Sweet Talkin' Lover

by Tracey Livesay

  Lacey trotted out the same excuse she’d always given. “By the time I called, the guy you wanted was unavailable!”

  “Because you waited until the week before her birthday to book him!” Caila cried, raising her hands in a ta-da motion.

  “Chase did put on a show, though,” Lacey murmured.

  Caila pressed her palms against her aching cheeks. “He did his best, considering Nic and I were dying laughing, Lacey was huddled in the corner of the couch, and Ava kept offering him food.”

  “He was so little,” Ava said. “I didn’t want him to pass out from lack of energy.”

  “Then we took the picture at the end and Caila stooped down so he could look tall!” Nic laughed.

  “I was seven inches taller than him in my heels. He came up to my titties.”

  Lacey covered her face with her hands. “It was so bad. I’m sorry, guys!”

  The sounds of their hyperventilating laughter enveloped Caila in the warmth of their love and affection. She needed these vacations with her girls. They fed her spirit and rejuvenated her for the year to follow. She had her friends and she had her career. And when she needed sex, she had several male friends willing to ease the ache. It was enough.

  “We made it work,” Ava said, covering Lacey’s hand with her own. “It’s what we do.”

  “So I can plan vacay next year?” Lacey asked, fluttering her lashes for good measure.

  Nic paused in the act of taking a drink. “Hell no! Were you listening to the story we just told?”

  “It’s actually Caila’s turn,” Ava said.

  Perfect! Caila grinned. She’d been jotting down ideas since her last go-around. She preferred the vacays she organized. She knew what to expect and felt secure in the knowledge that everything would go according to her plan. “I’ll send out the email in January, as usual.”

  “I hate you bitches,” Lacey said, throwing her napkin across the table.

  “No, you don’t. You loooove us,” Nic crooned.

  “In your dreams,” Lacey said, though the smile on her face belied her words.

  “A toast.” Caila reached for her glass and threw back her shoulders. “To the Ladies of Lefevre.”

  It was the name they’d given themselves based on the dorm where they’d met.

  “To us!” They saluted each other.

  Caila took a bite of chicken. “You’ll never guess who I ran into last month. Rashad Jenkins.”

  Across from her, Ava stiffened.

  “Big head Rashad! How’s he doing?” Nic asked.

  “Good, I think. I saw him at O’Hare when I was coming back from the WWD Beauty Summit in New York. He’s in banking. Married. With four kids.”

  “Huh,” Nic said. One corner of her mouth lifted. “I guess he still has issues with control.”

  Caila’s shoulders shook as she struggled to contain her amusement.

  Ava pointed her fork at them. “Don’t start!”

  “What? She was just making an observation.” Caila exchanged a glance with Nic. “It’s not like we were going to bring up that time—”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “—after the Q Ball when you and he were making out—”

  “Caila, I swear before God—”

  “—and you reached for his dick—”

  “Caila!”

  “—and he came all over your hand!”

  Lacey shrieked and slapped the table.

  Ava pouted. “I shouldn’t have told you bitches anything!”

  “But you did, so . . .” Caila shrugged.

  The sound of ringing penetrated their laughter. Nic leaped from her seat and grabbed Caila’s phone. “I told you what I was going to do!”

  Caila blinked, stunned at the speed with which the other woman had moved. “Nicole Shavonne Allen, I’m warning you!”

  Nic poked her tongue between her teeth, then glanced at the screen and answered it.

  “Hello? Caila Harris’s phone.”

  Caila lunged for her. “Nic!”

  Nic danced away, a devilish smile on her beautiful face. “Hey, Ms. Mona, it’s Nicole. We were just . . . Yes, ma’am. Hold on.” She held the phone out to Caila, her expression serious. “It’s your mom. She’s crying.”

  Caila exhaled, her pleasure from seconds ago quickly diminishing. “Good Lord, what is it now?”

  Nic bit her lip. “She sounds really bad.”

