by J. J. Murray
“I like to travel light,” I say. “What, were you waiting for me to drop my handkerchief or something?”
He looks away. “Something like that.”
It’s actually kind of sweet. “So you’re saying that I was Lady Shari and you were Sir Tom?”
He nods. “Yeah. I know it sounds corny.”
It’s actually wonderfully, sweetly romantic. “So you pretty much know my schedule.”
He nods.
Let’s find out. “What do I usually do on Tuesday nights?”
“Prayer meeting at Brooklyn Tabernacle,” he says. “I usually sit in the back.”
He was there? “You attend regularly?”
He nods. “Whenever I’m in town.”
I know I would have noticed him. Unless he was hiding. But how can Tom hide anywhere? He stands out like a sore ... god. “Where do I go on Sunday?”
“Nine a.m. service, and again, I sit in the back. You sure can dance. I’ve never been one to go to church, and, well, you have me going. I don’t understand everything, but I really like going just so I can see you.”
Wow. I have no snappy comeback. He has made me speechless.
I turn several more pages of his notebook and see—wow. That’s an astounding drawing of me, and I’m wearing a hard hat, goggles, and the orange vest. The goggles make my eyes seem fifty times their normal size. “Is this supposed to be me?” Hey, he even drew in my sexy glasses. He has good eyes.
He reaches over and uses a pencil eraser to remove the goggles and the hard hat. He redraws my eyes, my eyebrows, my glasses, and even recreates my natural hair. He is really good. He adds one of my dimples. Is that what he sees when he looks at me?
“You can draw,” I say, and I wish I could say more. I have to keep reminding myself that this man beside me is the boss’s man, friend, man-friend—or something like that.
“I can draw well when I have the right subject, yes.” He looks at my face then adds my lips and a sly smile. “And I finally have the right person to draw now.” He stares at me then draws my little potato-chip ears. “I’d, um, do more with your body, but ... I mean, um, well, I meant ...”
Is he blushing? I think he is.
“You know what I mean,” he says.
I know exactly what you mean, Tom, and it feels ... scary. I’ve never had anyone protect me, even if from a distance, and I’ve never had anyone draw me before. I’ve never had anyone even draw me a bath. And yet here he is, drawing me in ...
“If I had the right kind of pencils, I’m sure I could capture you better.”
You’re doing some capturing of my heart right now. I cannot believe that this sexy hunk of a man is shy!
He drops the pencil and slides a few inches away from me. “I can tell you’re not interested in hooking up with me, I mean ...”
He blushes again! I am tying his big ol’ tongue in knots.
“I mean, I can tell you’re not interested in working with me.”
Where’d his leg go? My leg was just getting acquainted with that tree trunk. “You said earlier that I’d be working for you, not with you.”
“I like how you hang on my every word.”
“No, I don’t.” Okay, I do.
He slides back. My leg says “howdy” to his. They’re becoming old friends.
“We’d be equal partners, Shari,” he says. “Fifty-fifty splits all the way. We’ll even have a written agreement if you like. A legal partnership, and if either of us should want to walk away, we’ll split everything down the middle.”
I feel the warmth of his leg seep into my other leg. “It, um, it sounds tempting.”
He puts his hand lightly on my back.
How can one hand warm an entire body?
“So you’ll at least think about it?” he asks.
My back is suddenly hot. “I might think about it.” Of course I will! I just don’t want him to know how badly I want this—and a back rub from that hot hand. I wiggle a little, and he removes his hand. No! I wanted you to rub my back, man!
“And you don’t have to buy me dinner or breakfast, Shari. I just got lucky. That nurse had to be the horniest woman Down Under.”
Now there’s the title of a good flick for Nicole Kidman to make.
Oh, now my back is cold. And if one of his hands could warm me up like that, what could two of his hot hands do?
“I’m, um, I’ll be going back to the hotel now,” he says. “I’m sure you’ll want some face time with Mr. Peterson.”
