The Deal Breaker

by Cat Carmine

  Mom would be proud, I think. Wouldn’t she?

  She always believed in me. Even when I was really small, she was always telling me that I was going to grow up to do something amazing. I think she secretly hoped I’d become a doctor or something — someone who helped people. Real estate developer isn’t exactly that, but still. I’d made something of myself. Transformed my entire life. From nothing to a 5th Avenue penthouse. That’s something to be proud of.

  Right?

  I keep myself busy the rest of the afternoon. I have a full schedule, in and out of meetings, and between that, I’m answering emails and returning phone calls. I work straight through dinner, until it’s nearly eight o’clock. That’s not unusual though. I’ve always been what you’d call a workaholic, but I consider that a good thing. You don’t succeed in this industry without putting in hard time. Some day, maybe I’ll have the freedom to slack off, but not anytime soon.

  When I pull away from my laptop and blink myself back into the here and now, I realize I’m starving. I run through a few ideas in my head of what to get for dinner. Thai? Indian? Italian? Nothing sounds appealing, though, until I realize exactly what I’m craving. I text my driver and have him meet me at the front of the building.

  Ten minutes later, I’m walking back into Fran’s Diner. This time I take a seat at the counter, the same as I’d done so many times at Express Eats, where my mother used to work. The harried waitress hands me a menu, but I wave it off.

  “Just a slice of lemon meringue pie, please.”

  She smiles as she drops the menu back on the stack behind the counter. She has a nice smile — kind, open. She’s got ash blonde hair, not that different from my mother’s, but it’s cut short, with a swoop of bangs that covers one of her tired creased eyes.

  “Best in the city, you know,” she says. She has a broad smile, despite her clear exhaustion.

  “Good. Can I get a coffee with that too, please?”

  “Of course.”

  She turns away to grab the items. My eyes follow her as she eases the lemon meringue pie out of the glass counter behind her. Even from here, I can see the lemon filling glistening, bright yellow and just a bit wobbly looking. The meringue is crisp white and perfectly browned on the peaks. My mouth waters as she slices into it.

  She slides the plate in front of me, then adds a fork and a coffee cup, which she fills. I wave off the cream and sugar, grabbing one of the individual milk portions out of the bowl in front of me, and she moves on to the next customer.

  For a minute I stare down at the pie. The lemon scent in my nose, the hot coffee next to me, it’s all so achingly familiar. I swallow down a lump in my throat, wondering why in the hell I feel so emotional. It’s just a stupid piece of pie.

  It’s not just the pie though, of course. It’s everything. It’s the clattering plates, and the smell of bacon and coffee, and the waitress in her short blue dress and sensible white shoes. It’s everything. It’s me — it’s my past, come back to life.

  I saw off a piece of pie and pop it in my mouth. The meringue practically dissolves on contact, and then I bite down, through the jelled lemon and the flakey crust. It’s everything I remembered. I let my eyes close for a second while I chew.

  “I told you — best in the city.”

  The waitress’s voice interrupts my thoughts and I blink my eyes open to see her smile twinkling.

  “You weren’t kidding,” I say. “My compliments to the chef.”

  “I’ll pass that along,” she says with a wink, before she whisks away to tend to the next customer.

  I eat the pie slowly, savoring every bite, every moment that I spend in that diner. For a while I can almost imagine that my mother is still here, that she’s just around the corner, that any moment now she’s going to appear, blonde ponytail bouncing, mouth laughing, eyes sparkling, her white-soled sneakers silent on the checkered floor. For a minute I let myself pretend.

  Then I finish my pie, pay my bill, and step back into reality.

  Thirteen

  “We’re completely screwed, aren’t we?” I groan to Kyla, not for the first time this morning.

  We’re sitting at our poker conference table, surrounded by a thousand crumpled sheets of paper, discarded ideas and half-written plans. We’re trying to come up with a good plan for GoldLake’s project, and so far everything we’ve thought up has been ... well, stupid. Or cheesy. Or both. Definitely nothing that would be up to GoldLake’s standards.

