Olive Oil and White Bread

by Georgia Beers

  “It’d be good to have the company run by somebody younger. Times are changing quickly, and so is business and the way it’s done.”

  “Guelli thinks computers are a fad.”

  Matt gaped at her. “No.”

  “Yes. He’s an old friend of the family, but the guy’s a relic. I start talking about sorting sales records on the computer, and I can see his eyes just glaze right over.”

  “Maybe you should spend some time working up an automation plan, see what he thinks. It’s worth a shot.”

  Angie nodded. “I’ll give it some thought.”

  Matt glanced at his watch. “Ugh. I’ve gotta go.” He looked around and signaled the waitress.

  “No, no. You’re the customer. I’m buying.” Angie’s cell rang at that moment. “Go,” she said to Matt, who gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Thanks for lunch.” And he was off.

  “Hi, this is Angie,” she said into the phone.

  “Angie, this is Margie from Keystone Bank. Those pens we ordered came in, but the phone number is wrong.” Margie’s tone held a combination of irritation and panic. They had a grand opening scheduled for their newest branch next week, and the pens were one of their giveaways.

  Angie closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Okay. Don’t worry. I’m in the neighborhood. I’ll be right over and we’ll get it fixed. Okay?” She finished the call and wondered where the mistake had happened. Had Ivan screwed up the art and she didn’t catch the mistake? Or did the pen supplier drop the ball? The answer would mean the difference between eating the cost of a thousand pens or having the pen company pick them up and take care of things in time for the opening.

  She picked up her wine and downed the remaining half a glass in two big gulps.

  The March night was beautiful, the air still crisp, but with that distinct smell of impending spring, and Jillian cracked one of the bedroom windows open just enough to fill the room with that scent.

  “Oh, this is nice,” Angie commented as she came through the doorway, shedding her suit as she walked, careful not to spill the remainder of the wine in her glass. Jillian had a few squat candles burning on each nightstand, the covers turned down, the pillows fluffed. Angie looked at her girlfriend and arched a brow in question.

  Jillian smiled. “You’ve been working so hard, I wanted to help you relax. So . . .” She held up a bottle, tipped it back and forth in her hand. “I bought some massage oil.”

  “Ooo. I like the sound of that.”

  “Then get undressed and come over here.” Jillian injected a sexy undertone into her voice as she pointed to the bed. It was close to eight o’clock, and Angie had been home for only a half hour. Long enough to eat and grab a glass of wine. Jillian had plans for her woman tonight. It had been too long since they’d been together, and she was tired of waiting for Angie to make a move. She pointed to Boo’s bed in the corner, and the dog obediently curled up on it.

  Angie set her glass down and undressed while Jillian watched. Even after nearly six years together, Jillian was still in awe of her girlfriend’s body. Tall, bronzed even in the winter, rounded and curvy in all the right places. Angie hung up her suit and blouse, put her heels in the closet, then turned to stand before Jillian in her bra and underwear.

  “Oh, no.” Jillian gestured with a finger. “All of it.”

  Angie grinned then removed the rest of her clothing until she stood completely naked.

  “Much better.” Jillian stepped close to her, touched a finger to her throat, ran it all the way down the center of her torso to the thatch of dark hair at the apex of her thighs. “You are so beautiful, Angelina,” she whispered.

  Angie tilted her head down and their mouths met, then their tongues, hot and hungry. Jillian held tightly to Angie’s hips, slid her hands up Angie’s bare back, dug her fingers into the flesh at Angie’s shoulders. God, it felt like it had been so long, and she wanted nothing more than to turn their bodies, push Angie onto her back on the bed, and take what she wanted. She stopped herself, forced herself to slow down, to keep control. This night was supposed to be about Angie, about making her feel good, not about Jillian having her way—though she hoped that’s the direction things would end up going.

  She pulled away from the kiss, and took a step back from Angie. Waving an arm at the bed, she said, “Okay. Lie down on your stomach.”

