by DL White
I met Jenny, the receptionist, at the door as she unlocked it, then waited in the lobby for Esme to arrive. While I watched the clock and the parking lot, I reviewed the dog-eared and well-marked copy of the agreement draft. There was room for concession, but a few of the terms that Miller demanded were far different from those presented to Pops. It was nothing I couldn't handle, but it would not make Pops happy.
I stood from my chair and paced the lobby. The unforgiving, industrial concrete floors did nothing to cushion the sharp sound of my shoes clicking as I wandered from one end of the front office to the other. I hoped that I was bothering Jenny so much that she'd call back and let Miller know that I was waiting.
Esme's silver Jetta swung into the lot, coming to a stop in front of the building. She parked and climbed out of the car, pulling the straps of a leather bag over her shoulder. The sight of her in a form-fitting, knee-length grey dress and heels in a coordinating shade did things to me. I gripped the back of a chair and forced myself to breathe.
Inhale. Exhale. Picked the wrong week to fall in love, bruh. She don't even like you.
Esme rushed in, all smiles. "Mr. Pettigrew," she said, extending a hand to me. We shook briefly; I reluctantly released her. "I'm sorry to be so late; I was not expecting traffic to be as bad as it was."
"Call me Trey. You should invest in a GPS device that will give you another route. Might save you some time."
She'd been elbow-deep in her bag, pulling out a mobile phone and a set of keys, but her head snapped up, and a look flashed across her face. Internally, I cringed. I didn't even know her, but I knew that look.
"Don't concern yourself with what I need to be doing, Mr. Pettigrew."
She turned on a heel and marched toward the locked door, whipping out a badge she swiped across the entrance pad. With a beep and a click, the door unlocked, and she pulled it open.
By noon, we had thoroughly irritated one another. Esme and I had come nowhere near agreement on any of the terms that Miller had defined. I was stoic in my arguments; Esme was aggressive in her defense.
"Why not go back to Miller with my proposal? Wouldn't it be easier than arguing every point to death?"
"If Miller was interested in your proposal, he would have accepted it. He wants a better deal, and the final purchase price is lower now. We are moving in the wrong direction."
She exhaled, dropped a pen onto her notepad, propped her elbows onto the table, and her forehead in her hands.
"You and I are going to waste a lot of time arguing the same numbers back and forth. My side isn't budging."
"And neither is mine," she shot back. "Non-negotiable means non-negotiable. Didn't you learn what words mean at whatever fancy school you went to?"
"I'm an idiot because Miller thinks his company is worth twice its actual value?"
"No, you're an idiot because you refuse to move on to items that we can talk about, like—"
"If we don't hammer out these greater details, the lesser items don't matter because we won't have a deal."
"Then I guess you won't have a deal, Mr. Pettigrew."
We had reached an impasse. More like a stalemate. I was tired of circling the same wagon. I'd had nothing but coffee since early that morning, and I was irritable.
I paused, looking for some balance, and pulling the tension from the room before it crackled like lightning. "Can we break? I need to call the office and check-in, take care of a few things. Maybe we can meet back here at−"
I flicked my wrist to bring the face of my watch around.
"Yes. Let's break. See you at one o'clock."
Esme pushed her chair back from the table and stood, grabbed her bag, and stalked from the conference room.
"See you at one o'clock," I mimicked, talking out loud to an empty room. I pulled my phone from my pocket and took her lead, leaving the conference room.
Chapter Nine
Esme
* * *
The aroma of baked bread drew me a few doors down from Miller to a sandwich shop. I ordered a bowl of vegetable soup and a grilled cheese sandwich and took a seat near the window. I pulled a book from my bag, and when my lunch was ready, a server brought it to my table. I settled in for a few minutes of peace with the third book in a series of thrillers from an author I had recently discovered.
O'Neal would never believe me, but I was trying to be nice to the man. It was just that my attraction to Trey was so… unnerving. Everything about him, including his striking sense of fashion, turned all of my senses on high. If I hadn't escaped that room, he would have caught me admiring how the custom-tailored jacket in midnight blue hung from his broad shoulders, and how the well-fitting slacks outlined the perfectly formed orbs of his ass.
I wasn't the type to spend a morning staring and daydreaming about running my hands over a man's body, but in the past week, thoughts of Trey Pettigrew had taken up more of my brain space than I wanted to admit. The only thing keeping me from throwing my self-respect to the wind was his insistence on pushing my buttons.
I was no pushover. He tried the cocky, confident man thing on me, and I rejected it. Now I could unclench, bring my shoulders down from around my ears and enjoy a few minutes outside of that windowless room and away from Trey Pettigrew.
I ate soup and took bites from my sandwich, my attention enveloped in The Janitor, the latest in a series based on a New Zealand serial killer. Despite every attempt to find him, he was playing mind games with the lead investigator. The weary and hardened detective had taken to confiding in a doddering, mild-mannered janitor at the precinct.
The sound of a chair scraping across the tile and a familiar scent wafting over the table thrust me back to real life.
"A thriller," Trey commented, scooting up to the table. "I figured you for a romance reader." He set an enormous plate of chicken salad sandwich and kettle chips in front of him. Without thinking, I moved my bowl so he would have more room.
