, so everything was new, even if it looked historical.

  "Oh look at all these trees," she said, taking the binder from me. "I love Weeping Willows. They are perfect for picnicking under."

  I had her right then and there.

  While she was cooing over the interior, I was texting the real estate agent, telling her we were going to need a walkthrough.

  It was all for show, though.

  I knew it right then and there that we'd found our home.

  Now I just needed to convince her to marry me.

  One step at a time, though.

  Wasp - 4 months

  "Fenway," I called, looking at the package on the front porch.

  The one with breathing holes in it.

  And movement within.

  "Yes, darling?" he called in a singsong voice because we were in a tiff about one of his naked lady paintings that he wanted to hang in the entryway.

  I was no prude. I thought all those paintings from plague times with women lounging around on couches with their tits out were lovely.

  I did not, however, think his monstrosity that had a naked woman made up of fifteen different women on a canvas the size of a kitchen island was lovely. In fact, it looked like some kind of veiled threat from a serial killer who liked to dismember his victims. I'd told him as such, too. Because, yeah, no, that damn thing was not going in the entryway. If I had my way, it was going to one of the other houses in his portfolio. Or, you know, straight into the garbage bin.

  "There is a package here for you?"

  "I didn't order anything," he told me, footsteps making their way in my direction.

  "I think this is from someone named Karma," I informed him, pressing my lips together as I listened to the creature inside smack around at the sides of the box.

  "Karma?" he asked, moving to stand next to me, staring down at the box.

  "Also known as Payback For Buying Your Friend A Farm Pig, Industries."

  "Oh, yes," Fenway concluded, nodding his head. "I guess I did have this coming. Well, let's see what it is, shall we?" he asked, picking up the box, careful not to get his fingers near the holes in case whatever was inside bit.

  He carried it into our beautiful kitchen with its Viking stove I was starting to think I should learn how to use, butcher block countertops, and white cabinetry, dropping it down on the island to grab a scissor and carefully cut it open.

  "Alright. Let's see it," I told him, watching as his eyes went worried as he reached his hand inside.

  "Fuck," he hissed, ripping his hand back out, cradling it to his chest.

  "Fuck fuck fuck fuck," another voice chorused, making my mouth fall open.

  "Darling," I said, trying to hold in a laugh. "Did your old friend send you a foul-mouthed, ornery parrot as payback?"

  "There's a note," he told me, nodding his chin toward the box, clearly not willing to risk his fingers again. And since I was pretty fond of those fingers—and the things he could do with them—I peered over the box, finding the note pinned to the side, pulling it out.

  The bird inside was somewhat small in size, a gray and white parrot with a black beak and a bright red tail.

  "Hi, my name is Leonard. I like almonds. I hate men. My favorite phrase is 'Fuck you, asshole,' followed closely by 'Shut the fuck up.' I will say these things loudly, confidently, and at the most inopportune times. Be advised, I will live for another fifty years, so you have the whole rest of your life to love me.

  Signed, Leonard.

  Also, your old friend Miller says: Gotcha, Fenway."

  "Well, if it isn't my own bad decisions coming back to bite me in the ass," Fenway declared, running his finger under the tap. "I will need to call Alvy to have them figure out what an African Gray parrot needs to be happy and healthy."

  "You're keeping it?" I asked, surprised, as the parrot pinned me with a freaky yellow-eyed glare, his pupils dilating in and out.

  "Of course we are keeping it. Pick him up, darling. He must want to get out of that box."

  "Why do I have to pick it up?"

  "His note clearly states that he prefers the fairer sex."

  "It says he hates men. It says nothing about liking women," I told him, put slowly lowered my hand inside. "Oh, I think he likes me," I declared when Leonard dipped his head down, seeming to ask for scratches. Which I happily gave him.

  "Of course he does. It is impossible not to like you," Fenway said, moving in at my side. At the sound of his voice, Leonard whipped his head up, staring down Fenway, whispering 'Asshole' under his breath.

  "Hey, look at that, he knows you so well already!" I declared, getting a slap on my ass from Fenway. "Have you ever had a pet?" I asked, offering Leonard my hand, feeling the surprising weight of him as he stepped up on my finger, letting me pull him out of the box.

  "I have not," Fenway told me, trying to lean closer to look at Leonard, but making the bird lunge at him, trying to grab his nose in his sharp beak.

  "Me either," I told him, feeling Leonard press his beak to my cheek, making a little kissing noise.

  "Well, maybe he will be a good trial run."

  "For what?"

