“I hadn’t thought about it, but that’s not a bad idea. Something like that might attract a new audience to the site.”
“You could call it ‘Brody’s Bud Buzz.’”
He snorts. “Bet I’d get a lot of beer drinkers to the site with that title.”
I cringe. “Sorry, I hadn’t thought about ‘bud’ having an alcoholic meaning as well as a floral one. You never know, there might be some crossover between beer guzzlers and rose growers.”
“In that case, my first tip would be ‘Stay away from the pruning shears when you’re smashed or you might remove a finger along with a sucker.’”
Chuckling, I say, “What the heck is a sucker, or do I not want to know?”
“Suckers are new plants growing up from the roots of the old plant; they suck nutrients from the host plant and can hinder its development.”
“Fascinating. Mmmmph,” I grunt with surprise when Cicero suddenly pops up, putting his front paws on my knees and giving me a meaningful look. “Oh dear, I’ve got a furry friend with a full bladder here, so I need to take him out.”
“I’ll let you go then. Tell Cicero I said, ‘Hi.’”
“Will do. Bye, Brody.”
“Bye.”
I’m about to disconnect the call when he says, “Oh, and Willa?”
“Yes?”
“It was really nice to hear from you.”
A silly smile spreads across my face. “Thanks,” I murmur before turning off the phone and placing it on the table.
“I’d better stock up on Friskies because it looks like we have a smitten kitten in the house,” Tommy teases me.
“I am not smitten,” I make a weak attempt at denying it. “I barely know him.”
“You’ve talked to him twice. People have eloped on less.”
I’m not ready to run off with Brody and find a justice of the peace just yet, but I am definitely interested. He’s the most attractive, straight man I’ve come into contact with in a while and he seems to be warming up to me. I’d classify our phone exchange as “friendly,” bordering on “flirty” at the end. I probably shouldn’t get my hopes up until I’ve ascertained what his romantic status is. I don’t think I have to worry about a wife as he didn’t have on a wedding ring in the Daybreak green room, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a girlfriend lurking. Good-looking men always have a girlfriend, maybe even girlfriends plural. I can’t see Brody being a player, though. He doesn’t have the easy charm of a serial dater (e.g. Gav). I had to draw Brody out when we first met. Of course, that might have been because he’s in a serious relationship, so he closes himself off to interactions with strange women. I don’t know. This whole dating thing is so complicated. I wish I could read men’s minds like I do ani– Why is Cicero pawing me? Oh, shoot, I forgot about his potty time, didn’t I? What a bad mommy!
“Come on, Cicero, let’s get your leash,” I say, standing up. I can ponder this Brody issue some more while we’re outside. I always do my best thinking when I’m walking my dog.
“Make it quick. You’re helping me with these earrings, remember?”
“I won’t be gone long,” I assure Tommy. Just long enough to figure out what my next move with Brody is.
Chapter 11
(Sloane)
I look at my watch and tap my foot impatiently as the elevator doors close on the fifth floor after letting several worker bees out. The clock hands tell me it’s 7:52 A.M., a perfectly respectable time for most people to arrive at their place of work, but this is late for me and I hate to start my day feeling like I’m in the weeds, especially when I’ve got so many important things on my To Do list this morning. I would have been here over an hour ago if I hadn’t had to meet with Willa’s rose doctor, Brady. Or was it Brody? It might have even been Braden. I wasn’t really paying attention during our introductions because I was thinking about my appointment with Blythe Summers later today. The appointment where I’m going to have to break the sure-to-be upsetting news that I’ve discovered her former business manager/lover recently purchased a $2 million seafront property in Belize using money he stole from Ms. Summers and funneled through a bogus offshore company. The worst part is that Kittredge bought the palatial house for his twenty-two-year-old scuba instructor boyfriend, who’s now ensconced there with a staff of servants. And yes, I said, “boyfriend.” It would appear that Mr. Kittredge’s heterosexuality was another thing he lied to Ms. Summers about. I really wouldn’t blame my client if she took out a hit on her ex and his boy toy. Not that I’d advise her to follow that course of action, of course. In the end, it will probably be more satisfying for her to just prosecute the bastard. I know I’m going to get a kick out of seeing him lose all of his ill-gotten gains and possibly go to jail.
