A Sweet Life-kindle

by Andre, Bella

  Into the toilet, that is.

  Can a relationship develop from two people who meet like this? Am I hopelessly dreaming? Or am I doomed to live the rest of my life surrounded by men at fast food restaurants on $5 sandwich day, or guys opening new accounts at banks to get a free pair of tickets to a big amusement park, or—

  I take a slow, deep breath and remember the heat of his fingers on my arm. The warm questions in those eyes. The willingness to laugh with—okay, at—me.

  I click Yes and then submit, ready to perform the killer client pitch of my entire career.

  Chapter Six

  Amanda and Greg like to pretend that they’re the experts at client pitches, but while they’re good openers, I’ve become the closer.

  And in business, the closer is everything.

  I have this innate sense that tells me how to fine-tune my words and convince a wavering vice president of marketing, or director of consumer relations, or vice president of let’s invent a title for the owner’s son, that Consolidated Evalu-shop, Inc. will help their company usher in a new wave of business that positions them at the vanguard of a paradigm shift in the industry.

  See? I’m good.

  Marketing really isn’t anything more than word salad, and I don’t mean the schizophrenic kind. Learning to speak business jargon fluently is definitely an acquired skill.

  Growing a penis is another one. Haven’t mastered that just yet, though if I could, I would.

  You know how many female VPs I meet? Maybe one in fifty. Presidents? One. Ever. A smattering of directors, more assistant directors, and then the glut of “coordinators,” which can mean anything from an underpaid, overworked equivalent of a vice president but without the paycheck to a glorified secretary.

  And when you walk into a meeting, you have no idea what you’re dealing with.

  Guess what my title is?

  Yep. Marketing coordinator.

  “They emailed me this morning,” Greg says. I take a good look at him. One thing I have to give to Greg—he cleans up well. He’s a little younger than my dad, which makes him mid-forties or so. You know—old, but not ancient. Brown hair, thinning out, and cut super short the way guys who won’t quite admit they’re balding cut their hair. His wife made him ditch the old 1980s frames he used to wear for a sleek updated look, and his suit is tailored, which it has to be. The beach ball masquerading as a stomach needs to fit.

  “Portly” is the genteel term for what Greg looks like. He’s a great Santa at Christmas over at the community center, and today he looks like a distinguished gentleman ready to play hardball at the boardroom table.

  “What’d they say?” Amanda is wearing a long, gray pencil skirt with a slit up the back. Nothing too racy, but with her curvy hips it looks business sexy. Red silk shell and black blazer. With the black hair and red lips, she has the look down. I have to stop myself from calling her Mistress.

  “They want to expand the account by sixty percent. Into their high-end properties.”

  Amanda and I suppress twin squeals of excitement. Anterdec owns an enormous chunk of real estate, hospitality companies, and restaurants in the area. If they have fewer than two hundred properties, I’d be surprised.

  An account this big, including their luxury hotels, fine dining, and elite transportation services, could turn Consolidated into a major player in marketing services for enterprise companies.

  (See how I did that? I should be a highly paid copywriter. Instead, I spent the ten minutes after we got here using a lint roller to peel cat hair off Greg’s back.)

  “You want first dibs on mystery shopping The Fort?” Greg’s words make my heart soar. Amanda’s eyes open so wide I think one will fall out. The Fort is the exclusive waterfront hotel in Boston. Rumor has it the mints on the pillows have mints on them. Sheiks and royalty from around the world stay there when they are in town.

  A night in a standard suite costs what I make in a month.

  “Dibs!” I hiss. Amanda snarls.

  “Down, you two. If this goes through, there will be more than enough shops for both of you and Josh. The luxury shops will be handled in-house. I might need to add employees.”

  “You might need to add heat and a toilet,” Amanda cracks just as the receptionist catches our eye and motions toward the board room.

  We are in the financial district of Boston, where people like me notice the nearest Starbucks or Boloco, but folks like the vice president for marketing at Anterdec notice which building has a helipad for helicopter landings.

  Three suited men are turned away from us as we enter, their heads huddled in discussion. One head is gray, two are brown.

  No women. Of course.

  “Advantage already. No women,” Greg whispers in my ear. He is the opposite of sexist. He pays all of us, male or female, the same crappy salary.

  The office is gorgeous. I’d expected a sleek, black and gray glassed room overlooking the building across the narrow road; the financial district isn’t close enough to the water for everyone to get their sliver of a view of the ocean.

  But this. We are on the twenty-second floor and the window looks out over a rooftop terrace next door, covered with topiary filled with…PacMan?