  Angie blinked at her for a moment, all swollen lips and ragged breath. Then she smiled and complied, stretching out on the taupe sheets.

  Jillian surveyed the sight for a moment, admiring the gentle lines of Angie’s calves, her thighs, her rounded ass and hips, and that strong, strong back. There was something about the wide planes of Angie’s back and shoulders that turned Jillian on, and she told Angie so as she climbed onto the bed and straddled her, sitting lightly on Angie’s behind.

  “I’ve always wondered if I should try lifting weights,” Angie said. “Maybe that would develop the muscles more.”

  “I love them just the way they are,” Jillian responded as she poured massage oil into her hands and warmed it by rubbing them together. “They’re perfect, and I love them.” She punctuated her words by placing both palms in the middle of Angie’s back and sliding up, using her own weight as pressure.

  The groan that escaped Angie made all the effort Jillian put into the evening worthwhile.

  “Fair warning,” Jillian said. “I’m sort of winging this massage thing.”

  “Wing away,” Angie muttered, her face half in the pillow. “You’re doing just fine.” Jillian wrung another groan from her, then focused on Angie’s shoulders and arms. She used liberal amounts of the oil and found herself enjoying the process nearly as much as Angie seemed to be. Something about rubbing her oil-slicked hands over Angie’s smooth, warm skin was intoxicating, and she kept at it, kneading not only Angie’s back and shoulders, but her arms, her hands, her thighs, her calves, and even her feet. By the time she felt her own legs tingling from being crunched beneath her on the bed for too long, she’d had her hands on just about every muscle group in Angie’s body and had molded each one into submission. And much to her delight, her own underwear was damp.

  Happy about the discovery, she hopped off the bed and quickly divested herself of her clothes, then scooted up next to Angie.

  Whose eyes were closed.

  Who was breathing deeply, evenly.

  Who was sound asleep.

  Jillian turned onto her back and blew out a huge breath of defeat, trying to think that she’d done a great job at relaxing her girlfriend, not that her plan had backfired. With a turn of her head, she studied Angie, ran her eyes over her face, the smooth skin, the full, pink lips that were the shape of a perfect bow, the chicken pox scar at her right temple, the small brown mole low on her chin. Using her thumb, Jillian stroked the length of one dark eyebrow once, twice. This was the only time lately that Angie seemed relaxed . . . when she slept. During her waking hours, her face was tenser, her brows a tiny bit furrowed. Not for the first time, Jillian worried that Angie was working too hard.

  “I love you,” she whispered, and leaned forward to place a feather-light kiss on Angie’s nose.

  They lay face to face until Jillian followed Angie into slumber.

  Ten

  When the office-wide intercom clicked on and Guelli’s voice filled the room, Angie and Hope were in Hope’s office chatting about a couple of Angie’s accounts.

  “Please, everybody, let’s take a moment to congratulate Keith Muldoon for closing a jacket order today with Cavit-McTavish for a hundred thousand dollars. Nice job, Keith.”

  Angie and Hope blinked at one another for a moment until Hope broke the silence with a fiercely whispered, “What the fuck?”

  Angie shook her head as muffled applause could be heard throughout the building. “How the hell does he do that? I want to close a hundred thousand dollar order.”

  “I don’t even want to think of the commission on that one. I’ll want to kill
myself.”

  Even as they spoke, Angie was doing the calculations in her mind. On an order that size, Keith had probably marked it up by twenty-five or even thirty thousand dollars. Angie knew he got a bigger commission percentage than she did. He stood to make somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen thousand dollars. On one order.

  “That prick,” Hope muttered. Keith got a larger percentage than she did as well, and judging by her face, she obviously knew it. Hope did just fine with her own sales, but Angie knew that it had to grind on her a little bit. “I’d be happy for him if he wasn’t a chauvinistic asshole.”

  Angie grinned, but nodded her agreement. “I know. I get that if you make more sales, you get a bigger cut. But he’s just such a jerk.”