As for Brady/Brody/Braden, I have to give him credit. He did show up at precisely seven, which was the agreed upon time, and he seemed to be competent. He came with an extensive list of references and a portfolio of photos of several gardens in the area that he’s designed, planted, and cultivated, which I took a cursory look at before escorting him out to my grandmother’s rose bushes. I might have even been a little bit impressed when he mentioned he had a degree in plant biology. I didn’t have all day to stand around and chit-chat with him, so I told him to e-mail me a diagnostic report and price quote for whatever needed to be done to the roses. He said he would waive the evaluation fee because he knew Willa, so either he’s a small business owner who’s not overly concerned with his bottom line or he’s currying my sister’s favor because there’s something brewing between them. I’ll have to grill Willa about that when–
The elevator dings, and I’m relieved to see that we’ve finally reached my stop on the ninth floor. “Excuse me,” I say as I try to squeeze between the two linebacker-sized men who’ve been stinking up the elevator with their breakfast burritos ever since we all got on together in the lobby. If I smell like jalapenos the rest of the day, I’ll know who to blame. The men take their sweet time moving apart and I catch a closing elevator door in the shoulder on my way out. “Thanks, guys,” I snark from the other side, and they both give me a “What did we do?” look. Dumbasses. Chivalry really is dead.
I head straight for the reception desk where the latest in a long line of our floor’s greeters is stationed. Her copper-colored head is bent down over her desk, so I assume she’s taking a call on her headset. But as I get closer, I realize that her lips aren’t moving, which negates that theory. “Welcome to Ashby, Terhune, and McAllister,” she says in a polite, but robotic voice, when she senses my presence, never once lifting her eyes from whatever she’s looking down at. “How may I–”
“Danica, it’s me, Sloane,” I interrupt her spiel. “Has FedEx been here yet? I’m expecting a Priority package from Random House.” Payment records from Blythe Summers’ publisher. I’ve had to cut through so much red tape to get the damn things – lawyers, release forms, phone calls, e-mails, faxes. I’ll be happy to finally have the hard copies in my hands.
“Uh huh,” she murmurs, passing me a fat FedEx envelope, her gaze still glued to the top of her desk. What is she so fascinated by? I can’t tell from where I’m standing because the outer edge of the reception desk is blocking my view.
“Thanks.” I accept the envelope. “Is Josh in yet?”
“Nope. Breakfast meeting.” She turns the page of whatever she’s reading, and a gasp of I don’t know what (surprise, appreciation, horror?) escapes her lips.
Now I really am curious, so I ask, “Whatcha got there?”
“Huh?” She gazes up at me, with a dreamy expression on her freckled face.
“You gasped.”
“Did I?” She blushes, which isn’t a good look with her red hair. “I’m sorry. I was just leafing through this new issue of 7x7 we got. You know, for the reception area.” She points out to the chairs surrounding a glass coffee table where our clients are told to wait until one of us comes out to collect them. “It’s the ‘Ten Most Eligible Bachelors in
San Francisco’ edition. There are some real hotties on this list.”
Hot bachelors? YAWN But I am intrigued by the “eligible” bit because it implies that these men are successful, which probably means wealthy, and wealthy men, at least the ones who head up big businesses, are potential clients here at ATM. “Oh, yeah, so who made the cut this year?”
“A football player, a neurosurgeon, a winery owner, some tech genius – that one’s a total dork–”
The tech genius is most likely the president of some multi-billion dollar company in Silicon Valley, which makes him the perfect candidate for our services. I’ll have to get his name from the magazine and hunt down some contact in– Hold on, what did Danica just say?
“–is so cute. I love his messy hair, and that sexy, mischievous grin, and his eyes! They’ve got a naughty sparkle in them that says, ‘You and I are gonna have some fun in the bedroom!’”
“And what does Messy Hair do for a living?” That’s all I care about, not what kind of amatory adventures his eyes promise.