  “Okay, maybe we need to approach this from a different angle,” Kyla says, grabbing a fresh sheet of paper. God love her, she never loses her enthusiasm. “What’s the best thing about this initiative? What’s different about it?”

  “Well,” I muse, chewing on the end of my purple pen. “It’s a great opportunity for women who might not otherwise have these kind of chances.”

  “Okay.” Kyla writes that down. “So how do we show that?”

  “If I knew that, we wouldn’t be sitting here in the graveyard of bad ideas,” I say, gesturing at all the balled up sheets of paper on the floor around us. “I just don’t want it to be insulting, you know? I mean, these women have probably already been through a lot, and it would suck to make light of that, you know? But at the same time, you don’t want these ads getting too heavy. It’s supposed to be a positive initiative. Hopeful.”

  Kyla is nodding. “I wish we could ask these women what they’d actually want to say.”

  “Totally.” I tap my pen against my teeth as I think. Then I sit up straight. That’s exactly it — what would they want to say? What would they want people to know? About them, about their lives, about what this program means to them?

  I slap my palm down on the green felt. “That’s it! Kyla, you’re a genius.”

  “Why am I a genius, again? I mean, not that I’m disagreeing or anything.”

  “Because that’s exactly what we need to do — let these women tell their own stories. We shouldn’t be putting words in their mouths about how great the program is. We need them to tell us for themselves. Their testimonials will sell this thing better than anything else. Plus that way, there’s less chance that anyone will accuse GoldLake of just trying to make themselves look good. Instead of GoldLake — or us — telling everyone how awesome they are and how much they’re helping people, we’ll find people willing to say that stuff on their behalf.”

  Kyla looks thoughtful. “You know, that’s really not a bad idea.” She grins. “I’m so glad I’m a genius and thought of it.”

  I laugh as I grab the pad of paper and start sketching out ideas. “We could do videos — nothing fancy either, just these women talking about their experiences, interspersed with pictures of their lives, of them at work, that kind of thing. Nothing too exploitive, you know, no poverty porn. Kind of like Humans of New York, but, you know, with GoldLake.”

  “Humans of GoldLake?”

  “Something like that. At least people might start to buy that they even have a human side.”

  “I love it. There’s only one problem that I see.”

  I stop my sketching and look up. “What?”

  “They haven’t actually started hiring anyone yet. Right? Isn’t that what you told me?”

  I shake my head. “Wes mentioned at lunch yesterday that they’re looking to have the first few people hired quickly, so probably in a couple of weeks, or even sooner. I also sent him a resume of this woman I met — if they hire her, she’d be absolutely perfect for this. Her story is so heartbreaking, but it’s really inspiring how she keeps pushing forward.”

  I’m starting to get really excited now, picturing the video we could make with Maria’s story. Of course, there’s still the small matter of GoldLake actually hiring her for a spot in the program, but I’m sure Wes or his HR department will be as enamored with her as I am. I had scanned her resume before I sent it to Wes, and it looked, at least to me, like she had great qualifications.

  “Okay. I think if we can make it work, it sounds grea
t. And even if it doesn’t work for this initial recruitment phase, we can always use the idea down the road, once the project has time to get rolling. It can be part of the sustainment campaign.”

  “Right, exactly. Good point. I’ll talk to Wes as soon as I can.”

  Wes. I swallow. I had hoped to be able to make it through this campaign while dealing with him as little as possible, and now I’m already going to have to follow up with him and we aren’t even on day two.

  Thank God I made him sign that contract. At least now I can be sure there won’t be any funny business. Our napkin contract is iron-clad, right?

  Kyla and I do a little more brainstorming and then wrap up our session. When I pull my chair back up to my desk, I scrunch up my courage and send off an email to Wes, asking him if he’d be okay with filming some of his new hires and if he can put me in touch with HR.

