by Julia Kent
“PlentyofFish.com wasn’t doing it for me, so…”
“You’re on the market?” Declan asks. “No boyfriend? What about Mark J.? All that sex in the cooler, next to the salad bins.”
I am going to scream. “You called me Toilet Girl at a business meeting,” I say, remembering my anger. All I want to do is to become a puddle of Shannon at his feet and evaporate magically to reconstitute in his bed. Especially if the sheets smell like him. But I am standing here in professional dress, having added a blazer to the outfit my mom coordinated for me, and Greg is staring at us like two giant dollar signs are popping out of his eyes.
“And I’m Hot Guy?” His voice has a touch of steel behind the amusement.
He’s got me there.
“How about Hot Guy and Toilet Girl get a cup of coffee after this meeting and see what happens?” he asks, pointedly ignoring everyone else in the room.
“You’re asking me out at a client pitch meeting?” I ask, incredulous. My career rests on this account. If Greg doesn’t get this deal, I’m stuck mystery shopping podiatrists and insurance agents forever.
“Would it help if I confess you’re my first?”
“You’re a virgin?” I sputter, just as the senior McCormick clears his throat and Declan and I look up, startled. From the Mr. Bill looks of shock on everyone’s face, they’ve heard my last question.
“If we could get back to business,” James says, motioning all of us to sit at the large oak table. It easily seats twenty and has carved legs thicker than my thigh. And let me tell you, that means it’s nice and big, like something from the Teddy Roosevelt administration.
The entire office reeks of man. Thick, brown leather couches and pub chairs. Ornate Persian rugs bigger than the entire footprint of my parents’ house. Heavy wood fixtures and Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired glass lamps.
Make that original Frank Lloyd Wright designs, most likely.
My face on fire, among other body parts, I sit at the table. Declan takes a seat across from me. My view faces the window, and it’s amazing. And the sky is damn nice looking, too.
Greg rambles for five minutes about marketing crap that used to be important to me, but now all I can do is sneak looks at Declan and wonder how on earth I can put the genie back in the bottle. I don’t want to be attracted to him. I don’t want to be attracted to anyone.
My good nights involve cuddling with Chuckles on the couch while I binge watch seasons of television shows on Netflix with my favorite crab rangoon and hot ’n’ sour soup takeout from the place down the street. The guy knows me so well he lets me tip him an extra $3 to hop over to the convenience store and get my favorite pint of ice cream.
Now that’s love. Even if you have to buy it.
This kind of interest in and from a man is deadly. It kills hope. Because here’s how it works: I like him. He likes me. We bump uglies in bed. I want to talk about emotions. He wants to talk about anything but. I want a future.
He wants another girlfriend.
See? I can write the script and deliver it done. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Steve dumped me because I wanted a future and he wanted the female equivalent of a hood ornament. Which, as I smooth my shirt over my ample hips, I am not—in Steve’s eyes. The woman he turned to after me is poised, well-coiffed, has a master’s in public health from Harvard, and comes from a family that was among the original Mayflower descendents.
My Mendon roots can’t compete.
Why am I thinking about Steve right now? I wonder, though as I take in the surroundings as Amanda steps up and recites statistics about new product testing and upselling by clerks in the Anterdec fast-food chains, I realize why.
Because Steve should be sitting at a table like this. Probably is, right now, in fact. Negotiating some business deal with a group of smirking suits who view every woman they work with as a coordinator.
I watch Declan watching Amanda, and really look at him. He’s serious now, eyes tracking the PowerPoint slides as she clicks through, graphs and charts aligned beautifully to nail the entire point of this meeting:
We know our stuff.
You want to improve customer service, cut down on employee theft, help raise retention, and grow your customer base?
Let me lurk in your men’s rooms and report back what I see.
What I saw this morning is suddenly staring back with a wolfish look so deep that I feel raw and vulnerable, like our suits, the rugs, the business paraphernalia is all just a prop to cover up the fact that we’re primal beings who simply want each other.
This is new.
This is too much.
