The Deal Breaker

by Cat Carmine

  A jackass, to Emma, is the worst thing you can be.

  And she knows jackasses. Because to me, she’s Emma The Perfect, but to the rest of the world, she’s Miss Emma, of the popular online advice column Miss Emma’s Modern Manners. Every week she doles out etiquette advice, the most frequent of which is, “Don’t be a jackass.” It’s good advice, I suppose, and judging by the letters Emma gets, there are a hell of a lot of jackasses out there.

  Is Wes a jackass? I don’t know. I’m not sure I have much objectivity when it comes to him.

  “God, Rori, you cried for weeks,” Emma says, reading my mind. She shakes her head. “Weeks.”

  “I remember.” I drink from my glass of water, washing away the suddenly sour taste in my mouth. She’s right. Of course she is. My sisters, Emma and Blake, were both younger than me, but both of them could well remember how devastated I’d been when Wes had left. It was the shock of the thing. One minute things were perfect, and the next minute he was … gone.

  “That’s all in the past,” I assure Emma. “It’s completely irrelevant now.”

  I don’t mention that tonight, my feelings for Wes had felt very much in the present. At least my physical feelings for him. My lips tingle again, remembering our kiss.

  I’d lusted after Wes since the first time I saw him, a million years ago, in freshman English. I still remember the bright blue t-shirt he wore, the way it had picked up the cobalt in his eyes. He was gorgeous.

  Still is.

  And the things he used to do to me … my body hasn’t forgotten that either. The way he always made me feel. Beautiful, sensual, cared for. Even when we were awkward teenagers, it never felt that way with him. Wes was my first, and we came to life when we were together, the same way it felt like we did tonight.

  Except what happened tonight is so not going to happen again. Like, ever. E-V-E-R. It shouldn’t have even happened in the first place. My throbbing lips are a reminder of how vigilant I’m going to have to be.

  Emma pulls her soft brown hair back and slides an elastic band off her wrist as she twists it up. She leans against the kitchen counter.

  “I just don’t know why you’d want to spend any more time than you have to with that jackass,” she says, as she flicks away a stray wisp of hair. “He’s a …”

  “A jackass, I know,” I cut her off. I finish my water and set my glass in the sink. Emma folds her arms, looking cross. Miss Emma does not approve of cutting someone off, of course. Or of dishes in the sink.

  “I know you’re just looking out for me,” I say, to appease her. “I get it. And yes, Wes hurt me. But I’m not that same little girl anymore. This is a job — one that could be great for Marigold. I’m sure we can work together for a few months without any issues. We’re both grown-ups, you know.” I force my lips into a smile.

  Emma hesitates, but then smiles back.

  “You’re right,” she admits. “I just hate the thought of you getting hurt.”

  “Not gonna happen,” I assure her as I wish her goodnight and head down the hallway to my bedroom.

  I wish I had as much conviction as I’m pretending, though. During dinner tonight, I thought maybe everything I just said was at least possible — that I could work with Wes without any messiness. But that was before the kiss.

  Now I’m not so sure.

  First thing on Monday, I bring the contract into the office to share it with Kyla. We’d texted a bunch on the weekend, and I’d told her I’d tentatively accepted the offer, but I wanted us both to go over the contract with a fine tooth comb before we sign anything. I hate to say it, but there’s a tiny part of me that still doesn’t completely trust Wes. Or should I say, doesn’t trust GoldLake. Our union still feels a bit unholy, and I’m going to make damn sure we don’t get screwed here.

  Kyla is already at the office when I arrive.

  “Tell me everything,” she says, bouncing to the poker table and flopping into one of the chairs.

  I bite back a smile. No way am I telling her everything, but I launch into a full report of the dinner and of Wes’s pitch. While I’m talking I nudge the folio with the contract towards her. When I’m done, she opens it and flips through the pages.

  “The billable hour estimates are on page seven,” I tell her. I wait while she scans the page and burst out laughing as her eyes go wide.

