The Deal Breaker

by Cat Carmine

  I gesture to the leather chair across from my desk and she slips into it. I sit behind my desk, closing the laptop quickly and praying she didn’t see what was on my screen. I don’t need her knowing I was staring at her picture like a lovesick puppy. Not exactly the kind of image I want to be projecting here.

  I glance down at the blue folio she’s clutching in her hands. It’s the same one I gave her the other night, the one that held her contract. So this is either really good — she’s here because she signed it — or really bad, and she’s here to tell me she won’t be signing it at all.

  I wait, trying to give her the opportunity to speak first. It’s one of my favorite negotiating techniques — never be the first one to speak. Always let them come to you.

  I steeple my fingers together as Rori fidgets. Her fingers move constantly, twisting around the folder in her lap. She won’t meet my eye either, and I’m getting a really bad feeling about this meeting.

  She looks so uncomfortable that I’m about to cave and say something when she shoves the folder across the desk towards me.

  “I signed it,” she blurts.

  I let out a breath, but quietly, so she won’t notice.

  “Great.” I pick up the folder and thumb it open, glancing through the pages. “I’ll sign my portion and my legal team will get you the fully executed copy within the next couple of days.”

  “Great.” Rori tries to smile. She rubs her hands over her knees, which are covered in dark fabric. She’s wearing the same black pantsuit she wore Friday night, or at least a very similar one. The realization brings me back to the moment outside the restaurant. Pressing her up against the brick wall. Skimming my hands down over her body, along her curvy hips.

  Fuck. That is not a mental image I need right now. I’m having a hard enough time controlling my dick as it is.

  Rori takes a deep breath. She’s still rubbing her thighs, and I force my gaze to her face.

  She isn’t looking at me. In fact, she seems to be looking at everything in the room that isn’t me. I give her a minute and join her in looking around the office, wondering how it must appear to her — the floor-to-ceiling windows, the view of Manhattan, the bright blue New York City sky casting everything in a pure white light. Every surface in my office is glass, steel or white. It’s fresh, modern, clean. Exactly how I wanted it.

  But if Rori is impressed by the modern luxury, she doesn’t let on. When she looks at me, she’s biting her lip.

  “I wanted to say something else,” she says finally.

  I smile. “I figured.”

  That makes her grin, at least a little.

  “I signed the contract,” she repeats, twisting her fingers again. “But it comes with a condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “What happened on Friday can’t happen again.”

  Ah. Here we go. I should have known this is what she was agonizing over.

  I want to put her at ease, so I nod. “I understand completely.”

  “You do?” She looks relieved. “I thought you would expect …” She trails off, embarrassed.

  “Rori. Of course not. Christ. I’m not going to make you sleep with me if you don’t want to. Trust me, I have plenty of women who do want to.” I can’t resist slipping in that last bit, although I regret it as soon as I see how it makes her cringe. Start over, Wes.

  “Look. I wanted to work with you long before … that … happened. That hasn’t changed. I think you’re perfect for the job, and I’m looking forward to working with you on it.”

  Finally, she seems to relax. She slumps back in the chair, a smile coming over her face.

  “Thanks for saying that, Wes. I’m looking forward to it too.”

  She hops out of her seat, and the casual way she moves now makes me realize how heavily this was weighing on her. As she walks towards the door, I follow her.

  “Rori.” Something in my voice catches. She turns and faces me. Her eyebrows are raised. I swallow.

  “I’m sorry if … well, if anything I did made you uncomfortable.”

  Her face falls. “Oh, God, Wes, not at all. Friday was great. I mean … really great.” Her cheeks flush when she says that and I can’t help but grin.

  “Yeah, it was pretty great, wasn’t it?”

  “Amazing.” She bites her lip.

  “Outstanding.” I lean in close to her, so close that I can smell the coconut from her shampoo.

  “Epic.” Her body twists, her face mere inches from mine now. Her breath is warm against my lips. Her own lips are parted, and all I can think about is how it would feel to suck her bottom lip between mine, to tug it gently with my teeth.

  “I can’t think of anything beyond epic,” I admit, trying to distract myself from the way her soft tongue traces over her lip, the way they glisten. It makes me think about how I could make her glisten in other areas, run my tongue over her pussy lips like that, watch her writhe under my hands …

  Christ. I run my hands through my hair. I just finished promising the woman there would be no more funny business, and now here I am, thinking about how much I want to set her down on my desk, spread her legs wide open, and feast on her pussy for the rest of the afternoon.

  “I can,” Rori says. Her voice is a bit breathless and my heart thuds in my chest as the moment lingers.

  Rori takes a step towards me, closing the space between us completely. Her body is pressed against mine now, so close you couldn’t even slide the pages of her just-signed contract between us. Her breasts press up against my chest, heaving as she breathes.

  That’s when she kisses me. Her hand slips behind my neck, guiding my face down to hers, and then her lips are pressing against mine, her tongue sliding boldly into my mouth. I let her because … well, because I’m not an idiot. When a woman like Rori kisses you, even if she just got finished saying she’s done kissing you, you go along with it.

  Her mouth moves hungrily over mine, and I give her everything she wants. I’d give her that and more.