  "Children. I mean, of course, it is utterly different. This curses and bites and uses everything as a personal bathroom."

  "Fenway, have you ever met a child? Because they like to curse, bite, and use everything as a bathroom as well."

  "Well, if it has eyes like yours, I guess I could forgive it anything," he told me, reaching over to tug my hair, but getting chased away by the angry little guard bird. "You are enjoying this far too much," he accused when I got another kiss from Leonard.

  "I can't help it if all the men fall in love with me," I told him, eyes dancing.

  "Yeah, I guess I can't blame you, Leonard. But I fell for her first, so I get dibs."

  I would never get used to hearing that.

  And Fenway said it often.

  Maybe because he sensed a part of me was still struggling to accept it, to believe
it. Not through any fault of his own. Like everything else, Fenway did love with everything he had. But I guess I was always waiting for that other shoe to drop, for him to tell me he was bored of me, that he was done with me, that I had to pack everything back in Wanda and hit the road.

  This insecurity might have been the big reason I'd insisted on keeping Wanda even though we had been traveling by plane and yacht for months now. I wanted to be sure she was there for me should Fenway change his mind like he was known to do.

  It was proving hard to accept that the infamous playboy billionaire fuck-up had hung up his party hat in favor of nights on the couch watching classic movies with me.

  He'd used naked persuasion more than a time or two to get me to admit that I wasn't sure if he could go from globe-trotting and all-night-partying to hanging out with me without feeling like he was giving up a lot.

  He'd reached for me, got his sexy-serious voice on, and told me that he'd spent so much of his life hopping from place to place because if he stayed too long, he would realize that something was missing from his life.

  "And that something was you," he'd told me, giving me a squeeze. And I swear my heart squeezed as well.

  "What did Alvy say?" I asked when Fenway's phone dinged, making him reach for it.

  "'LOL.'"

  "I think that means we are on our own with this one," I concluded.

  Since I'd become more of a permanent fixture in Fenway's life, Alvy had taken a step back, letting me handle keeping Fenway somewhat grounded, and to make sure his suitcases got packed and his driver was given enough notice when we needed him.

  Alvy and I had made amends, both of us agreeing they had always had Fenway's best interest at heart, and that I was nobody's gold digger.

  With all that free time, Alvy had finally purchased a home to house that ten-thousand-dollar living room set in.

  Last we'd seen them, Alvy and their partner were settling in nicely.

  It looked like Fenway wasn't the only one who found some stability.

  And me?

  I found the one man who didn't need to be taught a lesson.

  The one man who saw beneath the surface of me.

  But I was going to hold onto Wanda just a little while longer.

  Fenway - 1 year

  She hadn't been ready.

  That was the reason I still had my grandmother's engagement ring in a pouch in my pocket a full year later.

  It was easy to believe that all women had been raised on Disney movies with their happily-ever-afters, and that they were all living their lives in search of that supposed ideal, that once they had it, they dove headfirst into it.

  That was not Wasp.

  She wasn't built that way.

  She had made her life and her living on the backs of failed happily-ever-afters of other women. It had made her overly cautious and jaded. It made it so that she didn't even trust herself and her own feelings. She'd met with far too many women who'd fallen blindly into love, had devoted their lives to men, only to have them spit on everything they had built.

  "Treat her the way you would a dog that's been kicked one time too many," Raven had suggested one night while Wasp ran off to show her nieces and nephew her old favorite show as a kid—without telling Raven, of course, that her favorite show as a kid was Unsolved Mysteries, and that the kids would likely have nightmares for a week. "She needs time and consistency and trust. I promise you, she is not as cold and hard as she can seem on the outside. She had a huge heart. She's just afraid someone is going to crush it."

  Luckily, Leonard had taught me a thing or two about healing and patience. Clearly, one of the previous owners had been a loving woman and an abusive man, making him distrust me. But after weeks and then months, we were finally able to be in the same vicinity of each other without there being any bloodshed.

  I learned not to take offense when Wasp insisted on keeping Wanda parked in the back of our property. Or that she didn't take her website down, just slapped a notice on there saying she wasn't taking any clients at this time.

  Life had taught her that men couldn't be relied upon.

  I had to show her that I could.

  Which meant I had to take my time, wait it out, not rush her into anything.

  Which was why I was still hanging onto the ring.

  But my fingers reached into that pocket, opened the pouch, grabbed the ring.

  It was finally time.

  We had flown out to Italy the week before, Leonard riding in a carry-on under Wasp's seat since she insisted we didn't need to take the private jet each time we traveled, that flying commercial would keep me humble and in-touch with the common man.