  “It’s fine. Her hairstylist probably made her highlights too brassy before the junior league luncheon next week.” She took the device. “Hi, Ma . . . Calm down . . . What’s wrong?”

  Her mother’s words darted to her core and chilled her to the bone. “Caila, we need you to come home. It’s Pop-Pop. He’s dead.”

  Chapter Two

  Chicago

  Early October

  Two months later . . .

  Caila straightened from the wall just as the elevator doors opened. She adjusted the sunglasses on her nose—visual protection from the bright lights illuminating the receptionist bay—and headed down the hallway on the left, barely acknowledging the “Good morning, Ms. Harris” from the young woman behind the desk.

  Her stomach roiled and her taste buds carried the remnants of last night’s folly, making each inhale, exhale, and swallow a potential trigger for the porcelain city blues. Add that to the clamor of a thriving business office and Caila was one minute away from executing a U-turn and heading back home to spend the day with her body huddled under her duvet and her head inches away from the nearest trashcan.

  She tightened her fingers around the strap of her Goyard tote.

  She’d never give them the satisfaction.

  She was already irritated with herself for her unprecedented lapse of judgment the night before, but to not show up for work and have everyone believe that she’d finally lost it? That she couldn’t handle the pressure and had gotten so bombed she couldn’t be counted on to carry out her duties?

  She’d make it, even if she had to drag her body the entire way. Which wasn’t that far from reality. Still, while she’d wanted it known she hadn’t shirked her responsibility, she wasn’t keen on drawing the spotlight.

  Unlike last night.

  She kept her gaze forward, grateful when tile gave way to carpet, muffling the head-piercing tap of her heels on the floor. She pushed through the large etched glass door and strode into Endurance’s main marketing department, where two large conference rooms and ten window-filled offices bordered dozens of cubicles.

  “Ms. Harris?”

  She flinched, then pressed a hand to the neckline of her kelly green shift dress, and stared at the marketing assistant who’d appeared out of thin air from the network of cubicles that often resembled a disorienting Halloween corn maze.

  “Do you have a second?” he asked, scraping a hand through his short, dark hair.

  No, I do not! My mouth tastes like stale ass, the pain in my head is so excruciating decapitation would be an improvement, and all I want is to get to my office so I can be alone and have some peace and quiet!

  “Of course. What can I do for you?” she asked, proud that she’d managed her usual composed response.

  “I’ve drafted the content you requested for the new social media campaigns featuring the skin care line.”

  “Perfect,” she said, accepting the folder he offered while trying not to inhale the young man’s offensive cologne. Good God! Did he bathe in it? “Which platforms did you target?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Excuse me?”

  Great. She turned her head to the side, drew in three quick inhalations of air, offered a quick prayer to avoid passing out, and said, “Each platform appeals to a specific audience. Are you on Facebook?”

  “God no!” His thin lip curled. “My mother has an account.”

  If she didn’t feel like warmed-over scrapple, she would’ve laughed at the look of excessive horror that overtook his features. “Exactly. You’re probably on Instagram or Snapchat or—” />
  He rolled his eyes. “Snapchat’s my little sister and her friends.”

  Caila nodded. “So the content that would interest your mother on her favorite platform wouldn’t work with your sister and her friends on theirs. You need to tailor your content for each platform and the demographic we’re trying to target.”

  “I understand.” He winced. “Can I have a few more days to work on it?”

  She handed him back the folder. “I’ll have Diane call you and set up a meeting for next Wednesday.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Harris,” he said, flashing her a grateful smile before disappearing back into the labyrinth of partially enclosed workspaces.

  Pleased to resume breathing nontainted air, she rounded the corner—

  —and almost dropped to her knees in gratitude when she saw her assistant standing next to her open office door, a steaming mug of coffee in her hand.

  “Bless you,” Caila said, handing Diane her bag in exchange for the cup. She cradled the warm porcelain and took a sip, not caring that the scalding liquid burned the roof of her mouth. Setting it on her desk, she sank into her office chair, tossed her glasses down, and leaned her head back against the headrest.