  Her body against mine is frantic. Her hands roam across my chest, then down to the hem of my shirt, which she yanks out of my pants. She slides her hands up under the fabric, as if she’s desperate to feel my bare skin. She skims her nails over the plains of my abs, the bulging muscles of my chest. Her hands are so small and delicate but the way she’s touching me right now could bring me to my knees.

  And then, as suddenly as she started it, Rori pulls away. She jumps back two feet as if she’s been zapped by something, and then she stands there panting, her breasts heaving up and down.

  I run my hands through my hair. I can still taste her on my tongue and I want to savor the moment instead of killing it by saying something stupid.

  “What is wrong with me?” she mutters and I know it’s more directed at herself than at me.

  “Nothing’s wrong with you, Rori,” I answer anyway. “In fact, I rather liked what you just did.”

  She lets out a huff a breath. “You would.”

  “I think you did too.”

  She doesn’t answer, just raises her eyebrows at me.

  I know that what I should do right now is back off. Say something polite and show her out the door. Instead, I take two steps towards her, until she’s pressed right up against me again. She doesn’t move. I tip her chin up.

  “We were always good together, Rori.” My voice is hoarse. Gruff. “Even back then. Even when we didn’t know how good we had it.”

  I use my other hand to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her breathing is coming in short sharp pants, but she’s watching me with a focused intensity. She hasn’t left yet, so I take that as a good sign.

  “We could be good together again, Rori,” I tell her. “I could make you feel so good. I could make your body sing like a nightingale.”

  I shouldn’t be saying any of this, but all I can focus on is the fact that she isn’t leaving, that her lips are parting, that she’s leaning in closer. My dick is pulsing, and all I can think about is
bending her over my desk and making her sing, just the way I said.

  “Wes…”

  There’s hesitation in her voice, but also an unmistakable note of longing.

  “Tell me you haven’t thought about it, Rori,” I growl. “Tell me you haven’t thought about what it would be like to be together again. To fuck the way we used to, like we were the only two people in the world.”

  Her breathing is rapid now, and I can see the throb in her throat as her pulse skyrockets. The air between us is electric.

  “It would be even better than it was back then,” I tell her. I run my thumb along the soft hollow of her neck, where her blood races. “I’ve learned a few things since then, I assure you. I could bend you over my desk right now and have you screaming in under three minutes. My name on your lips, my lips on your —”

  She moans. Soft but so fucking sexy. She wipes the back of her hand across her forehead, as if she’s feverish.

  I grin. Part of me enjoys seeing her so flustered.

  “Tell me, Rori — would you like that?”

  She nods. Just slightly. A light tip of the chin.

  “Wes, I …” she starts. Stops. Licks her lips. Shakes her head.

  “I can’t,” she says, and slips away from me again.

  Eight

  “How did it go? Did you give it to him?” Kyla asks, striding into our tiny little office and dropping her messenger bag on the floor beside her chair. She’s already pulling her headphones off and looking at me expectantly.

  I almost spit out the mouthful of coffee I’d been about to swallow. I haven’t seen Kyla since I dropped the contract off at Wes’s office. Since I had ...

  Well, I’m not going to think about that right now.

  “I left the contract with him, yes,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “He’s going to sign it and get it back over to us this week.”

  “Wow. So this is really happening.”

  “Yup.”

  Kyla frowns. “You look ... less than enthusiastic.”

  I plaster a smile on my face. “Oh, I’m enthusiastic. Just cautious, I guess. I’ve known Wes a long time.”

  Her frown deepens. “You think we need to worry about him?”

  Now there’s a loaded question. Do we need to worry about him? I truly don’t know. I’m going into this project carefully, because I’m still not convinced his motives are completely altruistic.

  Do I need to worry about him? That one’s a much more resounding yes. I already have ample evidence of that. I’m incapable of keeping my shit together around the man. Or of keeping my lips to myself.

  I’d had the same problem back in high school. Wes Lake could turn me into a puddle of taffy with just a whisper.

  “I don’t know,” I say to Kyla. “You know my concerns about GoldLake. But we’ve signed the contract now, so we just have to be smart about it.” I don’t mention that I’m trying to take that advice to heart on a personal level too. To be smart around Wes. So far it’s a lesson I’d give myself a failing grade in.

  Kyla nods. “That’s fair. I guess you’re right. Hey, are you going to get in touch with the Elmwood Gables people and let them know we can take on their project now?”

  Elmwood Gables. I hadn’t thought of them since I’d signed the contract — I’d been too preoccupied with thoughts of Wes. Now I get excited again. Assuming Wes doesn’t keep me too busy, I should have time to work on their garden project now.

  “No, but I’m going to. Thanks for the reminder. Hey, how did the meeting with Seeds of Change go yesterday?”

  Kyla goes off on a long spiel about her meeting with our most recent charity client, and the business talk effectively puts Wes out of my mind. Our catch-up turns into an impromptu meeting and we go over all our outstanding projects, and by the time we wrap up, I’m smiling and humming under my breath.

  As soon as I pull my chair back up to my computer, I fire off an email to the community center telling them that if they’re still looking for help, we’d be happy to do it. It feels good to send that email, to be able to help someone who really needs it.