  “Is that a PacMan maze on that rooftop, or am I nuts?” I whisper to Amanda, who stifles a giggle.

  “Big video-game development company next door. Their IPO just happened. I hear one of the perks of working there is that they deworm your dog or cat on site while you work.”

  I open my mouth to say something back, when the three men turn and stand, facing us.

  My mouth remains open.

  One of the men is Declan McCormick.

  His eyes meet mine and five different emotions roil through that chiseled jaw, those sharp eyes, that sun-kissed skin. Most of them are scandalous. All of them make my toes curl.

  And then his face spreads with the hottest, warmest, most mischievous smile I have ever seen on a man who has taken over my damn senses, and he says:

  “Toilet Girl!”

  Chapter Seven

  There are so many ways the next few seconds can unfold. I can pretend I don’t know what he is talking about and remain professional, giving him nonverbal cues and hoping he is decent enough to play along.

  I can turn around and run screaming from the building.

  I can laugh nonchalantly and step forward with grace, offering my hand and telling the story with self-deprecating sophistication and wit so overwhelming that I clinch the deal right here.

  Instead, Amanda blurts out, “That’s Hot Guy?”

  Declan’s face goes from joyfully amused to ridiculously gorgeous as he tucks his chin in one hand and tries not to laugh. The gray-haired man looks from Declan to me with an annoyed expression, the kind you only see on men who don’t like to be left out of knowing the score, and who are accustomed to having everyone make them the center of attention.

  The other brown-haired man takes a step forward and offers his hand to Amanda, who is standing a step closer to them than I am. “Hello. I’m Andrew McCormick, and you are…?”

  “Amanda Warrick,” she says with a clipped, professional cadence. The lingering handshake is mutual, though.

  He seems to drop her hand with great reluctance, then turns to me. “My brother calls you Toilet Girl, but I’m going to assume that’s a stage name?”

  Amanda snickers. Greg looks like I just drop-kicked his Christmas morning puppy out the twenty-second-story window. Declan watches me with deeply curious eyes and a flame of interest that makes the room feel like we’ve moved to the equator, and the gray-haired man clears his throat.

  “You look a bit...flushed,” he says to me with a confused smile, but impish eyes. I can see what Declan will look like in thirty years.

  The room descends into chaotic laughter.

  “Shannon Jacoby,” I say, ignoring the howling monkeys and reaching out to shake what I assume is James McCormick’s hand. The CEO of Anterdec, I’ve researched him th
oroughly, but never in a million years put the McCormick name together with Declan. Amanda does the personal background research, and I mentally kick myself for not reading her brief. Then again, I didn’t exactly plan to have Meghan drop nine shops on me in the wee hours of this morning.

  “I take it you two have met?” Andrew says to me and Declan, his hard stare at his brother making it clear he expects the full story later.

  “Careful, Dad—you don’t want to know where that hand’s been,” Declan says dryly as the elder McCormick and I grasp hands for a quick shake.

  “May I speak with you for a moment?” I ask Declan through a gritted-teeth smile. Anger blazes bright in me, turning a heat that had been uncomfortably sultry into a fiery mix of professional offense and uncontrollable lust.

  Declan comes over next to me and places his hand on the small of my back as if to guide me to a quiet corner of the room so I can hiss at him while the others introduce themselves.

  We both freeze. The touch of his palm, polite but firm, makes my entire body pulse with electricity and groundedness. His hand represents some core I didn’t know I lack. Our breath becomes one, and I will myself not to look at him, because if I do, what will I see in his eyes?

  Anything but the same feelings I have right now will destroy me. And the not knowing is easier to live with than certain rejection.

  He leans down, hot breath tickling my ear, blowing lightly on the strands of hair that escape my up-do.

  “I’ve been thinking about you all morning,” he rasps. A million snappy comebacks flood my mind, but I hold them in check. Deflecting this—this supernova of attraction—can only happen for so long.

  Declan and I are at the vanguard of a monumental paradigm shift, all right.

  And all the business jargon in the world can’t stop me from what fate has in store.

  “Toilet water has that effect on men. They ought to bottle it and sell it at the perfume counter of Neiman Marcus.”

  He doesn’t react. At all. No snort of laughter, no eye roll of derision. Just a heat that radiates off him and makes me simmer.

  “What were you really doing in that bathroom?” he finally asks, the hand on my back moving in slow circles. It’s the briefest hint of touch, but it makes me lean in to him, and I smell him, a mix of musk, cloves, and sophistication. “You clearly weren’t a student on her way to class.”

  “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.<
br />
  “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.”