  “Holy shit, Rori,” she says. She stares at me, mouth agape. “This is …”

  “Fucking crazy, I know.” And it is. After everything else that happened with Wes that night, I’d almost forgotten about the completely ridiculous offer he made us.

  “This isn’t regular money,” Kyla says, laughing. “This is baller money.”

  I giggle. “Hell yeah, it is.”

  “This is gold-plated MacBook, champagne-fountain, diamond-tooth kind of money.”

  I laugh again. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far but … yeah. It’s amazing, right? It would take so much pressure off us.” I think wistfully of all the projects I want to take on.

  Kyla’s quiet for another few minutes while she looks over the rest of the contract. She closes the folio with a sigh.

  “We can read the contract more closely today but … I think we should take it.”

  “Yeah? Even though it’s GoldLake?”

  She nods. I don’t know how to feel. Even though I’m excited, I think part of me was secretly hoping that Kyla wouldn’t want to go along with it. That I’d have a good reason to turn down the job and not have to see Wes again.

  I’ve been flip-flopping about the whole thing all weekend. One minute I think I’ve decided that working together will be fine, that I can handle it, and then the next minute I go in completely the opposite direction and want to run screaming far, far away from Wes Lake.

  I never thought a four-hundred-thousand-dollar account would be something I’d question. The money is spectacular, no doubt. But is working with Wes a deal breaker?

  “You said yourself the program sounded really cool,” Kyla says. “We don’t have to associate ourselves with the rest of GoldLake’s activities — we’re just helping promote an initiative we believe in. Right?”

  “Right,” I echo, but I know my voice lacks conviction.

  For not-the-first-time, I feel annoyed with Wes. Why did he seek me out? Me. There have to be a hundred firms in this city that could take on this project. Instead he had to waltz back into my life after twelve years and make me an offer I couldn’t refuse, no matter how badly I wanted to. It isn’t fair.

  The industrial dryer downstairs kicks in then, and the rumble echoes deep in my bones. I almost laugh. Buttercup. Maybe that’s the universe telling me to suck it up, buttercup.

  Kyla looks at me. “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing,” I tell her. “Nothing at all. Let’s start going through the contract. If we’re going to take this deal, we are not getting screwed in the process.”

  Seven

  By Wednesday, I haven’t heard a peep from Rori Holloway. I’m starting to think I made a huge mistake.

  And I’m not the only one. My business partner Levi hovers at my door.

  “Have you got Marigold on board yet?” he asks, glancing at his watch as if he’s got me on a timer.

  “Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time,” I assure him, projecting a confidence I no longer feel. I was so sure that I’d convinced Rori to take the job. That’s the only reason I’d let my feelings for her get out of hand on Friday night. Normally I know better than to mix business and pleasure, especially when you’re still in the courting stage, but I’d thought we were pretty much a done deal at that point. She’d seemed so interested in my pitch over dinner.

  I’m still not sure what made me do it. What made me kiss her outside the restaurant. What made me run my hands through her silky auburn hair.

  But God, it felt good. It felt like being a teenager again, but in all the best ways. Somehow, when I was kissing Rori, I didn’t feel like Wes Lake, the real estate tycoon. I just
felt like Wes Lake, the man. That feeling seems to be increasingly rare these days.

  “Are we going to need a back-up plan?” Levi’s asking me now, drawing me out of my thoughts of Rori soft pink lips, my hands tangled up in her hair, the feel of her curvy body pressed up against mine. I have to try not to groan out loud. It’s a good thing I’m sitting behind my desk right now or Levi might get to see more from me than he bargained for when he stopped by my office.

  “Won’t be necessary,” I tell him. “I expect to have the signed contract in place by the end of the week.”

  Levi studies me for a minute, but then nods. “Good. She liked the concept?”

  “Ate it up.”