  “You don’t have time for that,” Diane said.

  “Why not?” Relief had finally made itself known, in all of its tension-releasing glory. Caila didn’t open her eyes. “I don’t have anything on my schedule for this morning.”

  “You didn’t. But Ms. Mitchell called earlier and she wants to see you in her office in twenty minutes. I was starting to think you wouldn’t make it in time.”

  Oh shit! Caila lifted her lashes and saw the worry she felt mirrored on her assistant’s face. “Do you think she knows?”

  “Everyone knows. Gerald Thorpe told his assistant, who couldn’t wait to share with whoever would listen.”

  Fucking Gerald Thorpe! He couldn’t keep his mouth shut even though he was constantly sticking his foot in it.

  How many people could his assistant have told? She hadn’t noticed any strange looks from people when she’d arrived. She glanced past Diane and encountered the curious stares of several assistants, analysts, and interns. At meeting her gaze, they scattered like a flock of skittish birds. Frowning, she pressed the button beneath her desk that frosted the glass windows facing the cubicles, affording them some privacy.

  “What happened?” Diane asked, placing Caila’s bag on the credenza, then propping herself up against the sturdy piece of furniture.

  Caila put her elbows on the desk and let her forehead fall into her palms. “Other than making a complete ass of myself in front of the marketing department’s entire executive lineup?”

  When she’d been invited to join the team at the famed Coq d’Or restaurant at the Drake Hotel, she’d been ecstatic. This was it. For years she’d worked seven days a week, missed holidays—and baby showers!—with her family and had zero social life—neither a huge hardship—to show her dedication and commitment to this company. Add in her qualifications and proven track record, and it made her an ideal candidate for the recently vacated position of director of marketing for cosmetics. With the promotion, no one would dare question Kendra offering her the national rollout.

  Had they invited her to dinner to see how she’d get along with the other department heads? Maybe they were going to announce she’d gotten the promotion.

  “You’ve got this, baby girl. God would never give you more than you can handle. So handle your business.”

  Pop-Pop’s words to her when she’d accepted the job offer from Endurance. He’d understood what having a successful career meant to her, knew she wanted the freedom to make her own decisions and wouldn’t tolerate ceding that control to anyone else. He’d always encouraged her to follow her heart while the rest of her family implored her to follow a ring.

  Pain squeezed her heart and threatened to rip it from her chest. It had been two months since the funeral. When would these feelings go away? She couldn’t afford to fall apart every time stray memories of Pop-Pop floated to the forefront of her mind. Why couldn’t they stay in the box where she’d stuffed them, tucked away until she was ready to deal?

  Whenever that would be.

  She still hadn’t allowed herself a moment to weep for the man who’d become the most important person in her life. Who’d not only accepted her confident, take-charge attitude, but championed it. Who’d told her to never diminish herself to fit into anyone’s mold, no matter what her family or the world might demand.

  Whose last words to her had been uttered with such displeasure and disappointment that she hadn’t spoken to him in months before his death.

  Her friends had booked her on the next flight to Maryland and when she’d gotten there, she did what she’d always done: acknowledged the situation and devised her plan of attack. With her mother and sisters going into Prissy-from-Gone-With-the-Wind histrionics, there hadn’t been time for her to indulge in her own emotional distress. She’d had to make all of the decisions.

  Her mother had never remarried though she’d never lacked for “companionship.” In fact, upon her mother’s meltdown, her current “companion” had attempted to step in and make the arrangements, citing his own experience dealing with his parents’ deaths and a desire to “remove the burden from Mona’s shoulders.”

  Caila had nipped that in the bud with a quickness some might say bordered on rudeness. Well, actually, her mother had said it.