I’d rather have some more face time with you. Wait. How can I play this off as something other than what it’s starting to be? “I need to follow you back to the hotel. I don’t want to get lost. Let me say my good-byes to the Petersons.”
“Sure.” He stands and offers his hand.
“I can get up by myself, thanks.”
He leaves his hand there. “Could you hand me my notebook?”
“Oh.” I put the notebook in his hand, and he slides it into his back pocket. That poor notebook! It’s going to get crushed!
After dropping off my equipment in the holding area, I walk lazily to the office while Tom waits by his rental car, a Ford Mustang. That man and that car in any kind of ad—that car would be a best-seller for sure.
Mrs. Peterson is still at her solitaire game. I guess this business does run itself. “Leaving?” she says.
“Yes. I wanted to thank you for your hospitality.” I take out the two twenties and lay them on her desk. “Lunch was my treat.”
She nods and collects the bills.
“Is Mr. Peterson around? I’d like to say good-bye to him, too.”
“Trouble with one of the machines, don’t ask me which one,” she says. “He’ll be at it till dark. And Mondays used to be so slow around here.” She smiles. “We don’t normally get visits from outsiders, no offense. And then we get two on the same day.”
Hmm. “And Mr. Peterson told me Monday would be the perfect day for me to visit.”
Mrs. Peterson wrinkles her lips and looks at the ceiling. “Hmm. Now why would Mr. Peterson say that this particular Monday would be perfect for you?”
I have no idea, unless ...
She raises her eyebrows.
“He knew Tom would be here,” I say. “He knew we’d both be coming.”
“That’s my Woody,” she says. “He likes to make people uncomfortable, put them on the spot, see how they react. While he didn’t seem to be paying attention at H&H, he really was.”
And Mr. Peterson heard our crazy conversation. “I hope I didn’t let him down.”
“Just don’t let him down next week. You’re good people, Miss Ross. Truth be told, I didn’t think it was wise for my husband to even use a New York ad agency. That place is so far removed from here in every way. We’ve been doing just fine without y’all, you know? I said Atlanta has ad agencies. Why not use them? And then you show up. You’re not what I expected. You’re just a little slice of home, you know that?”
A little slice of home. Another possible tagline. “Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Peterson.”
“Did you and Mr. Sexton settle your differences?” she asks. She is so perceptive. “Um, there was nothing really to settle.” Because we’re really not that different. Okay, he’s huge and I’m not. He’s a real hunk, and I’m just a slice of a home girl. He’s shy, and I’m ... sort of shy.
“Did y’all come to some sort of agreement at least?” she asks.
“Something like that.” I just wish I knew exactly what “that” was.
I know I’m forgetting something, something important. Geez. I need the freaking product! I am such a rookie. “Um, I should have run this by Mr. Peterson earlier today, but I’m going to need a representative bicycle to take back with me.”
She nods toward the door. “It’s already in your truck.”
“It is?”
“You left your door unlocked, Corrine,” she says. “See, you haven’t completely lost your country roots. He didn’t wa
nt to forget either. He said it was a present.”
“A present? I can’t accept a present from a client, Mrs. Peterson.” Though Corrine does it all the time.
“He likes you,” she says. “Say it was for your birthday. Use it however you wish.”
“I just wish I could thank him. Does he have his walkie-talkie?”
She whips hers out. “He should.” She hands it to me. “First button on the right there.”
I press the button. “Mr. Peterson?”
“That’s a strange voice,” Mr. Peterson says. “You okay, Freda?”
“It’s me, um, Corrine.” Almost blew it again. “Thank you so much for the bicycle.”
“I just figured you’d need it, Miss Ross. Might be a tad tall for you. Didn’t have time to measure you. You drive safe.”
“Yes sir. Thanks again.” I hand the walkie-talkie to Mrs. Peterson. “Well, thanks again to you, too.”
“You take care now.”
I go to the GMC and look in the back. Wow. It’s a red and black bike with all the accessories and attachments, including a really cool digital speedometer.