“I told you! He’s a graphic novelist, which is like the coolest job ever. So, he’s hot and he’s hip. See . . .” She holds up the magazine to show me Messy Hair’s photo. “Don’t you just wanna run your fingers through that gorgeous bed head of his?”
Did it. Sixteen years ago, in a dark closet, at Lucy Richardson’s Sweet Sixteen party. The question is: How did the first boy who ever touched my boobs end up on 7x7’s Hot, no wait it was Eligible, Bachelors list? I suppose Gav does meet the list’s criteria since he’s single, of marriageable age, makes good money, and could be considered attractive if scruffy blond guys with no body fat are your thing. But why would he agree to be objectified like this? He’s going to have every desperate woman under the age of forty in the Bay Area chasing after him. Maybe that’s what he wants. Familiar hazel eyes stare back at me from the glossy pages of the magazine, but there aren’t any answers in them.
“Can I borrow that?” Not waiting for a response, I snatch the copy of 7x7 out of Danica’s hand.
“But, but–,” she sputters in protest just as her phone goes crazy with two lines ringing simultaneously.
“I’ll let you grab those calls. Tell Josh I need to speak with him when he gets in,” I say in a rush before taking off at top speed with my purloined magazine.
When I get to my office, I close my door behind me, dump everything including my eagerly anticipated, but still unopened, FedEx envelope on my desk, then plop down in my ergonomic chair and start reading the 7x7 Q&A with Gav. Halfway through, I reach distractedly for my morning cup of coffee. My hand finds nothing but air, which reminds me I haven’t been to the break room to get my jolt of caffeine yet. Probably a good thing because I would have done a spit-take and spewed coffee all over my computer screen when reading Gav’s reply to the query, “How would you describe your ideal woman?” Is he serious with this? Did he even answer these questions himself or did his publicist do it? I pull my cell phone out of my purse and dial his number – Gav’s, not his publicist’s who’s a woman I think. Or maybe that’s his agent. Whatever. I can’t keep track of all Gav’s “people.”
“Hello?” His voice sounds raspy and muffled, like his head is buried in a pillow.
“Don’t tell me you’re still in bed!” I’m appalled.
“What time is it?” he wonders groggily.
“Eight, you slacker.”
“I’m not a slacker,” he mumbles in his sleep-thickened voice. “I was working on my new novel until four-thirty this morning, so I’ve only been in bed a few hours.”
“Well, that’s no good. You need your beauty sleep now that you’re one of San
Francisco’s ‘Most Eligible Bachelors.’ You have an image of male perfection to protect.”
“Aw, crap,” he grumbles. “So, you saw the magazine and now you’re calling to give me grief about it?”
“Correct. And you are fully deserving of any and all grief I direct at you. I can’t believe you didn’t give me a head’s up about this dubious honor you received. I had to find out from my receptionist who was hyperventilating over this picture of you in 7x7 when I came in.”
“Really?” This intel seems to perk him up. “Is the picture that good? I don’t even know which shot they decided to use.”
Lifting the magazine up in front of me, I study the photo of Gav. He’s sitting, with pencil in hand, at a drafting table, not the one in his dark, cluttered office, this one must have been set up in a light, airy studio somewhere because everything in the background is either white or silver and there are no messy stacks of books or papers to be seen. Gav’s leaning forward on his elbows so that the slim-fitting Henley shirt he’s wearing is straining against his sinewy biceps and chest, making it clear he’s in amazing shape. The Henley is a dark shade of red that’s kind of purpley (wine?), which really complements Gav’s dark blond hair and brings out the flecks of gold in his eyes, so kudos to the stylist who picked that out for him. Danica was not exaggerating about the naughty sparkle in those eyes. It’s there in full force, making it appear as though he’s flirting with the camera, but not in a cheesy way, in a cute, playful, don’t-you-wanna-come-a-little-closer-and-see-what-happens–
“Sloane?”
“Huh? Oh, the picture.” I clear my throat. “It’s all right. I mean, you look good. They probably did some airbrushing or something.”