Someone says my name. They say it again. Then I feel a massive pain in my ankle.
“Ow!” I utter. Amanda’s glare is even sharper than her ankle as it crashes into mine again. She’s kicking me.
“It’s your turn, Closer,” she whispers. I look around the table. James, Andrew, and Greg look at me expectantly.
I stand, completely rattled. The deck I prepared is on the same laptop Amanda’s been using, but it’s like I’ve lost all organizational capacity in my mind. Declan won’t stop looking at me like that.
Like that. Like he’s watching me naked and he’s nude and rising up to meet every square inch of my…
James starts to frown while Andrew gives Amanda a knowing look. I clear my throat, but before I can say anything, Declan interrupts.
“We have another meeting to get to,” he says.
“We do?” Andrew interrupts, then, “Ow!” I get the impression Amanda’s not the only one kicking ankles, because Declan gives his brother a fierce look.
“We do. And as the new vice president of marketing, I’m the decision maker here, right?” He looks at James with a hard stare.
All the friendliness drains out of the room. Greg looks like he’s about to throw up, then pastes on a sad smile.
“Is there a reason why you won’t have me finish the presentation?” I ask, my voice spiked with ice. If he’s going to be an asshole and cut me short, and this has all been some kind of game, I’m not leaving without having my say. I’ve been through enough presentations like this to know that if you can get the senior executive on board, even if the other two don’t like it, you have a fighting chance.
“Oh, you’ll finish it.” Declan's voice is dismissive. It makes my jaw ache, and I bite my tongue. “But I can’t now.” He becomes a smartphone zombie, avoiding eye contact. He’s blowing hot and cold like the old heater in Greg’s office.
James stays quiet. I get the sense it’s not his normal state. His eyes flick over me, then back to Declan. “Of course, it’s your call.”
“But my presentation has some hard data that could really affect your decision,” I say. I’m not going without a fighting chance.
“I’d like to reschedule your presentation,” Declan says as he strides toward the door. Andrew follows him, slowly and with the stance of someone who is not accustomed to being the follower.
“When?” Greg asks.
“Tonight. Shannon and I will have a dinner meeting. Seven. Wear something nice,” he says over his shoulder as he walks out.
Fury washes over me and I stand, crossing the big room in seconds. My hand reaches out for his shoulder and he turns around, eyes cold, looking down on me.
“You can’t just order me to go on a date with you!” I cry out. The receptionist cocks her head, listening.
“Who said anything about a date?” His face is inscrutable. “It’s a business meeting. Leave your address with Stacia and she’ll have a driver sent to your home.”
And with that, he stalks out. I start to follow him, but Amanda and Greg appear.
“He can’t do that!” I sputter to Greg. Back me up, dude, I think.
James McCormick comes out, a bemused look on his face as he stares at me. “Ms. Jacoby, I assume you can give a good show for Declan tonight?”
Show? What am I now? Who cares about this stupid account? I’ve been turned into a bo
y toy in seconds by Mr. Asshole in a Suit, and I’m about to give the McCormicks a piece of my mind.
Greg pipes up, finally. Good. Here we go, boss. Defend me.
“Shannon would be delighted. I’m sure Declan will love whatever she shows him tonight.”
And with that, James McCormick leaves us, disappearing back into the football-field office.
I spin in outrage to Greg. “Thanks for pimping me!”
He shrugs. “The guy said business meeting. If that’s what it takes to land this account, you can talk about process flow and customer satisfaction over candlelight, right?”
“You ever been told by a VP of marketing to ‘wear something nice’ and had a limo sent to your home for a business meeting?”
Silence.
“Look at it this way,” Amanda says, slinging her laptop over her shoulder and shooting me a sympathetic look. “It has to be better than the way you met for the first time.”
“And you!” I hiss. “‘Hot Guy’? Seriously? You just…I don’t even know you people. It’s like you’ve become my mother!”
They both shudder. “That’s kind of low, Shannon,” Amanda mutters as we walk to the elevator. Greg scurries over to Stacia the receptionist and I hear him giving her my address. My God. It’s like my mother has been tutoring him.