  We had no plan in mind. We never did when we traveled. Someone would throw out a name of a destination, and then we would pack, we would head out, we would hit the streets, see what there was to explore.

  I'd been everywhere five times over, but everything was still new for Wasp. And I never got sick of seeing the world through her eyes.

  So far, we'd spent a lot of our time seeing monuments and museums and eating every single classic dish known to mankind.

  But I'd finally managed to get her to agree to take the yacht away from Florence where we'd been spending most of our time.

  We were on our way to one of the most romantic destinations in the world.

  Cinque Terre.

  It was a collection of villages in a place where cars were banned and the seafood was some of the best in the world. Along with the pesto. Which we'd eaten a giant pile of for dinner before hiking through the towns, hitting a few of the shops.

  Wasp had long since stopped fighting me when I insisted on buying her souvenirs. All our mantles at home, our bookcases, our shelves, were riddled with little trinkets we'd picked up from around the world.

  Colorful Maasai beads from Kenya.

  Castañuelas—finger clackers—from Spain.

  Nesting dolls from Russia.

  Niren Zhang painted figurines from China.

  So far, we'd only managed to get to seven countries. Which was not many by my traveling standards, but a lot for Wasp. She'd traveled extensively in our homeland, but claimed it was different, that while there were always smaller cultures to explore, it was nothing like visiting a different country. She liked to take longer, less frequent trips, to be able to sink her feet in, to tour the place like a local.

  Besides, we had a home to take care of now, friends that liked to see us on a more regular basis. It was surprisingly nice to have roots.

  Wasp had chosen Italy as our next destination.

  I had been the one to get the yacht to come out, to meet us in Cinque Terre. Because I knew it was the perfect place.

  And I knew it was the perfect time.

  I knew she was ready.

  Because when we'd mistakenly walked into a little wedding dress shop, since my Italian wasn't nearly as good as my French or Spanish, and the woman had mistaken her for a customer, had draped her head in a gauzy lace veil, and led her over to the mirror to look at herself, her eyes had gone dreamy.

  Yes, Wasp's eyes.

  Dreamy.

  Another set of words that didn't seem like they went together.

  Yet, there it was.

  A dream in her eyes.

  And that dream was to wear that veil and walk down an aisle toward me, one of her arms-dealing brothers at each of her sides.

  It was a dream I'd held for a year now.

  She'd eventually seen the look in her reflection, had whipped off the veil, and rushed out of the shop. I'd stayed behind, paying for the veil, asking the proprietor to have it wrapped in something plain and then shipped to our hotel.

  It didn't matter that the dreamy look was short-lived.

  It had been there.

  And that meant it was time.

  Finally.

  I'd never been considered a patient man. I was pretty sure Alvy was wondering if aliens had come down, taken the real me, and replaced me with a clone, knowin
g how long I had been willing to wait to ask her to marry me.

  After dinner, I'd had the captain take the yacht for a tour around the ocean while Wasp crashed on the bed below deck with It Happened One Night playing on the TV, then when it was just starting to get dark, I'd had him bring us back to Cinque Terre, but only in the marina just outside of an cove.

  Cinque Terre had this one lovely little marina where the houses raised up off the cliffs in bright, happy colors. Pinks, yellows, oranges, light blues. And as it got dark, the lanterns around the towns set the area in a romantic glow.

  It was straight out of a movie.

  As much as she would scratch and hiss if you so much as implied it, Wasp was a sucker for a romantic movie. But only of the classic variety.

  She liked the grand romantic gestures.

  This was the best I could do on such short notice.

  "Oh, darling!" I called down the steps that led back into the master bedroom.

  "I ate too much. I can't move," she called back.

  "I need to show you something," I told her, hearing a grumble as she rolled out of bed.

  "It better be good, or I am throwing you off the yacht," she called, making her way up the stairs, her blonde hair a charming mess.

  "If I didn't know you loved me, I would be concerned with the number of times you threaten my life on any given week," I told her, smiling, as I pressed a hand into the small of her back, leading her around the boat, needing to get the placement right.

  "Well, maybe if you stopped being so throw-off-a-yacht-able, I wouldn't have to threaten you with that possibility," she teased, giving me a warm smile. "Okay, what am I supposed to look a... oh," she said, her air rushing out of her body as she looked at the image in front of her.

  While she was distracted, I took out the ring, lowered down.

  Behind me, I could hear one of the staff moving in, someone who I'd learned over the years was handy with a camera, someone who was going to make sure we had this image captured.

  We had a lot of artwork on our walls.