The Deal Breaker

by Cat Carmine

  “Desperately,” she smiles. “We have so many ideas of things we want to do with this place — mini-farmers markets, community dinners, concerts, special events — but we can’t do any of that until we actually have people in here using the space.”

  “Well, you should have no trouble. It’s an amazing spot,” I say, looking around again. I’ve never thought of myself as someone with a green thumb — that’s my mom’s domain — but even I want to get on my knees and dig in the dirt out here.

  “Come on, let me introduce you to some of our volunteers.”

  I pick my way through the dirt with her, wishing like hell that I’d worn my flip-flops today instead of these stupid wedges. At least I didn’t go for the stilettos though.

  “Everyone, this is Rori Holloway. She’s going to help us get the garden growing, so to speak.”

  “I hope so,” I say, reaching out to shake hands with the men and women in front of me.

  One woman, who has long dark hair and the kindest smile I’ve ever seen, introduces herself as Maria. When I ask how long she’s been here, she smiles warmly and says “Too long.”

  Barb guffaws. “Don’t say that. This place wouldn’t be half as far along as it is without you. Maria’s been doing all our marketing up until now,” she explains to me.

  “Oh! I hope I’m not stepping on any toes.”

  Maria shakes her head. “Not at all. Marketing is not my expertise. I was a project manager back in Brazil, so I like to help organize. The creative stuff — that’s not so much ‘in my wheelhouse’, as you might say.”

  I grin. “I get it. Project management isn’t in my wheelhouse. How long have you been in New York?”

  “About three years now. We moved because my husband got a job here, but he died just one year after we came.”

  “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” I glance anxiously at Barb, but she’s just smiling sadly. I can’t even imagine.

  Maria only nods her head. “It was hard, yes. But then my son, he’s nine — I couldn’t imagine taking him back to Brazil, not when he has so many more opportunities here.”

  “That’s so selfless of you. I’m sure you must have family in Brazil that you miss?”

  “I do. But I like it here. So does Bruno — that’s my son.”

  “And we’re glad she’s here,” Barb interjects. “She’s been a godsend in helping us get the garden up and running.”

  Maria’s eyes sparkle. “Well, only until I can find a new job. Then I won’t have so much free time.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Barb pretends to pout, her shoulders slumping.

  “Don’t worry,” Maria says. “So far, no bites.”

  “What kind of job are you looking for?” I know it’s not really any of my business, but the wheels in my mind are churning.

  Maria shrugs. “One that pays money?” She grins. “I would like to work in project management, but it’s hard because my certification is from another country. So I take whatever kind of job I can find. I was working at a cleaning company but the business closed. Now I play in the dirt,” she says with a laugh, gesturing around her.

  I tap my lips thoughtfully. “You know, this is going to sound weird, but I might actually know of something. Let me give you my card, and maybe you can forward me your resume?”

  Maria and Barb share a glance, and then Maria looks back at me excitedly. “That’s wonderful! I will — of course I will.”

  I fish one of my business cards out of my purse and hand it over to her while Barb pretends to look on disapprovingly.

  “Rori,” she chides. “I brought you here to help us get the garden going — not take away one of my best volunteers.”

  I shrug and grin. “What can I say, we’re a full-service marketing shop.”

  “Mmhmm,” she grumps, as she leads me inside.

  We spend the rest of our time together discussing some promotional ideas for the garden, and by the time I’m ready to leave, I’m thoroughly excited for the project to get started. It’s such a worthwhile cause — exactly the kind of place I wanted to help, the kind of work I wanted to do, when Kyla and I started Marigold. I’m also excited about the idea that maybe Maria could find a spot in GoldLake’s hiring initiative. It could be huge for her to get a job in her field again, and with a company like GoldLake on her resume, she’d be set, even long after the program is over.

  Of course, it doesn’t escape my attention that I have Wes Lake to thank for both of these things. It’s because of Wes’s job offer that Marigold has the money to be able to take on the Elmwood Gables Community Center as a pro bono project. And it’s because of Wes that I might be able to help Maria get a job.