“And whoring me out to the VP of Anterdec Industries isn’t?”
“I’m sure he won’t do anything inappropriate,” Greg says as he catches up to us.
“Bummer,” Amanda says.
Greg’s turn to look outraged. He’s old enough—barely—to be our father, and while most of the time he acts like a peer, this isn’t one of those moments. A paternalistic air fills the space between the three of us. It’s more what I’d expected back in that meeting, and I would have appreciated it then, but I’ll take what I can get.
“You absolutely do not need to go to this business dinner tonight,” he says, resolute. Amanda’s neck snaps back with surprise at the firmness of his words. “I’ll go instead.”
“Wear something nice,” Amanda chirps.
He scowls. My stomach sinks. I want him to say that, but I don’t want him to follow through. Being alone with Declan on a date—er, business dinner—sounds like heaven. This is my big chance to prove I am more than Toilet Girl. More pragmatically, if we can mix business and pleasure, why not snag a multimillion-dollar account, too, while I am at it?
The entire conversation taking place in my head makes me need a shower to wash off how dirty I feel and to need a shower with Declan. Mmmm, Declan in the shower, soaping me up, and—
“See how distraught she is!” Greg whispers to Amanda. “Look at that blank stare.”
Amanda snorts. “I think she’s drooling, Greg. That’s the look of a woman dreaming about Hot Guy.”
He looks offended. “Why would anyone be…you women are so…I don’t understand…” We climb on the elevator and he pushes the Close Doors button. He’s still sputtering when we hit the parking garage level where his car is parked. “And besides, what do you think your mother would say if she knew?”
“She’d offer me up just like you did, Greg. And go home and cut an extra foot up the slit of any dress I have. She’s a better pimp than you when it comes to dating a billionaire.”
“He’s not a billionaire,” is all Greg can come back with.
“He will be when he inherits his share of Anterdec.” Amanda speaks with the authority of someone who has snooped through every nook and cranny of a man’s Google results.
A dizzy wave of overwhelm makes me cling to the iron-pipe bannister of the concrete steps near Greg’s car. “A billionaire?” Mom would get her Farmington Country Club wedding and more if I…
STOP!
“You feeling faint, Shannon?” Greg pauses, looking at me intently. “You seem fragile today.” A look of sheer horror passes over him while I struggle to keep down my bites of all those early-morning bagel sandwiches. “You’re not…you couldn’t be…you know?” He mimes a basketball in front of his already-basketball-sized belly.
“What? A sumo wrestler?” Amanda mimics with startling brutality.
“Pregnant,” he whispers. The two of them look at each other with twin expressions of shock and dissolve into hooting laughter, the kind where you wipe your eyes and hope you don’t pee your pants.
“Not funny,” I say.
“We know. You can’t be pregnant. It would be the immaculate conception,” Amanda squeaks.
My dizziness passes. “Done making fun of me? Let’s get going.”
They compose themselves and Greg beeps his car to unlock it. We climb in. I take the front seat and Amanda grumbles. I summon a Chuckles-worthy glare and she cowers, climbing in without another peep.
“What’s your rush?” Greg balks as I tap my foot impatiently.
“I have to find something nice to wear tonight.”
Chapter Eight
“You snitch!” It’s 6:45p.m. and I am being held hostage by terrorist extremists with a list of demands that make Al-Qaeda look like preschoolers playing pirate.
“I didn’t mean to tell her,” Amanda insists. “She asked me about Hot Guy and—”
“I can hear you. I’m two inches from your mouth,” Mom says, waving an eyeshadow wand like she’s conducting the Boston Pops. Occasionally it actually hits my eyelid. She won’t admit she needs bifocals; her glasses are pushed so low on her nose they might as well be in Albany.
She can’t see a thing, and I’m rapidly fearing I look more like Pennywise the Clown than Olivia Wilde. Mom promised me she could make me look like her, or Scarlett Johansson, or Jennifer Lawrence with enough time and high-end makeup.