“Ah. You got the red one.”
I turn and look at Tom and only see his chest. “I suppose you have one, too.”
“Two, actually.” He smiles. “And you’ve already seen them both on the bridge.”
He didn’t tell me he already had a Peterson bike! And he has two! He already uses the product and has been using the product to follow me around! How unfair an advantage is that? “Oh.” I nod at his car. “You ready?”
“Oh. Yeah.”
I follow him to the hotel, and I can’t keep my legs still. Why do I feel so much anticipation? Nothing’s going to happen. Bryan’s coming Friday, and Bryan and I have a long history, even if it’s stagnant and dull. Tom’s still kind of evasive about Corrine. She may be psychotic, but there has to be something going on if she’s still pining for him. He hangs around her for two years without sleeping with her? That’s hard to believe.
And the only reason he’s doing her dirty is so he can win this account. But he’s been following me. He calls me all the time. He’s here with me instead of in Australia with her. Oh, he didn’t know I would be here, but still.
And that offer of a partnership. Man, I wish I knew if it was genuine. Part of me thinks he’s probably just trying to get a leg up tonight and an edge up on me tomorrow. He wouldn’t work for Harrison Hersey and Boulder for so long without being super slick like that.
I am either a complete sucker ...
Or it’s going to be a very bumpy night.
Chapter 14
At the hotel, we stop in the lobby and stare at each other till my neck starts to hurt. Either I need to wear heels (not), or he needs to wear flats.
“Well,” he says.
“Well,” I say.
We’re so eloquent.
“Shari ...”
“Tom ...”
At least we’re still on a first-name basis.
“You’re not making this easy, Shari.”
“I’m not supposed to make this easy, Tom.”
At least we can agree on something.
“Well, could I at least take you out to eat?” he asks. “A public place with lots of people.”
“I’m afraid that would be a conflict of interest.” And my heart is right conflicted now. I need an uncluttered heart and an open mind to pull this charade off, not more complications, even if he is so hot!
“Most of this afternoon has been a conflict of interest, Shari.”
True. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why not? It’s just food and conversation.”
After what his fingers, hand, and leg did to me today, it wouldn’t just be food and conversation. “That could lead to other things, Tom, and, well, I have ... I have this guy friend in my life.”
He doesn’t speak for a full minute. “I’ve never seen you with anyone, I mean, you’ve never mentioned ...”
I nod. “I know. Five years of talking to you, I should have mentioned him, right?”
“Corrine never said anything about it either.”
“I never share my business with Corrine,” I say. “It’s safer that way as much as she runs her mouth.”
He looks at the floor, the chairs in the lobby, his suitcase, his shoes. “Well, wow.”
My heart! Cut it out. Bryan is going to be in your apartment on Friday. “Sorry. I should have told you.”
“Well, of course you have a man in your life. I’m, um, well, just ... hmm.”
I have completely flummoxed this man, and for some strange reason, it makes me like him even more.
He frowns. “Just consider it a compliment then.” He almost smiles. “He’s ... he’s lucky.”
I tap him on the hand. “And you have Corrine.”
He sighs. “I don’t have Corrine. She’s my friend in Australia, remember?”
Was that anger? I think it was. Wow. “Um, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the jellyfish stung Corrine on the, um, on the breast.”
He winces. “Ouch.”
I wince, too. “She says it looks like a football. She’s, uh, going to be a lefty for a while.”
“That is such an odd image.” He shakes his head. “Well. I guess the next time I see you will be at the meeting.”
And a part of me thinks that’s so wrong. That’s eight days from now. “Yeah.”
“Don’t beat me too badly.”
“I intend to.” I hold out my hand.
He takes it, but he doesn’t shake it. “Good night, Shari Nance.”
“Good night, Tom Sexton.” Don’t think about what that hand can do to you, Shari. Remove your hand now. That’s it. There’s your hand. Yes, it’s already getting cold, but you can warm it up all by yourself.
Tom gets in the elevator. “Going up?”