  I sigh. It’s not fair that he has to be so good-looking and so kind. I mean, really. If he could stop doing that, then maybe I’d be able to stop kissing him.

  Ugh. Kissing him. I touch my lips, remembering the feel of his mouth on mine, of his breath against my throat, of the taste of him on my skin again after all these years.

  It’s wrong, I know. So why does it feel so right?

  Who knows? Maybe I’ve been wrong about him all this time. Okay, yes, he broke my heart when we were younger. But that’s ancient history, right? Maybe he really is a different person now. And the way I feel when I’m kissing him …

  No. I catch myself before I go too far down that line of thinking. After all, it’s bound to lead nowhere good.

  Nowhere good at all.

  Nine

  I’m in the office early the next morning, before Kyla has even arrived. In the early hours, before things get going at U-Coin downstairs, the office isn’t quite so sweltering. I tuck myself in at my desk and pull up the day’s to-do list, then dive quickly into my work.

  I start with some website updates I’d promised I’d make for Bulldog Rescue NYC. Kyla normally handles our web stuff, but I know she’s swamped with a couple of other big web design projects so I’d offered to do them.

  I search through my email for the zip file the rescue group sent me, then unpackage all the photos. I almost squeal out loud at the cuteness. It’s their new batch of adoptables — about a dozen squishy-faced bulldogs, all looking for new homes. I wish for the thousandth time that our apartment allowed dogs. Although maybe it’s a good thing it doesn’t, otherwise I might end up taking them all home with me. Not sure what Emma The Perfect would think about living in a dog hotel. I bite back a laugh at the thought of her grimacing as she de-furs every piece of clothing she owns …

  No, Rori. No torturing your sister. Even if she does border on obnoxious sometimes.

  I upload the new photos and the adorable little descriptions the rescue provided — “Hi NYC, my name is Roxy and I’m a shy eight-year-old girl who loves nothing more than going for walks and snuggling with my foster family!” I’m deep in the rhythm of it when my cell phone rings.

  I pause as I’m uploading a photo of a snaggle-toothed pup named Henry — “My foster parents say I’m almost completely housebroken!” — and fish my phone out of my bag.

  “Rori Holloway,” I say, still cooing at Henry’s lopsided doggy grin.

  “Hello, Rori Holloway.”

  My own grin falls away. I sit up straight in my chair, pressing the phone against my ear.

  “Hello, Wes.” My voice sounds strangely formal.

  “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  A slight pause. “Great. I’m fine, too, thanks for asking.” Even through the phone I can hear his teasing grin.

  “What can I do for you, Wes?” Part of me almost wants to call him Mr. Lake, to emphasize how strictly-business our relationship is, except I get the distinct impression he’d enjoy that a little too much.

  “I have your signed contract,” he says. “I thought I could take you out to dinner so that I can give it to you and we can discuss next steps.”

  Mmhmm. Next steps. I fell for that one last time.

  “I’m not sure dinner is such a good idea, Wes.” I think about suggesting
I come by his office, but clearly that isn’t a good idea either. “How about a quick lunch?”

  Lunch should be safe — there’s nothing romantic or sexy about lunch, right?

  “We can do lunch,” he says amicably, without missing a beat. “Where would you like to go?”

  “Fran’s,” I say quickly, naming a bustling diner close to our office. Fran’s is known for their amazing home-cooked meals, but most of all, it’s the least romantic place I can think of off the top of my head. It mostly attracts the senior set and a few regular homeless people who know they can get a hot cup of coffee and a place to get in out of the rain or the scorching heat without being hassled.

  “Fran’s?” I hear the surprise in Wes’s voice, but he recovers. “Sure. That sounds great. Meet you there at noon?”

  I swallow. “Oh. So you meant today?”

  “No time like the present, right? Unless you have something else planned?”

  My mind won’t work fast enough to come up with a plausible excuse, so instead I nod. “Sure. Today’s fine.”