  The memories of the days after Pop-Pop’s death had left Caila unsettled and agitated. She didn’t dare arrive to dinner in her current jittery state, so she’d had a shot of whiskey to calm her nerves before leaving home. When she’d shown up to the restaurant, she’d seen she wasn’t the only guest of honor. They’d invited the other regional managers, including Gerald fucking Thorpe.

  Her competition for the promotion and the new campaign.

  She’d been unable to prevent the anger that charged through her. The chaotic emotion had been dogging her like a persistent bill collector, showing up when it was least expected or wanted. Its appearance in that moment had thrown her off her game, but some whispered words to herself and a drink from the bar had motivated her enough to wade into the fray and take advantage of the opportunity.

  “I don’t know what happened,” she said now to Diane. “I planned to have my usual glass of white wine followed by club soda for the rest of the night. But one drink turned into two, which turned into three, and . . .”

  Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, she’d torn herself away from bad eighties karaoke and stumbled out to the valet stand and hailed a cab home.

  Diane made a sound in her throat and looked away from Caila.

  She tensed at the uneasiness emanating from her assistant. “What?”

  “It’s just . . . that explains why Paul was humming ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’ when he saw me earlier.”

  Oh good God! What had she done?

  “And that’s not all.” Although it was enough! Caila massaged her temples. “I lost one of my shoes.”

  Diane gasped and splayed her fingers against the pearl necklace encircling her throat. “Not your boss bitch heels?”

  “My boss bitch heels,” Caila slowly repeated.

  The moment she’d walked into the boutique and seen the nude and black ombre patent leather pumps with crystals covering the stiletto heels, she’d known she was meant to own them. They conveyed power and strength. The woman who wore those shoes would own a room the moment she stepped into it. The director of marketing for cosmetics would wear those shoes. She’d shelled out nearly a thousand dollars and placed them on the shelf in her walk-in closet, waiting for the perfect occasion to slip into them. Last night was supposed to be her moment before the ball.

  Diane nodded. “I’ll call the hotel and see if it turned up anywhere, but you need to pull yourself together. Ms. Mitchell wasn’t there. You can’t let her see anything that’ll lend credence to what she might’ve heard.”


  Twenty minutes later, Caila sat in a large corner office several floors above her own and resisted the urge to squirm as she stared across the wide cherrywood desk at her boss and mentor.

  Some people might view Kendra Mitchell’s light brown skin, delicate features, and petite frame and underestimate with whom they were dealing. It’d be the last time they’d make that mistake. Caila had watched her take down a junior executive with a raised brow and several choice words when he’d tried to mansplain basic online marketing concepts to her. Endurance’s executive vice president of marketing didn’t suffer fools lightly.

  Kendra tapped a finger on the desk. “You’re known for being cool under pressure. I’ve always admired that about you.”

  Caila pressed a hand against her belly in an attempt to disrupt the butterflies performing aerial feats. Hangover? Nervousness? “Thank you.”

  Kendra leaned back in her luxe leather chair. “But I can’t let that deter me from what I have to do.”

  Caila’s breath escaped her lungs.

  “A few months ago we had a conversation about you taking on the new organic makeup line.”

  Caila scooted forward in her chair. “I’m honored you and the board have seen fit to entrust this campaign to—”

  Kendra held up a hand, her palm facing outward. “I’m going to stop you there.”

  No! This couldn’t be happening. She pushed on. “I’ve already come up with several ideas. I can do this, Kendra.”

  “I don’t doubt you have the capabilities to successfully handle the job. I wouldn’t have considered you for the position otherwise. But you’re not in the right frame of mind to tackle a project of this magnitude.”

  What the hell did that mean?

  “I disagree,” Caila argued. “This year I developed and implemented strategic marketing plans for the new skin care line, ensured that the project milestones were met, and adhered to the approved budget, all while managing a staff of twenty.”

  “Which would be relevant if my concerns were work-based.” Kendra shifted in her chair and cleared her throat. “I don’t make it a practice to get involved in the personal lives of my employees, but . . . I know your grandfather died recently. I understand you were close.”