Right now I’d settle for retaining full vision in my left eye, which she has now poked twice with the eyeshadow wand.
“You have to look good to catch a billionaire’s eye,” Mom says. Then she frowns and, Lord have mercy, puts down the eyeshadow wand.
“I know,” I simper.
“What about the rest of you?” Her eyes comb over her work so far. I think she’d like to produce the Mona Lisa, but is going to have to settle for Lisa Simpson.
“The rest of me? I shaved my legs and armpits. Plucked my eyebrows—”
“Is that’s what’s different? What did you use, honey? A weed whacker?”
I look at her. She flinches. I swear the corners of Chuckles mouth turn up a tad.
“You can leave now,” I say for the umpteenth time. “It’s a business dinner.”
“Did you shave…you know?” She points vaguely at my crotch area.
“My knees? Yes.” I’m playing dumb on purpose.
“No! Your pink bits.”
I choke and cough uncontrollably. I am not having this conversation, am I? Seriously? What did I do in a past life to deserve this? I was Eva Braun, wasn’t I?
“All the girls your age do it. You’d think having a pubic hair or three was some kind of social crime.” She’s talking, and the words are coming out, but I can’t hear her over the lambs screaming in my head. “Then again, men your age have come to expect a smooth Chuckles, so…”
Chuckles arches his back, the hairs rising on end, and he opens his mouth, hissing.
“A smooth what?”
“Chuckles,” she whispers, enunciating the word. He hisses at her.
“Huh?”
“P-u-s-s-y,” Mom spells out. “That’s the word your father likes to use now that we need to spice things up in the—”
“Hari-kari! Give me a kitchen knife!” I shout just as my sister, Amy, walks in the door.
“To kill Mom, or you?” She’s carrying a bag of groceries and an extremely large foam hand.
“Either. Both. Mom was just telling me allllll about how Dad likes to talk dirty in bed.”
Amy blanches. “Mom? Boundaries! Please!”
“What? It’s not like that time I told you about needing a new diaphragm because it kept slipping during sex and making those strange sucking sounds.�
��
I think even Chuckles turned pale at that one.
Mom keeps going. “Your father said the sounds reminded him of Darth Vader. So then we had this whole role-play thing going on with Princess Leia and Han Solo….”
My cell phone rings with a text. Sweet Jesus, thank you. Saved by the limo driver. “Gotta go!” I say. “What’s with the foam finger? You got a date with Robin Thicke?”
Amy gives me a look like a dog having its eyes poked out by a toddler. “Where are you off to?” She tosses the foam finger at Chuckles, who flees. She never answers my question, though, because Mom decides to be the town crier.
“Shannon has a date with a billionaire!” Mom exclaims.
“Oh? And I’m engaged to the leprechaun from the Lucky Charms cereal!” Amy replies, clapping her hands with fake glee.
I’m out the door before I can hear more.
Except the limo driver isn’t who greets me when I get down my twenty-seven steps in high heels made of what feel like five-inch hatpins.
It’s Declan.
Mom insisted I wear a little black dress, with an emphasis on “little.” I’m a DD up top. Her spaghetti-strap ensemble left the equivalent of Girl Scout badges covering my boobs.
My tailored blazer with scalloped edges works well. Mom’s borrowed diamond necklace and earrings make the picture. As long as I don’t twist an ankle or take out a small pet with my high heels, I should be fine.
Declan is wearing what looks like a tuxedo, but without the tie. He approaches, and there’s a moment where the setting sun is behind him and frames his body, the hues of rose and violet streaking the gray sky. He saunters toward me with a look of total absorption, eyes only on me, hungry and appreciative. My core tightens and fills with an unfamiliar feeling.
Desire.
He reaches for my hand and just holds it. He smells like soap and cloves and aftershave. I want to taste him. He looks like he wants to devour me.
“Hello!” says someone from behind me. I close my eyes and wince as my mother breaks her You should rule and calls down to us from the top of my stairs. “You kids have fun.”