by DL White
"No, I'm not scared of men! I work with men, I'm friends with men, I live with a man."
"Don't get loud with me. Cousins don’t count.”
"Whatever. I love men. I don't have to be nice to that one."
"You gotta figure some things out, Cousin. That mentality will keep you from living life and accepting people into your world. Your entire existence is Shonda Rhimes TV shows. Shonda can't write your future."
"See, that's where you're wrong. She'd do an outstanding job writing my future."
O'Neal took any opportunity to rant about my lack of life experiences. I was the complete opposite of my thrill-seeking cousin. There were so many things I'd never done.
Fly in an airplane.
Swim in the ocean.
Have sex.
Not that I'd never seen a man that made my entire body thump. Trevante Rhodes walks among us. Being the baby of the family and somewhat of an awkward, unfortunate-looking duckling until I was well into adulthood meant that I bloomed late in life.
I was in my twenties before I grew into my "negro nose" and, at the urging of my older sisters and cousin, began investing in my skin and doing more with my hair than tucking it under an unimpressive wig or pulling it into a bun. When I earned my MBA, my family gave me cards to several clothing stores, gifting me thousands of dollars. I roped my friends into helping me shop to accentuate a large bust, thick thighs, and a high, round ass.
"You dress like Whoopi Goldberg," O'Neal had declared, right before he swept all of my roomy, floor-length kaftans into a bag. He was so happy to drop them off at Goodwill.
My closet was now bursting with dresses made of rich, indulgent fabrics that flattered instead of hid my shape and pants tailored to fit. My drawers were full of the softest, frilliest things that had ever touched my skin. What I couldn't do to my coils and now unblemished skin, my sister, Jada, could handle at her salon.
I was coming into my own at work, too. I'd been promoted to Senior Contracts Administrator at Benning Mergers & Acquisitions Consulting, which didn't bring much prestige, but it meant more money, more responsibility, and that they could assign me to bigger and more lucrative case profiles. My boss was an ass, but I could handle him. I hoped that I could prove my worth and move out of his department.
The last leaves of my bloom had everything to do with my heart, and, by consequence, my body. I guarded my energy fiercely and waited to have sex for a defined reason. I didn't want to give any part of myself to someone who wasn't invested. I refused to get close to someone who didn't genuinely care for me. Boys in high school and young men in college were more concerned with getting off than my self-worth.
The longer I said no, watching men be cool with walking away instead of finding out how they could hear a different answer, the easier it became to say no. And here I was, about to turn 40, and still saying no.
I was afraid, but not in the traditional sense. Sex didn't scare me. I was, in fact, primed for it, more than ready to meet him if he was a handsome specimen that produced lusty thoughts and ride him over the virginal rainbow. I just didn't want that ride to be all about him.
My fear lied in meeting a man who didn't know or care what it meant to share a deeply intimate part of myself with him. And until I met him, the answer would have to be no.
O'Neal wasn't wired that way and would never understand.
"Did you watch last week's Insecure yet?" I asked, desperate to change the subject. "I've been waiting for you to be home so we can watch."
He was already getting up. "Yeah, then I have to get in the bed. I have a 6 AM flight. Will you pop some popcorn?"
Chapter Five
Esme
* * *
The voicemail indicator on my desk phone pulsed as I got to my cube on Monday morning. My box was usually empty, so something big was happening, and I was already behind.
I dropped into my chair and lifted the phone handset, tucking it between my shoulder and ear while reaching for the keyboard to log onto the network.
"Esme! I've been looking for you. You're needed in the Great Room. Right away."
Reese, my boss’ assistant, stood outside my workspace, prim and proper in a dark pantsuit and three-inch heels. Her long hair was twisted into its usual chignon, and her jewelry, as always, was understated. Pearls today.
I glanced up, voicemail droning in one ear. The Great Room? That was the big conference room at the opposite corner of the floor, decorated in overly southern tones. I was definitely behind.