  “Good. If she likes it, that means other people will too.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  For the first time, Levi’s face relaxes into a smile. He’s a handsome enough guy when he smiles, I guess, though that doesn’t happen often. He’s only about fifteen years older than me, but his face has hardened after years in the business. I wonder if that’s how I’ll look when I’m his age? I shudder at the thought.

  Though if I’m half as successful as he is, I’ll have nothing to complain about. Who needs a pretty face when you’re one of the richest men in Manhattan?

  “Excellent,” Levi says. He rubs his chin. “By the way, I was speaking to Greg Mammoliti at the housing authority yesterday — just on the down low, of course. He thinks we’ll be able to get it approved.”

  “That’s great.” We’ve always known that getting the project approved by the housing authority, and thus by the city, would be one of the biggest barriers to this project. Levi’s contact giving us a verbal nod is a good indicator that we’re on track.

  He nods again. “He’s been putting feelers out with the rest of the board and it’s looking like a go. We just need to submit the final proposal. Once the application goes in, the project is effectively public, so we need to be sure we’re ready when that happens.”

  “So we need to move up the timeline on the hiring program — is that what you’re saying?”

  He nods. “I think so, yes. It would be good if we already had some materials out there, had hired some people under the banner. There’s no guarantee anyone will find out about the proposal right away, but we have to be ready if they do.”

  “Got it. I’ll talk to Rori as soon as she’s signed the contract. Has HR done any outreach yet? Maybe they can start sourcing through immigration support networks or something, even before we get the campaign officially rolling?”

  Levi points a finger at me. “Yes. I like that. I’ll talk to Kelly in HR. Get the ball rolling now. Should be able to find at least a couple of candidates.”

  Levi is still standing at my door, as if he expects something else from me. I raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to speak. Even though he’s standing in one spot, he always seems to be moving somehow. He has the slight and wiry body of a flyweight fighter, and the same short-man complex that so many of them seem to have. A dogged need to constantly prove himself. And despite his polished appearance, with his custom suit and slicked back hair, you still get the impression that he would go batshit crazy if he ever got in an actual physical altercation. He’s the kind of guy you love if he’s on your side, and fear if he isn’t.

  Levi nods, tapping his knuckles against my doorframe once before striding away.

  I shake my head as soon as he’s gone. These plans we’re discussing still hinge on Rori’s acceptance of the contract. I think about calling her to see if she’s signed it yet, but I’m not sure if making her feel pressured is the best approach right now.

  God. Why couldn’t I just keep my tongue in my mouth? I’d already have a signed contract in my hand if I hadn’t been so hard up for her.

  Then again, I could just as easily blame her for that. Why the hell did she have to let me catch her dancing around in her bra? How the hell is a red-blooded man supposed to resist that? I don’t have a will of steel, for Christ’s sake.

  Rori. Rori Holloway. This had seemed like such a brilliant idea two months ago when Levi and I were first discussing it. We needed a good-will project to take attention away from a deal we were trying to close in the Lower East Side. It would be a major jewel in the crown for us — one of the biggest multi-use complexes in Manhattan, with condos, retail space, and more.

  But the real coup is that the land is owned by the city, under the housing authority. It’s home to Elmwood Gables, a huge — and dilapidated — community housing complex. The space is enormous — multiple residential buildings, a community center, a park, a parking structure, and some kind of garden. The land’s never been available for commercial development before, but the housing authority has recently started parcelling off some of their land to get access to more capital. The project is a controversial one, and Levi and I discussed it a lot before we decided to pursue it.

  It won’t be popular with the community. Nobody wants a high-rise in their backyard, especially an expensive one that drives up the price of everything else. Historical preservation groups will get in on it too. They consider the Lower East Side an endangered neighborhood, which means they don’t want people like us — you know, rich bastards — bulldozing it. They don’t want us tearing up historic buildings, and they definitely don’t want us tearing up community housing and parks. The mayor is already seeing a ton of pushback on projects like these.