  There was no love lost between Hope and Keith. Frankly, there was no love lost between Keith and most women. He had the supremely annoying habit of calling them all sweetheart or honey or babe, and often expected them to do such things as bring him a cup of coffee or box up a package for him. On top of that, he didn’t see anything wrong with his behavior; he actually thought he was being nice. When anybody called him on it, he’d simply shrug it off. And her previous job as office manager meant that Angie felt obligated to do what Keith asked of her, despite Hope continually reminding her that she was now his peer. She had as hard a time accepting that as Keith did—a fact that annoyed her to no end.

  “His advantage is that he knows everybody,” Angie said. “He’s got contacts all over the place, and if there’s some place he doesn’t have one, one of his contacts will know someone and introduce him.” Keith had locked up dozens of companies as customers before many of the other salespeople at Logo Promo even had time to think about trying to get in. His customer list was twice as long as everybody else’s, and his salary reflected that. He wore designer suits, drove a Cadillac, and had the biggest, most well-furnished office in the building.

  “I’d better get back to my own office and get to work,” Angie said as she stood. “I’ve got issues coming out of my ears.”

  She’d been in Hope’s office looking for guidance on how to keep the stress from making her feel like her head was going to explode. Flopping into her chair, she scoured the list she’d made of problems that needed her attention. She had three embroidery orders that were late. Six customers were waiting on quotes, and in turn, Angie was waiting on six quotes from her own suppliers. Four orders were waiting to be written, two new and two reorders. Ivan owed her art for three separate projects.

  When she got this bogged down, she didn’t know where to begin, so she didn’t begin at all. Instead, she clicked on the small radio on her desk and just sat looking at the things she needed to do. Her head was clogged. Blinking at her list seemed to be all she could do.

  Scrubbing her hands over her face helped to wake her up a little. She glanced at the clock and made a sound of surprise. It was after four. How was it possible she’d spent all day in the office and still had this seemingly insurmountable list in front of her? “Because I spent half the day bitching,” she muttered to herself. “That’s how.” Frustration bubbled up, adding to the stress; her stomach was a cauldron and whatever was in it was boiling over. She glanced up through her window onto the hall just as Hope approached. A tap on the door, and then she entered.

  “It’s after four,” Angie said as she reached for the cupboard door above her credenza. Her fingers closed around the bottle of Absolut. “I have a ton of work to do, but I need to relax for five minutes. Join me?”

  Hope hesitated.

  “Come on, Hopie. My day has sucked balls, and I need to de-stress before I have a heart attack. I don’t want to drink alone, but I will.”

  “Okay. But just one. I’ve got to get home.” She scooted down the hall to the company kitchen and returned with two cans of 7UP and two plastic cups with ice.

  Angie poured, and they touched glasses.

  “Sixteen thousand, one hundred twenty-seven dollars,” Hope stated. “That’s what Muldoon is making on that order.”

  Angie shook her head. “Why can’t I find a client as big as Cavit-McTavish? Do you know what I could do with money like that?”

  “I’ve been trying not to think about exactly that since we got the announcement. I could pay off my car. Go on a trip. Put a new roof on my house.”

  “I would take Jillian away somewhere,” Angie said. “I feel like I never see her. I practically live here.” As if on cue, her phone rang. She glared at it until it went into voicemail, changing the little 4 on its screen to a 5. “I feel like I can’t catch up.”

  “Yeah, that’s one of the things I like least about this job.” Hope took a sip from her cup. “There’s never any plateauing. In most sales jobs, you spend years building your clientele, but once you have one, you can ease off and relax a bit. Not here.”

  “‘Any customer can desert you at any time. There will always be somebody who can do it cheaper.’” Angie sighed, quoting one of the first rules Hope had told her when they began working together.

  “That’s why our customer service is so important; it’s the only thing that sets us apart from everybody else. And that’s what you need to keep focusing on.” Hope leaned forward, caught Angie’s eye, and said, “And that’s why you shouldn’t let your phone click over to voicemail when you’re sitting right here.”

  Angie grimaced, then nodded.