"I just got in. I was out Friday, and I'm catching up–"
"No time," she barked. "Grab a notepad."
I took the advice, swiping a half-used pad and a pen from a jar I kept at my desk before following Reese through the hallway to the other side of the suite. The partners and senior staff worked in plush offices and meeting spaces, not cookie-cutter cubicles where they expected the contracts staff to pump out paper.
Though they had promoted me, I still did the heavy lifting of detailing the pertinent points of an acquisition, whether it was a friendly coming together or a hostile takeover. Partners didn't care what I learned in my MBA track, or what I'd read that morning in a business journal. I was a highly paid clerk, which got under my skin.
"What's this meeting about?" I whispered, keeping pace with Reese's long strides. She was 5'10" in stocking feet, most of which was muscled, runner's legs. "I didn't have time to listen to my voicemail."
"An acquisition," she answered. "The client wants to keep it friendly if he can help it. There are millions of dollars on the line if this doesn't go through." She smiled, bringing softness to her brusque demeanor and naturally husky tone. "No pressure."
I inched a hand up to feel my face, to make sure the swelling was still undetectable. I had spent the weekend with bags of frozen vegetables pressed against my skin and avoiding O'Neal's not-so-gentle teasing about Trey Pettigrew.
I'd closed my account at BlackSinglesMatch as soon as I'd made it back to my computer that night. I wouldn't be going back online soon. As I had told the investigating officer from the local police department, I wouldn't be prey ever again if I could help it.
That included even thinking about a man that could joke about my black eye.
I purged all thoughts of Thursday night and the incident from my mind as I pulled open the conference room doors. My boss, Ethan Byron, and a guest were seated at one end of the long table, casually chatting with porcelain coffee cups and saucers in front of them. Scattered across the table were stacks of binders and manila folders stuffed with documents.
"Gentlemen," I greeted them as they stood, nodding to Ethan before extending a hand to our guest, a salt and pepper haired man with sparkling blue eyes, a George Clooney-like appearance and a firm grip. Ethan waved me toward an empty seat.
"Esme, meet Thomas Miller, President of Miller Design. He is negotiating an acquisition. He wants to make sure he's working from a power position."
I nodded as he continued unfurling the events to date. When he finished, I swiveled my chair toward Thomas Miller, who had contributed clarifying details to the overview.
"Esme is one of our senior associates," Ethan said. "I think this project would be a great proving ground for her. Should be cut and dry, but if it isn't, she'll know how to work you through it."
"Was the deal always contentious?" I asked Thomas.
"Not at all," he replied, lips pursed while he shook his head. "I began work with the CEO earlier this year when we got the news that a bid was coming down the pipe for a 328-bed facility. That's a large project for the design alone. And we don't build, so we'd have to subcontract the construction. I reached out to a potential buyer to gauge their interest in purchasing my company in the efforts to jointly submit for this bid."
Miller paused, picked up his coffee cup, and drained it. The cup wasn't back in the saucer more than a few seconds before Reese swept in to fill each cup, including mine. When I caught her eye, she winked at me.
"
When the senior Pettigrew fell ill, I put this deal to bed, in my mind. Then I got a call that his son had picked up the reins, and he'd be continuing the deal if I was still amenable. We'd use Miller experts to expand their design department, use their team to construct what we design. Should have been a beautiful marriage of companies."
I didn't hear much past the familiar name. "Did you say Pettigrew? As in Trey Pettigrew?"
His eyes lit up. "Any history with them?"
"Let's just say that we're acquainted."
Miller pushed a frustrated sigh through thin lips. "Trey is difficult. Argumentative, a stickler for a certain price point. It seems like he's trying to impress his father, and I'm not interested in that performance. We can do great work as one company, but I want my team taken care of. Most of them have been with me since the beginning. That's where you come in."