  To my surprise, my email pings almost right away with a response. The director, Barb, invites me out there this evening to see the space and get a quick orientation on what they do. I fire back my acceptance, and then jam in my earbuds, humming happily still.

  I arrive at Elmwood Gables at just past six. I haven’t been out to the Lower East Side recently, and as I walk from the subway station to the community center, I look around in awe at everything that’s changed. Little sushi restaurants have replaced old bodegas, and an organic baby clothes store sits proudly on the corner. I can’t even remember what used to be there, but I’m sure it wasn’t that.

  In the center of all the shiny new hubbub sits the huge multi-complex Elmwood Gables, and at the heart of that, the community center. The run-down cinderblock building sticks out like a sore thumb next to the glassworks gallery and the gourmet taco stand.

  Yet despite the encroaching new businesses, Elmwood Gables still dominates. As long as the community center and the affordable housing units are here, the neighborhood will never completely gentrify. And luckily Elmwood Gables is entirely on city-owned land, so they won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. I’m all for progress, but I hate the way that more and more of these kinds of places have been squeezed out of Manhattan. They make the city the vibrant place that it is.

  The community center is a squat beige building, a seventies-style behemoth in painted cinderblock. The huge sign above the door, bearing the Elmwood Gables’ name, is hand-painted, with a scene of lions playing basketball. Something one of the more artistically inclined kids had painted, no doubt, although not recently because the paint is faded and dull.

  I pull open the heavy blue and white door and step inside. There’s a small welcome desk at the front, and an East Indian teenager is sitting there, typing out a message on her phone.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Barb Delaney?” I give her my name as she looks up from her phone.

  “She should be out back,” the bored receptionist tells me. She points absently towards the hall that leads back into the labyrinth of the center, then turns right back to her screen.

  I thank her and head down the hallway. The inside of the center is the same as the outside — cinderblock that’s been painted over in a creamy beige color. I get to the end of the corridor, then poke my head down the two hallways that branch off from it, looking for a back exit. The center reminds me of being back in high school again. Something about the smell of gym shoes and chlorine, the thud of basketballs coming from somewhere not too far away. A group of young boys runs past me, their sneakers thudding and squeaking on the worn blue laminate floor.

  I spot a glowing red exit sign and follow it, turning around a couple of corners and then finally emerging from a set of double doors that lead out to the back.

  I suck in a breath as soon as I step outside. It’s like walking into another world. In New York City, the only time you’re truly surrounded by green is if you walk through certain parts of Central Park. But stepping into the backyard of the community center feels like walking into a lush jungle.

  There’s a chain link fence somewhere, marking the perimeter — I can see glimpses of it through the shrubs and trees — but the plant life has grown up so high and tall that everywhere I look, I see green. Climbing vines and weeping willows and blooming flowers everywhere. A white gazebo sits in the center, glowing like a jewel amidst the greenery. The sun-soaked roses give off a hazy perfume, making me feel delirious and filled with a kind of wonder I haven’t felt in a long time. It makes me feel like I’m a kid again, sneaking around my parents’ flower shop, playing hide and seek with my sisters and breathing in that rich loamy perfume while I crouched behind a shelf in the cold storage room.

  It’s a special place. I know that within seconds of walking into the space.

  On the far side of the yard, there’s a clearing, and here three women and
a couple of men are tilling the soil, turning it over with hoes and talking and laughing while they work.

  I stand there for a minute watching, marveling at this hidden gem in the middle of the city.

  After a while, one of the women working notices me standing there.

  “Can I help you?” she asks, putting her hand over her eyes to shield them from the sun.

  “I’m looking for Barb Delaney. I’m Rori Holloway — from Marigold Marketing?”

  “Oh, Rori!” She breaks into a grin as she walks towards me. “I’m Barb. I’m so glad you could come out.”

  She pulls off a pink polka-dotted gardening glove and shakes my hand.

  “This is quite the spot you have,” I tell her. “It’s so ... magical.”

  She beams. “We think so too. That’s why we want to show it off, get more people using it.”

  Barb is probably in her fifties, with close-cropped grey hair and the ruddy complexion of someone who spends a lot of time in the sun. She wears no make-up but her green eyes sparkle and her smile is warm and friendly.

  We walk down the steps, towards the square of earth where the others are digging. It’s large — half the size of a gymnasium. I can smell the rich loaminess of the earth as they turn it over. The other women give me a quick smile, but then quickly go back to work.

  “So you want to promote the garden?”

  Barb nods. “That’s right. We’ve finally got permission to turn it into a community garden — a project we’ve been trying to get off the ground for almost five years now. We opened the sign-up for plots in March but so far the response has been ... well, not what we were hoping, let’s put it that way.”

  “I can’t imagine that — why wouldn’t you want to have a little garden here? There must be a ton of people in the city who’d kill for a bit of space to grow things.”

  “That’s what we were hoping but ...” she trails off, then shrugs. “We think it’s just a lack of awareness. At least that’s what we’re counting on. Which is where you come in.”

  I nod. “So you need some help with promotions.”