  I get off the phone with Wes and look down at my outfit. Yoga pants again, and a tangerine-colored t-shirt that says “I woke up like this.” Which is almost, in fact, true. I pretty much did wake up like this. Why oh why can’t I be one of those women who wears cute polished suits to work all the time? Or at least a smear of lipstick?

  Well, if there’s any advantage in going out with Wes today, it’s that I don’t have to spend a lifetime agonizing over what to wear. I’m just going to have to go as is.

  I go back to my website updates, but now even the cute doggies can’t distract me from my upcoming lunch meeting.

  I arrive at the diner before Wes. It’s bustling but I snag a booth near the front. Unlike our seating arrangement at Jasmine Thai the other day, this booth offers absolutely no privacy whatsoever, which is exactly what I want. It also gives me a perfect view of the door, so Wes won’t even be able to take me by surprise. I order a coffee while I wait for him, but I don’t have to wait long.

  At twelve o’clock sharp, I see him. I take a long slurp of my coffee and try to ignore the way my throat tightens when I swallow. He pulls the door open, steps inside, and scans the restaurant. My throat tightens further when I see the way his face lights up when he spots me.

  He cuts easily through the crowd to the booth where I’m sitting. People seem to give him a wide berth, as if they can somehow sense his wealth, his power. Hell, maybe they can. That suit he’s wearing has to have cost a fortune. It’s a deep charcoal color, and he’s wearing a sky blue tie that sets off his eyes perfectly.

  His attractiveness is completely out of line. Someone should have a talk with him about that.

  He slides into the booth across from me and grins.

  “Interesting choice,” he says. His eyes travel over my chest, across the stupid t-shirt I’m wearing.

  I raise my eyebrows, daring him to say something about it, but Wes just gestures around him.

  “In restaurants, I mean.”

  “What can I say, I had a craving for mac and cheese.”

  “That sounds good, actually.”

  Our waitress arrives then, dropping two tall menus in front of us. I don’t bother picking mine up, and neither does Wes.

  “Two orders of your finest macaroni and cheese,” he says. “And another coffee, please.” The waitress nods and slips her pad back into her apron pocket without writing anything down.

  Once she’s gone, Wes turns his gaze back to me. I try to meet it as well as I can, forcing myself to sit up straight and be professional. You know, despite the yoga pants and the stupid t-shirt.

  “So you said you were bringing the contract?”

  Wes hesitates. The grin never leaves his face, but something in his eyes flickers. Then it’s gone.

  “Yes. Right here.” He reaches down to his briefcase and pulls out the same blue folio I’d dropped off earlier this week. He slides it across the table, and I flip it open and glance quickly through the documents inside. Everything seems in order. I close the folder and slide it to the far side of the table as the waitress drops off Wes’s steaming mug of coffee.

  “You also said you wanted to discuss next steps?”

  Wes raises his eyebrows again. “All business today, I see.” He chuckles, dumping a small thing of milk into his mug. “Hey, I’m not complaining, not now that I’m paying for your time. By the way, I hope you’re recording this as part of your billable hours.”

  “Of course,” I say, even though I hadn’t even thought of that.

  He nods. “Good. And as far as next steps go ... we’d like to see a campaign proposal by the end of next week. Does that seem reasonable? We want to get moving as soon as possible.”

  “Certainly.” I swallow a lump in my throat. A week? Jesus. I guess I should have known that GoldLake would want to move on GoldLake-style timelines. But no way am I going to let Wes see me sweat. I distract myself for a minute, taking a long slow sip of my coffee. “Will this be for the entire campaign or just for the recruitment stage?”

  “Well, we’ll focus on the recruitment stage for now, of course, since that’s the most important piece to get rolling. But I’d like at least an overview of the rest of the campaign, along with a cost projection and a rough spending allocation.”

  “Sure.” My stomach is rolling nervously.

  “By the way, we’re starting to move on the hiring process already. We’ll still want to focus on a recruitment piece for the campaign, of course, but we’re hoping to have the first hires in place by the end of the month.”