  He responds almost immediately, suggesting I come by the office to discuss it in person.

  I stare at my computer screen for a minute. I’d expected him to answer the question over email — maybe at the worst, suggest a phone conversation, if he felt it was too long of an explanation to type out over email. Hell, I’d have been happy if he’d just forwarded my email to HR and let them follow up with me.

  I chew on my fingernail as I try to decide how to respond to his message. Why exactly does he want to see me in person? Is he violating the terms of our agreement already?

  I decide that I’ll keep my response light.

  “Surely a man like you is too busy to take a meeting over such a small request. Unless there’s something major you need to communicate to me, I’m more than happy to simply deal directly with someone in your HR department. Who would be the best person to contact?”

  There, I think, as I send it off. Even Wes would be proud of that level of tactfulness.

  Instead I get another email less than a minute later.

  “Tomorrow, at 1pm. My office. I’ll be expecting you.”

  I resist the urge to tear out every last one of my hairs. Why does that man have to be so damn infuriating?

  Still, I spend the rest of my day thinking about our meeting. I know I shouldn’t look forward to it — I mean, I don’t look forward to it — but ...

  Damn. This feels like high school all over again. I can’t let Wes get under my skin.

  But why does he have to be so good at it?

  Fourteen

  We made a deal. That’s what I tell myself the entire ride up the elevator to Wes’s office. Although I’d considered turning down Wes’s request to meet at this office, I’d ultimately decided it wasn’t exactly an unreasonable demand for a client to make. And besides, technically we were still abiding by the contract. We were meeting in a neutral territory, and we wouldn’t be doing anything but talking about work. There’d be no kissing, no funny business, hell, not even a lingering look. When you write something on a napkin, you mean business. That’s just common sense, right?

  But none of my positive vibing stops me from having a mini heart attack when I reach the reception area and see Wes bent over Joyce’s desk as he points at something on her screen. He doesn’t spot me right away so I linger there, watching him. Admiring the strong line of his back as he bends and the way his jacket stretches around his bicep as he leans over the desk, gesturing at the computer. The way the tendons in his neck pulse, and the easy way his mouth ticks up into a grin at something that Joyce says. The way his gaze drifts up towards me, almost as if he can feel me there, and the way his eyes crinkle in pleasure when he notices me.

  “Rori.” He stands up, straightening the dark blue jacket he’s wearing. I ignore the throb of desire that pulses through my body at the sight of him. Remember the napkin, I remind myself. The napkin that was your idea.

  “Here I am,” I say stupidly.

  “Yes. Here you are.” Oh God. Why do his eyes have to smolder that way? “Come on in.”

  I nod curtly at Joyce, who glowers at me, and follow Wes into his office.

  He closes the door behind us, then notices me hesitate.

  “No funny business, I promise.” He crosses his hand over his heart as he sits down behind his desk. “I just don’t want us to be interrupted by Joyce’s constantly ringing phone.”

  It seems reasonable enough, so I inch my way towards his desk. Wes watches me with an amused grin on his face.

  “I don’t bite, Rori, I swear.”

  “I know.” I glare at him but my face pinks up in embarrassment. I sink into the seat across from him and tell myself to pull it together. I’m here to work.

  Wes steeples his fingers together. “So, Rori, what can I do for you?” His blue eyes are burning and my skin speckles with goosebumps.

  A thousand answers to his question roll through my mind. All of them dirty.

  Bend me over your desk.

  Spread my knees.

  Unzip your pants and whip your cock out so that I can devour it.

  The amount I want those things, and the sudden intensity with which they hit me, nearly makes me slide out of the chair. A hot flush covers my body.

  I squirm in my seat while Wes continues to regard me, grinning. Why does he always have to look so fucking composed?

  “Did you get the resume I sent you?” I manage to stammer. “For my friend, Maria?”