  But for us, and for our potential investors, it’s a no-brainer, even if it comes with bad press. That land is prime real estate, and the housing authority is in such dire financial straights that they’re selling it for a song. You can’t get land this cheap in New York City anymore. Levi and I have done the math, and whatever we put into this development, we’ll get back a hundredfold. We’ve been putting out some covert feelers for a few months now, and we already have at least eight food and drink franchises ready and willing to set up shop, plus a dozen different companies interested in the flagship retail spaces. We’ve turned away twice that many more that don’t fit our vision of the project.

  The Lower East Side has never been fully developed. It still has a lot of authentic character and original buildings. This project will be the one to tip it over the edge, into full-scale gentrification. Welcome to Rich Urban Professional Ville: You must be this high and be able to afford a twelve-dollar coffee to enter.

  That’s why our new hiring initiative was born. To mitigate the bad press we know we’re going to get from this. If we can get media attention focused on the good work we’re doing with disadvantaged women — single moms, immigrants, the same people who happen to live in those types of affordable housing units — then no one can come out and criticize us for bulldozing them, right?

  Well, actually they still can. They still will. But at least we’ll have evidence that we aren’t the completely heartless money-grabbing monsters they’ll no doubt paint us as.

  I mean, we are. But at least with the hiring initiative, it will be debatable.

  That’s why I need Rori. I’ve been following her career for a few years now — and okay, occasionally drunkenly scrolling through her Facebook profile and thinking about what it would be like to hear her voice again. She’s done a good job of building a reputation as one of the few honest marketing firms in the city. Her client roster is filled with do-gooders and charities. Having her and Marigold represent our hiring initiative would buy us way more credibility than if we used our own in-house team or went with one of the big name agencies here in the city. You can’t buy that kind of credibility, and when the chips are down, I’m banking on the fact that we’re repped by Marigold will work in our favor.

  I had expected the whole process to be painless — working for us would be a major coup for Rori and Marigold, and I knew I wouldn’t have any issue working alongside her.

  And then Friday happened.

  Actually, scratch that. From the moment I walked into her office last week, I’ve wanted her. Dancing around in that lacy pink br
a, shaking her ass to that rap song, everything about her so curvy and warm and sweet.

  Damn. I was a fucking goner from the get-go. I never had a chance.

  Still, I should have at least tried to keep it to myself. If I’d been able to do that, then maybe she’d have signed the contract by now. Sure, I might have the world’s worst case of blue balls, but at least we’d have Rori on board, and I wouldn’t have Levi breathing down my neck.

  I let out a deep breath as I crack open my laptop. I mean to hop into my email to respond to a few outstanding requests, but instead I go right back to Marigold’s website again, clicking through to the About page and gazing at Rori’s picture.

  I feel like a fucking stalker.

  Not that that stops me, of course.

  I’m so focused on Rori’s photo that at first I don’t notice the commotion outside my office.

  “I really must insist you make an appointment,” I hear Joyce, my secretary, saying to someone as I’m yanked out of my daydream.

  Another woman’s voice cuts through the air. One that I recognize instantly. One that sets my heart thudding out a heavy rhythm in my chest. One that’s already sending a rush of blood below the belt.

  Rori.

  I stand up from my chair so fast it almost tips over backwards.

  I step quickly out of my office and into the executive reception area where Joyce sits. Both of them turn to look at me.

  “It’s fine,” I tell Joyce, though it’s Rori’s face that I can’t tear my eyes away from.

  “Wes.” Just the sound of my name on Rori’s tongue sends me into a downward spiral. She licks her lips nervously and for the second time this afternoon, I wonder if I’m about to have an embarrassing problem on my hands.

  “Come into my office.” I hold the door open for her. She crosses Joyce’s desk wordlessly and steps inside my office as I let the door close behind us.

  “It’s nice to see you,” I say. My voice sounds hoarse and I wonder if she notices.

  “Yeah.”

  Okay. Not a warm welcome, but I’ll take it. At least she’s here.