"Of course," I responded, with a solemn nod of my head. "Concessions should be made to compensate furloughed employees. Offers should be made for severance and health care continuation, and then there's the subject of shares and–"
"You're speaking my language." Miller smiled, which brightened his face. If I wasn't mistaken, his shoulders sagged a bit in relief. "Let's get together and hammer out the salient points. I'd like to carve out space for you at our offices. Vinings is twenty minutes from town on a good traffic day, and we never have a good traffic day. Pettigrew drives to my office for our meetings."
I glanced at Ethan. Junior associates could not work offsite, and though I'd been recently promoted, this was my first project in my promoted role.
"Of course, Thomas," Ethan offered without hesitation. "Whatever you need, for as long as you need it."
"Or until the retainer checks bounce." Miller chuckled, then checked his watch. "Speaking of bad traffic days, I've got a meeting. I'm afraid I need to leave now to make it on time."
He stood, reaching for the suit jacket he'd shed, and hung on the chair behind him. "I've requested your full-time help, so you'll report to my office in the interim. We'll set you up with access and a space to work. I can have my assistant send directions."
I stood and offered Miller a parting handshake. "I was in that area for drinks last week. I'm sure I can find Miller Design."
He slipped into his jacket, smoothing down the lapels. "What restaurant?"
"Bistro," I answered. "Do you know the place?"
His expression darkened as soon as the word left my mouth. "Know it? I witnessed a mugging last week, right in the parking lot."
My heart thumped a beat so hard that it almost threw me back into my seat. Thomas Miller had been at Bistro the night I was attacked. That meant that Trey had been meeting with Miller when he tried to take my chair. And that he left that meeting, leaving multiple millions on the table, to rescue me.
I almost… almost felt bad about how much Pettigrew money I was about to spend. But not enough to turn down the job.
Was I interested in dating Trey? Not really.
Was I interested in spending Trey's money and making him come correct? Oh, absolutely. This would be fun.
"See you in the morning, Mr. Miller. We're going to make a great team."
As soon as Thomas Miller left the room, I turned to face Ethan. His cheerful, easy-going demeanor had disappeared, and the stone face with the ever-present divots of irritation between his eyes had replaced it.
"Was this assignment your idea?"
"I think we both know that it wasn't." He scoffed, scowling.
"What aren't you telling me? What's going to trip me up?"
"You've been in and out of human resources, whining about the opportunities we haven't given you. Now you're whining about an opportunity to serve as a senior consultant. Do you want the project or not?"
"Ethan, I'm just asking–" His expression told me that any argument would be a waste of my time. I threw up my hands in defeat. "I'll do what I can to close it."
"Just do the job, Esme. Mind your business and write the contract so Thomas can close his deal." He stood and buttoned his jacket before stepping around the table. "And don't fuck this up by thinking too much."
Chapter Six
Trey
* * *
Weekends were for resting, but my mother had me at the house and in the yard, completing the honey-do list she'd normally set out for my father.
Like many middle-class families, I didn't grow up with maids to do the housekeeping and staff to manage the garden. Though my parents could be considered wealthy now, they were set in their ways and mired in routine. They set aside every other Saturday for taking care of the outside of the house. Mowing the lawn, weeding the garden, washing the windows, spraying down the driveway, painting the garage door.
More than once, I offered to pay for someone to take care of things for them, but they wouldn't hear of it, so I took it as a compliment that they wanted to see me and trusted me to do things around the house since Pops couldn't do it.
I also used it as an excuse to get a home-cooked breakfast.
I did so little resting that by Monday morning, I was beat, so I was relieved to receive an email that rescheduled my early Monday meeting with Miller Design to Tuesday morning.
I slept late, lounging in bed for a few extra minutes with a cup of coffee and my tablet. I liked to check the newspapers, the markets, and any personal email before starting my day.
Pops' words from dinner on Friday night had rolled through my head all weekend, like a record player on skip. I could not fail to bring this deal home. I spent Monday locked in my office, my desk line on Do Not Disturb, getting all of my ducks in a row, all of my talking points laid out.