Then I stopped and remembered: He was crowding me. I moved my bowl back to its original position.
"I do read romance. I also read thrillers. And biographies. And self-help, and business –"
"Versatile literary tastes," he interrupted, hiking his brows up at me with a smile. "I like it. A well-read Black woman is incredibly attractive."
Trey centered his plate on the edge of the table and plucked a chip from the overflowing pile. "I love kettle chips. Well, I stan a fried potato, but these? Hot, crispy, fresh from the fryer. Mmmmm." He winked as it disappeared into his mouth, then closed his eyes and moaned as he chewed.
"They're fine, I guess if you don't mind breaking a tooth. Do you mind, though? I want to get back to my versatile reading habit."
He picked up one half of his sandwich and took a generous bite, licking residual chicken salad off of his lips as he chewed. I tried not to watch, but the way his mouth moved was doing strange things to me.
"Mmmph." He made noises, pointing at my book and chewing, then swallowed. "Let me save you some time because that book drove me crazy when I read it. The janitor is the serial killer."
I blanched, horrified, first, at the idea that the quiet, meek, helpful janitor could be the culprit, right under the nose of the entire investigative team. Then again at how frank Trey had been about giving me that detail. "How… do you know?"
"It's been on the bestseller list for over a month. I'm surprised that you're just now getting around to it."
"This is a new author to me. I wanted to read the other books in the series. Did you just spoil this book for me?"
"No, I gave you a clue. You don't know how it ends or why he's killing." He lifted and lowered his shoulders in a shrug. "Read it. Find out if I was right."
I flipped through pages until I got near the end, then thought better of it and snapped the book shut, tossing it back to the table. I put all of my attention on the bowl of soup and the sandwich, refusing to look up at him, though he was doing the most to get me to notice him.
Crunching chips
loudly, he shoved his plate toward my side of the table which forced me to move my bowl.
"Would you stop? I'm trying to eat so we can get back to work."
I bit into my still warm sandwich, the cheese oozing out from the edges. "That looks good," he said. "Is it?"
I nodded, chewing the crunchy, toasted bread and spicy cheese. The cook used pepper jack, which gave the sandwich a nice kick.
"How long have you worked for Benning?"
I smiled as I swallowed. "Is that something you need to know to close this deal?"
"Nah. But since I know what's inside your wallet and your home address, I didn't think it was too personal. How's your face?"
"My face?" My eyes rose to his.
"Your face. Where that guy played rock 'em sock 'em upside your head."
"Do you have to be so crass about it?"
"Do you have to find a problem with everything I say? Damn."
He exhaled, then added, "I'm only asking how you're doing since your attack. You look good. You feel good? How is the swelling?"
"Do you see any swelling, Mr. Pettigrew?"
Trey said nothing for a few beats, rolling his tongue across his teeth, glaring across the table at me. "So…" I was hoping he'd given up, but no such luck. "Is it just me, or are you a bitch?"
My head shot back up. My glare matched his. "Mr. Pettigrew, I suggest you find another table. Otherwise, you're going to be wearing a bowl of hot vegetable soup."
He rolled his eyes, wiped his fingertips with a napkin, then balled it up, and dropped it onto his plate. "I was finished anyway. And by my watch, you have…" He flipped his wrist so the face was visible. "Seventeen minutes to meet me back in the conference room. Don't be late."
His chair scraped as he pushed it back. He stood, grabbed his plate, dumped uneaten chips into the garbage bin, and stacked his plate atop the others before pulling open the glass door and walking out. He passed me on his way back to Miller, but he kept his eyes forward, not daring to glance my way.
O'Neal would beat my ass for that conversation. Trey brought out another Esme, the version of me that was argumentative and easily offended.
And violent. I had never threatened a person with a dousing of hot soup before.
I picked up my book again. Had he guessed at the ending? Was he teasing, trying to get under my skin? Irritated, I stuffed the book back inside my bag when I realized that he was right. I would have to read the book to find out if he spoiled the ending.
An employee made the rounds, cleaning up the tables near me. She offered to take the empty bowl and a half-eaten sandwich. I nodded, considering I needed to get back to the office.
"Your date was cute," she said with a smile. "Did it go well?"
I smiled up at her, admiring her neat layers of braids, caramel skin, and two deep dimples. "Honey, that was not a date."
Between Trey and Thomas, I was wearing out my heels. My feet ached from walking back and forth with questions, commentary, negotiations. They were getting nowhere. Slowly.
Trey was having more fun than I, peppering me with questions about myself instead of the contract in front of him.
"I'm an Atlanta native. Are you? Or did you transplant from somewhere else?"
"I am a native," I answered. "Rare, I know. Now, Mr. Pettigrew, the contract states you'll provide office space for employees above a job grade three- that looks to be project lead or manager level. Is that agreeable?"
"Do your parents live in the city? Or nearby?"
"My parents are somewhere in North America in an RV that costs more than my car and is nicer than my house. Considering that I bought my childhood home from them, that's saying a lot."