  He nods. “I forwarded it on to HR.”

  “Did it look good? Do you think she has a chance?”

  He shakes his head. “To be honest, I didn’t look too closely at it. I trust your judgement, so I told HR they should give it serious consideration.”

  “Oh. You just … took my word for it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh,” I say again. I don’t know why that pleases me so much, but it does.

  “Is that all you wanted?”

  “No. Kyla and I were working on concepts for the recruitment phase, and one of the ideas we tossed around was to put together video testimonials from some of the early hires. Do you think your HR department will be moving fast enough for that to happen? Or should we shelve the idea for now?”

  Wes taps his desk, thinking. “I like the idea. And yes, I think we should have at least a few people in place within a couple of weeks. I’ll give you the name of someone you can work with in our Human Resources department.”

  “Great.”

  “Great,” he echoes. He’s still staring at me in a way that makes my skin feel hot.

  “See, we could have resolved this over the phone,” I point out. “It really didn’t require a meeting.”

  “I know. But I like seeing you.”

  “Oh.” I want to tell him he can’t say things like that because of our deal, but I can’t think of a specific point that it violates. After all, he didn’t touch me or kiss me or do anything inappropriate. The only thing inappropriate about it is the way it makes me feel. Because the way he makes me feel — the way my skin burns in his presence, the way my pulse races and my knees shake — might not be in direct violation of our agreement, but it definitely goes against the spirit of it.

  I don’t have time to respond because at that moment, Wes’s phone gives off a very loud buzz.

  He glances down at it and frowns.

  “Sorry, Roar, just a sec.”

  He grabs the phone and scrolls through it, still frowning. Somehow, even when he’s disgruntled about something, his face still looks handsome. It just makes him look more like the ruthless developer that the media like to portray him as — though the more time I spend with him, the more I wonder if all of that’s not a facade. Every time he calls me Roar, all I can see is the kid he used to be.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, as he scrolls through something on his screen.

  He cranes his neck, stretching the muscles, which cord and tighten. “Oh, just this stupid thing I forgot I have to go to tomorrow. See, I’m trying to get into this country club...” He breaks off as he sees my smirk. “Don’t laugh. It’s not really my thing but it’s good for busine
ss. The problem is, they’re pretty old school there, which means they like old money. Blue blood types. Which I most definitely am not.”

  That’s true, I muse. Wes Lake is most definitely a man of the red-blooded variety...

  “Anyway, if you’re a slimy ‘new rich’ like I am, they put you through the wringer before they let you join. You need a sponsor, you need to attend a certain number of events, and so on. I’ve got a buddy who’s put my name up for consideration, but it turns out there’s some couples-night dinner I have to go to tomorrow night.” He groans. “Christ, that means I have to find a date too.”

  “I’ll go with you.” The words are out of my mouth before I can even stop to consider the wisdom of them. What the fuck am I doing?

  The way Wes’s eyebrows shoot up say he’s wondering the exact same thing.

  “I thought we had a deal — no dates. Wasn’t that part of your little contract?”

  “Yes. But this wouldn’t be a date. It would be one friend doing a favor for another friend.”

  Good justification, Rori. So good I almost buy it myself.

  Of course, the truth is that the thought of him going on a date with another woman was like a sucker punch to my gut. I might not want to go on a date with him myself, but I don’t want to think about him going out with anyone else either. And then the offer just tumbled out. If that makes me crazy then … well, yes, I’m crazy.

  “A favor for a friend,” he muses.

  “Exactly.” I shrug, like it’s no big deal, like I go to the country club with my ex-boyfriend practically every day of the week. “But I mean, if you don’t want me to go, that’s fine. I have a new episode of Scandal to catch up on tonight anyway.”

  Oh good. Now he knows exactly how exciting my life outside of work is.

  Wes shifts in his seat, still thinking. “You sure you’d be okay with this? I don’t think it’s really your kind of thing.”