When I strolled into Miller Design at the stroke of nine o'clock on Tuesday, I was more than ready.
I stopped at the front desk and signed in, then headed for the locked door that separated the offices from the reception area. The receptionist usually buzzed me through, and I went to Miller's office.
"Oh, actually," she said, her mousy brown curls springing around her face as she stood. "Mr. Miller requested that you wait here. He'll come to get you when he's ready for your meeting."
I strode back to the reception desk and stood in front of her. Her gold brushed nameplate read Jenny Collins. The longer I studied her, the more uncomfortable she became until she reached back for her chair and resumed her seat.
"Jenny, is it?" She nodded. "Mr. Miller set a meeting for 9 AM. I am here. I am never, ever late and yet I'm told that I'll be…" I waved a hand casually in her face. "Waiting until he's ready to see me? Just hanging out here in the waiting area like I'm an average vendor and not a potential buyer. That's the situation?"
"Yes, sir," she replied. "That's the situation."
So, it's like that.
Miller was making a play for power, first by moving our meeting, then making me wait. I urged myself to remain neutral, to not play the game. It wouldn't give him any points. I was writing the check. Whether or not Miller wanted to admit it, the control was on the Pettigrew side. I was ready to use all available resources to bring the companies together, with or without Miller's help.
I turned on a heel and headed to guest seating, a gathering of chairs that were modular and sterile in design. Miller thought his interior decorating skills were avant garde and chic industrial. It was boring and dry. White, steel, wood. Boring.
Pops thought a leader should stand out. Be bold. Make yourself seen and heard. Pettigrew signs were a bright yellow, an unmistakable icon on top of the refurbished factory that housed the business; a beacon of pride outside of any construction site.
The locked door clicked and swung open. Miller strolled through it, wearing a gray suit that matched the color of the walls. His slim build moved toward me, a hand outstretched. Thomas wasn't one to raise his voice or speak out of turn. Like his building and his taste in décor, he was plain and unemotional.
The guy creeped me out, honestly. No one was that calm, especially when someone was trying to take over you
r company.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. I had a last-minute meeting." He gripped my hand and pumped it a few times before he began guiding me toward the door. "You know the drill."
"I'm hoping we can hammer out these details you're stalling on. My father is not pleased with how long this has been dragging out."
Instead of walking us to his office, Miller was strolling down one hallway, up another, to a side of the building I'd never visited before.
"I agree. I'm eager to get things wrapped up." He stopped in front of a closed door and grinned, his eyes sparkling. My gut twisted with foreboding. "I'd like to introduce you to someone."
The door swung open, and Miller stepped inside the room, blocking the view. I dropped my briefcase into the nearest chair, expecting to shake the hand of a board member, an attorney… hell, he could have introduced me to Chuck E. Cheese, and I'd have been less surprised than to see Esme Whitaker seated on one side of the table.
Esme stood and offered a hand across the table. "Mr. Pettigrew. How nice to see you again."
My mind went blank at the moment that I saw her. Her hair in a bun, her full lips a deep red, her dress a short sleeve, rose and heart print that clung to her shape like... Mmmph. It was so nice to see her again.
I had been so used to her face popping up in my mind with a frown on her thick lips that I was taken aback at her smile. Sarcastic as it was, it was prettier in person than it was on the card I had taken from her wallet.
I glanced at her outstretched hand and hesitated long enough to see her smile falter. Then I bit out a laugh and took her hand in mine, giving her a friendly squeeze. I didn't know why she was standing in front of me, but my day had just become interesting.
"Ms. Whitaker," I greeted her. "An unexpected pleasure."
The lines of confusion across Miller’s forehead were comical. "You said you didn't know Mr. Pettigrew."
"We met briefly last week," Esme offered. "He rescued me from the attacker at Bistro."