We actually laughed together, then bent our heads over the contract again. "So, can we discuss additional benefits, like the environmental improvement rider that Miller wants to be included? He offers a stipend to employees who use ride share, carpool, or public transportation like MARTA. Miller was hoping to implement this policy in the new organization."
"That sounds boring," said Trey. "Where did you go to school? What did you major in?"
"My degree is in finance, from Georgia State. I went back for an MBA five years ago. Dare I hope that you want to discuss freezing and not dropping salaries?"
"Nah."
I laughed, finally succumbing to his gentle protest. I checked my watch, surprised at the time. "Oh, wow. It's late."
"It is. You hungry?"
I stretched, bobbing my head from side to side to work out the kinks in my neck, taking in the view of the room from the conference table covered in documents to Trey's notepad covered in doodles but no actual notes.
"Let's call it a night. Can you please come with a yes in your pocket tomorrow? It'll make things so much easier."
"I have something in my pocket,” he quipped. I tried not to laugh but I knew it was coming as soon as the words left my mouth. He seemed the type to have a comeback to anything suggestive. "I asked if you were hungry."
"I have leftover pizza waiting for me." I paused, offering a small olive branch. "I should finish it up but thank you."
"Leftover pizza?" One side of his mouth curled up in mock disgust. "Only college kids eat leftover pizza. Let me buy you dinner. Payback for bugging the shit out of you all day."
"Thank you. Again."
"You don't like for people to do for you, do you?"
My hands, which had been occupied by gathering all of my notepads and pens, not to mention copies of the contract, stilled. "Do for me?"
He leaned in his chair, tipping so he was in a near recline. "You don't like for folks to be nice to you."
"Nonsense." I resumed packing up. "I don't need you to be nice to me. That's the difference."
I drew the lid down on my laptop and tucked away my copies of the acquisition contracts. We were on day two of this process, and Trey was being stubborn.
Pettigrew would employ a maximum of 15 Miller employees. Miller wanted guarantees for 20 employees and generous severance.
Miller wanted continued healthcare for furloughed employees because of the transaction. Pettigrew would only offer full benefits for the employees that were being brought over to Pettigrew.
Miller wasn't leaving anyone out in the cold. Pettigrew wasn't in the business of being benevolent, so the idea that he was trying to be nice was laughable.
"One of my boys from college opened this nice steak and sushi spot in Sandy Springs. It's close; on your way home." It bothered me a little that this man I did not know knew where I lived. "Would you care to join me?”
I picked up my bag. "Homemade leftover pizza is calling my name."
"Suit yourself," he said, standing. He walked to the conference room door and opened it, holding it for me. "Missing out on some great food."
"You're easy on the eyes. I bet you can find someone to join you," I shot over my shoulder. "I don't eat sushi anyway."
"Don't eat sushi?" His voice took on a high pitch. I walked toward the front door, refusing to turn around. "Who doesn't eat sushi?"
"Me. I don't eat sushi." I set the alarm, then pushed against the front door to swing it open. The skies were dark, and the cicadas were out, making the evening a little noisy, full of nature sounds.
I twisted my key in the lock and double-checked to make sure the door was secure and that the alarm had switched on. Trey and I walked toward our cars, as we had parked next to each other.
"Why don't you eat sushi? It's good for you. Fish, rice, seaweed."
"It smells like standing water."
"It does not. Have you ever eaten it?"
I shuddered. "Have I eaten food that smells li−"
The tip of my shoe caught a crack in the pavement, and, too late, I tried to correct myself. For the second time in as many weeks, I was sprawled on the pavement.
"You have terrible luck." Trey bent over me, offering a hand to help me up, as he'd done the first time I was knocked off my feet. "Might want to ask the Universe what's up w
ith your chi or whatever. Get some kind of aura cleansing."
Embarrassed, tired, ready to go home, I got to my feet without his help. I picked up my bag, which had, once again, spread my life out onto a parking lot. I collected several items and shoved them back inside, double-checking to be sure I had grabbed my wallet this time.
"You straight? I know you can take a hit, but I thought I would ask, anyway."
"I'm fine."
"Oh, wait. You forgot something." He bent to pick up a folded piece of notepaper. "A grocery list?"
Shit! My Never list! I'd thrown it in my bag the other night and now Trey was about to be nosy.
"I'll take that." I marched toward him, hand outstretched.
"Oh, it's not a grocery list. It's a bucket list." He read from the portion of the list that had been unfolded. "Ride a rollercoaster or Ferris wheel." His eyes rose from the page, sheer mirth in them. "You've never ridden a Ferris wheel? There's one right downtown. How old are you?"
"It doesn't matter. Can you… could you hand me that?" I reached for it, but he held it just out of reach.
"Is eat good sushi on this list? You've never had any if you think it smells like putrid water."
"Trey! Could I have that, please?"
"I need to see what else…" He began to unfold the rest of the page. My stress level catapulted to the catastrophic end of measurement.
"Mr. Pettigrew! Give that to me!” I screeched, knowing that my nose flared, and my eyes were wild, but dammit, I tried to be nice.
It worked. He folded it closed and handed it over. "Here. You call me Mr. Pettigrew when you get emotional."
"I'm not emotional. I'm pissed."
"Which is an emotion. You're shaking."