He snorts with amusement. “Thanks for helping me keep my ego in check.”
“I’ve considered it my sacred duty since 1989. Now, be honest with me, did all of the romantic palaver in this interview come from you or did you have one of the many women in your life write it for you? Oh God, it was Willa, wasn’t it? All this b.s. about you wanting to settle down with the right woman, crank out a bunch of kids, and get a Cocker Spaniel sounds just like something she’d say. The dog gives it away.”
“Hey, I like dogs! And I do want to get married and have a family some day.”
“Yeah, right, and your ideal woman would be ‘a smart, confident, strong-willed go-getter, with an infectious laugh and a great pair of legs,’” I quote from the magazine.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You’ve never dated a woman who had even one of those qualities, and don’t you dare mention The Evil One’s name, or I will reach through this phone and smack the stubble off your face.”
“Thea did have nice legs,” he remembers a bit wistfully.
“They were stubby in proportion to the rest of her body; she was freakishly long-waisted.”
“If you say so . . .”
“I do and–” I’m interrupted by the phone on my desk. I can tell by the ring that it’s an interoffice call, probably from that idiot Parker who’s forgotten how to do a P&L graph using our new software again. I swear, fruit flies have a better retention rate than that man does.
“Just a sec,” I tell Gav, then hit the speakerphone button to answer my other call.
“Hello?”
“Morning. Danica said you wanted to speak with me.”
Hearing Josh’s voice gives me a start. I didn’t expect him to be back from his meeting so soon. I look down at the cell phone still clutched in my hand. Talking to Josh while Gav waits feels weird somehow. I’m not sure why, but probably best not to overanalyze it. I’ll just wrap things up with Josh in a quick and professional manner, then get back to reminding Gav what a soul-sucking wench his ex is.
“That’s right. I have some breaking news in the Blythe Summers case.”
“You’ve only been on Kittredge’s trail for a couple of days and you’ve already got something? You impress me, Tiger.”
“I do that on a pretty regular basis, don’t I?
He chortles. “Why don’t you swing by my office in ten and we can discuss your latest feat of brilliance? I need to fill you in on something big, too.”
“Sounds good. See you in a few.” I disconnect the call and bring my cell phone back up to my ear. “Gav, you still there? Sorr
y, that was my boss.”
“I got that. How is it possible that no one in your office has figured out the two of you are sleeping together? It couldn’t be more obvious.”
“It’s only obvious to you because you already know,” I say in a furtive semi-whisper, because the walls between offices are thin and I don’t want either of my neighbors overhearing any part of this conversation.
“No, it’s obvious to me because of all the flirting and sexual innuendo in that exchange I just overheard. He wants you to come to his office so that he can ‘fill you in on something big.’ I’m pretty sure my four-year-old nephew could read between the lines on that one.”
“Well, of course, it sounds bad when you repeat what he said in that smarmy voice! He didn’t mean it like that, though. We keep things strictly professional here at the office.”
“Sure you do, Tiger,” he teases with the nickname Josh coined for me. “I should let you run. Don’t want you to be late for desk sex. How does that work exactly? Do the two of you climb up on the desk and get busy on top of all the file folders, ink pens, and dirty Styrofoam coffee cups or does he just bend you over–”
“Ohmigod, stop!” I order, with an embarrassed chuckle. I can’t believe we’re even discussing this, although come to think of it I did recently poke fun at his sex life with that motor mouth Sidney. So, I guess this is payback. “You are such a perv. Why don’t you go and apply that overactive imagination of yours to one of your comic books?” Ha! Gav hates it when anyone refers to his work as comic books.
“Graphic novels, thank you very much. And now that you mention it, I did leave Detective Bliss and her partner alone in the squad room, late at night. Lots of desks there. You never know what might happen.”
“Okay, that’s just wrong. Charlatan gets to hook up with that sexy psycho Pyro, and you’re going to make Detective Bliss do the nasty with a man who’s twice her age and has a drinking problem? Do you hate her?”
“You’re taking this very personally. I never said you were Britt Bliss, did I?”
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