  Hope took another sip of her drink, reached across the desk, and spun Angie’s list around so she could read it. “Okay, first things first. What on this list is going to make you money?”

  Angie didn’t need to look. “The orders and reorders.”

  “Exactly. Do those first.”

  Angie nodded.

  “Taking care of the late stuff consists of—”

  “‘—nothing more than quick, angry phone calls.’ I know. I know.”

  “So get the embroidery shop on the phone and rip them a new one. One late order is understandable. Three late orders are unacceptable.”

  “Okay.”

  Hope tapped the paper with her forefinger. “Then get these quotes done. Same thing with the suppliers. Get angry. They are holding you up. If they don’t get numbers to you, you don’t get an order, which means they don’t get an order, which means they don’t get any money. Tell them so. And tell them there are a dozen people just like them who supply the same item, and you’ll be more than happy to go to them.” She glanced once more at the list and rolled her eyes. “And get in Ivan’s face. He is slower than molasses in January. My god. It might be time to scream at him.”

  Angie grinned. “Wow. You’re a hard-ass.”

  “And you’re not enough of one.” Hope shot her a pointed look.

  “I know.” Angie blew out a breath.

  Hope finished her drink. “If you want to close orders like Keith does, you need some balls the size of his, and you need to get tougher with some of these people. They work for you.” She stood. “There’s no reason you and I can’t make that kind of money, too. It’s all about how much you want it.” With a wink, she left.

  “Sixteen thousand dollars in commission,” Angie whispered. “God, would that be nice!” Gulping down the remainder of her drink, she made herself another, then picked up the phone and left a message on their home answering machine for Jillian. She had a staff meeting after school today and wouldn’t be home quite yet. Angie left a message that she’d be working late.

  Then she got to work on her list. She could make more money. She absolutely could. Dominick wasn’t the only Righetti who could rake it in. She could. And when she did, when she hit the next big order, she was going to take Jillian on a romantic getaway weekend.

  She deserved it for being so patient.

  “God damn it.”

  Jillian slapped the delete button on the answering machine after listening to Angie tell her she was going to be late. Again.

  “‘Don’t wait up?’ Really?” Boo cocked her head as Jillian spoke. “A girl could start to wo
rry that she was having an affair.” She stopped, looked at her dog, blinked several times. “No. She’s not. She wouldn’t. I know her.” Satisfied she’d curtailed that train of thought, she grabbed Boo’s leash off its hook and clipped it to her collar.

  Jillian hadn’t had a dog growing up. Her friends had, and she’d enjoyed them whenever she visited somebody else, but her mother had never wanted one in her house. So Jillian had never understood till now the head-clearing peace of simply walking her dog through the neighborhood in the evening after work. It helped her to decompress from her day, to slow down her racing mind and body, to just take some time to breathe in the fresh air, admire the trees, and smile at passersby and their dogs.

  Boo loved everybody and every dog; she always wanted to say hi. There were a few people who would get that look when they saw her, that Oh, a pit bull I think I’ll cross to the other side of the street look, but many of them recognized Boo and knew she was anything but a threat. Dog owners were funny. They rarely introduced themselves, but they were quick to introduce their dogs. She didn’t know the names of any of the people they crossed paths with during their walk, but she recognized the older woman and Gus the pug, the retired couple and Molly the miniature dachshund, and the young jogger and Sofie, her black Lab mix. She was fairly certain she was known as the blonde woman with Boo the pit bull mix.

  An hour later, Jillian and Boo returned home. Boo wolfed her dinner as Jillian made herself an omelet and ate it, alone. After dinner, she busied herself with some housework—cleaned the bathroom, mopped the kitchen floor, made a grocery list for her shopping trip the next day. Then she took a glass of white wine up to the bedroom and read, Boo curled up at her feet. The book was engrossing, and she fully intended to wait up for Angie—partly to spite her for that irritating “don’t wait up” message, and partly because she missed her terribly and wanted a hug.

  She was asleep long before Angie got home.