  “Right. Oh!” I perk up, remembering Maria and feeling like I can finally add something to this conversation. “I met someone yesterday who might be a good candidate for the program. She was a project manager in Brazil and has been having a hard time finding work in her field here. Can I send you her resume?”

  “Absolutely. That sounds great. See, I knew I made the right move hiring you. You’re even helping us recruit for the program.”

  A little flutter passes over my heart, but we’re thankfully interrupted by the waitress, who drops heaping plates of gooey mac & cheese in front of us.

  “This looks great,” Wes says, digging in. I sip my coffee and pick at the noodles in front of me. Around us, the diner is hopping, and I can smell greasy burgers frying up and the sweet scent of maple syrup and somewhere, beneath that, a layer of bacon grease that may be permanently baked into the walls at this point.

  Wes notices me looking around and follows my gaze. He shakes his head softly.

  “Been a long time since I’ve been in a diner like this,” he says. There’s something almost ... rueful in his voice.

  “Not enough Michelin stars for you?” I tease.

  He shakes his head. “It’s not that. It’s ...”

  He pauses and takes a sip of his coffee, and I get the strange sense that he’s actually trying to buy himself time. But for what?

  “I have a lot of memories of coming to a diner a lot like this one,” he says finally. He clears his throat. “With my mom, I mean.”

  “You do?” This is twice now that he’s mentioned something about his mother. Why can’t I ever remember him talking about her before? I try to picture the woman we’d run into at the mall that day — heavyset, with a pinched face and red cheeks. She looked nothing like Wes, or at least the memory of her that I’m able to call up looks nothing like him.

  Wes nods. “Remember Al’s Dine & Shine?”

  I laugh. “I haven’t been there in years.” It was an old diner in our hometown of Highfield, Connecticut — well, half diner and half car wash. Mostly the only people who went to the diner were the over-sixty crowd, who came for the early bird specials and stayed for the bottomless coffee.

  “Well, my mom worked in a diner just like that one for a while. Before I moved to Highfield. When my grandmother started getting sick and couldn’t watch me as much, Mom would bring me in with her and I’d sit behind the cou
nter while she worked. This was when I was quite young, of course. Four, maybe five. She’d give me lemon meringue pie to keep me quiet while she worked. Sometimes she’d put me to bed in the staff break room, if she was stuck working the night shift.”

  Wes looks around the restaurant now, and I can tell by his expression that he’s lost in the memory. I don’t say anything because I don’t want to disrupt his train of thought. Whatever he’s thinking, it seems to tug at him. Finally, he shakes his head. His eyes are clear again.

  “Anyway, that was a lifetime ago. Or at least it feels like it.”

  “I know what you mean. Sometimes it seems like I can barely remember the person I was back then.”

  I’m trying to empathize, but Wes raises his eyebrows. “I remember everything about you,” he says. His voice is low and gravelly, and even amidst the din of clanging glasses and ambient chatter, they lance through me. I force myself to take a bite of macaroni, but it sticks like glue in my throat.

  The moment stretches out between us, until Wes cocks his head.

  “Rori, I’ve been thinking.”

  I hold my breath, waiting for him to continue.

  He fingers his fork for a minute, then looks up at me. “If we’re going to work together, we need to do something about this.”

  “This?”

  “This,” he repeats, gesturing at the space between us. “This tension. We have chemistry, Rori. I thought after so many years, it would be gone, but ...”

  I let my shoulders slump, finally feeling like I can relax a little. “I know. It’s pretty bad. But it’s not a good idea, right? We’re working together now. We should try to keep it professional. Right?”

  Wes doesn’t answer for a minute. His cobalt eyes are as piercing as ever, and now they latch right on to mine.

  “Right,” he says slowly, although he looks as if he was thinking exactly the opposite.

  I force my gaze away from his face. It’s too hard to look into those deep blue eyes of is. I feel like I’m going to fall in and never be able to find my way out again.

  Instead, my eyes light on the blue file folder on the table next to me. Our contract. A professional agreement. Rules and expectations, clearly outlined and agreed to by both parties.