Do not, under any circumstances, get in that elevator. You might do something incredibly impetuous and regret it in the morning. Besides, that elevator probably has a camera in it. “I’ll, um, I’ll wait for the next one.”
He sighs and throws his head back. “Good night, Shari.”
“Good night, Tom.”
Now don’t stand here looking to see what floor he’s on. The stairs are that way. Use them.
I roll my eyes at myself and trudge up three flights to my room. My card key works the fourth time I swipe it, and I enter a suite that is almost as big as my apartment! I don’t throw myself on the king-sized bed and get all dreamy and stupid like the dumb wenches in the movies. I don’t go out and linger in the hallway looking up and down for the man of my dreams.
Because nothing is going to happen.
I set my tote bag in the closet and hit the couch. I check the clock. Five thirty. I should have called Tia to check in. And I should have gotten Tia’s cell and home phone numbers before I left. I’m so bad at being sneaky. I guess it will have to wait. I’ll see her tomorrow morning.
On a lark, I call Corrine just to see if her cell is still wandering the hospital. When it goes straight to voice mail, I decide not to hang up. “Just checking up on you, Miss Ross. I hope you’re feeling better. Give me a call when you can.” If you can.
I peel off my clothes and step into the shower—that has a bench seat? Cool. Very cool. It has to save cleaning a tub, I guess, not that I would have taken a bath anyway. I didn’t bring enough lotion, and this hotel only gives you little bottles good for one elbow anyway. I’m about to sit on the bench but keep my booty from hitting the seat. No telling who or what was on that last. Maybe bench seats aren’t so cool. I use up most of a little bar of soap to clean away the day, and when I let the hot water roll over my body, I think immediately about Tom.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Tom.
I close my eyes and try to think about Bryan.
I can’t.
I see Tom’s hand, feel his finger on my hand, feel the warmth of his leg against mine.
I open my e
yes.
My skin is ashy. I need to get out of this fantasy before I turn gray.
I turn off the water, towel up, use up all the hotel lotion and some of my own, and put on baggy red flannel pajama pants and a tight white tank top.
Denial. That’s the name of the game. I must deny myself and keep my head clear if I am to succeed.
I look over my notes while lounging on a soft, dark brown couch, digging my toes between the cushions to warm them up. I’ve got some good ideas, but I’m missing billboards. Let’s see ... a picture of a commuter. Definitely a female. Dressed like me with boots. It’ll probably have to be me anyway.
Two bikes? Who can afford two bikes? What one person needs two bikes?
Focus, Shari. Stop thinking about the man with the big hands. He is your enemy.
Where was I? The billboard. I’d have to get someone to take my picture as I ... as I do what? Leap over a pothole? I can play Superwoman! I could put a briefcase on the back rack, wear one of Corrine’s fancy tight pantsuits that might fit me—with my boots on, of course—and soar over a Brooklyn pothole. That reminds me of those Virginia Slims ads that said: “You’ve come a long way, baby.” And I have. I’m here! I’m in a suite at the Hilton. I wish I could call and tell someone that. “Yes, darling, I’m at my suite in the Hilton, and it is fabulous, darling.”
Okay, should I put any words on the billboard? Maybe the picture and the product name will suffice. If it’s good enough, it could double as an Internet banner. I might have to do one with a man and one with a woman, though. It shouldn’t be too hard to find some big, tall, rugged man in Brooklyn to help me out.
Mmm. There’s one somewhere in this hotel. He has this chest, oh my—
I shake it off. Maybe I should have taken a cold shower.
Um, billboards. Right. New York billboards have to be artsy, though. They have to be thought-provoking, even controversial. A woman flying through the air with the greatest of ease won’t even make anyone blink.
His eyes were so penetrating, so intense, yet soft. Intense and soft. The way they danced whenever he laughed. Not so much sexy as ... genuine. Yeah. He has genuine eyes.
Focus, wench! You do not have eyes for this man. The billboard. Now.