Maggie left her desk to stalk over to the table where her java already brewed, filling the air with a sweet scent. She picked up the bag of beans Sam had deposited next to the new, boxed coffee maker, and read the label on the sack. “Zanzibar coffee? Who the hell heard of coffee from Zanzibar?”
I winced. Maggie the mouth rides again!
Fletcher took off his Brioni jacket, exposing wide shoulders, a starched, white shirt, and suspenders printed with cute little horseshoes on a pale yellow background with a matching tie. My mouth watered at the sight while the artist in me saw that the yellow picked up golden flecks in his ancient amber eyes.
He draped the jacket over the back of the leather executive’s chair behind his desk. “It’s part of Tanzania, and their coffee is very good. Special, in fact. Would you care to try some?” He poured beans into the grinder, flipping its switch on and off several times.
It sounded as though he was making an effort to get along with Maggie. Good.
Maggie used a sickly-sweet tone of voice that I knew all too well. “No, thank you. Too exotic for my blood. Like to try some of my Irish pecan vanilla-bean créme Frangelico?”
I hid my grin behind the drafting table.
He looked as though he had eaten rotten eggs, but said, very politely, “No, thank you.” He turned away to pour the ground coffee into a filter, muttering, “Frou-frou coffee.”
They were about as subtle as a sucker punch. And if looks could kill, ol’ Fletch was in a coffin with the priest saying a eulogy. I wondered how I could function in the incredibly hostile atmosphere. Didn’t these two realize how much I had to do in the next ten weeks?
The china cup Fletcher unwrapped bore his company’s logo in gold leaf. Good Lord. He placed his cup and saucer next to Natalie’s elephant mug while the Zanzibar coffee brewed.
I hesitantly left the safety of the drafting table to pour myself a cup, picking the elephant mug.
He bumped against me. “Sorry.”
He didn’t sound apologetic. I became sure that the bump was intentional when he rubbed his hip against mine. He took the mug out of my hand to serve me the Zanzibar roast. Lucky thing that he did, because my hands had begun to quiver with a palsy of some sort. Damn. How did he do that to me?
“What if I’d wanted the flavored coffee?” I asked.
“You don’t. You told me that you prefer plain French roast.” He handed me the mug, smiling into my eyes.
“Th-thanks.” My heart pumping, I fled back to my refuge behind the drafting table, amazed that he’d remembered a stray fact that I’d mentioned months before. What was he doing to me? What had he already done? My giddy excitement reminded me of my first ride on a roller coaster. If he was this distracting for the entire day, I’d never get anything done.
And then there was Maggie, whose glower reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West. Being in the same room with the two of them was like cuddling with a couple of angry porcupines. Not possible.
One of them would break, and I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be Fletcher. Maggie would simply have to get used to the situation. I liked her, but truthfully, she hadn’t been competent to run Cara Fletcher Couture when it had expanded into ready-to-wear. Would she quit? The timing would be unfortunate, but Fletcher’s takeover resulted in Maggie’s demotion.
Lunch, thank goodness, was uneventful. Maggie trotted off at twelve to meet the Covarrubia twins someplace hip and trendy while I stayed in the loft to work, having asked Sam to bring me a sandwich. I didn’t know where Fletcher went, and at that point, I didn’t care. I’d seen enough of their faces and needed some quiet time.
The afternoon turned out to be just as annoying as the morning. Maggie still grumbled, and Fletcher’s attitude toward her didn’t help. Her frequent absences and his southern courtliness disguised mutual suspicion blending into outright animosity. I had to put up with their immature shenanigans all day long. I spent most of the time hiding behind my drafting table, waiting for them to duke it out.
Natalie came in at five, voicing my thoughts like a carnival mind-reader. “Is all this new furniture yours? I thought you weren’t gonna be around much.”
“Natalie!” I wanted to crawl under a desk.
“It’s all right, Cara. I understand that Natalie’s going through a difficult period now.”
She scowled. Another problem. If Fletcher didn’t stop talking down to her, life would be difficult indeed.
Fletcher addressed Nat. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have a lot to do around here.”
“Yeah. I heard that you lost your lawsuit, and you have to pay my mom five million dollars.”
“Is that so?” Fletcher looked at me. That brow again.
“So I guess we have to put up with you.”
I gasped. “Natalie, apologize to Mr. Wolf right now!”
“Sorry, Mr. Wolf,” Natalie chirped, without a shred of guilt or shame. She flounced downstairs.
“Fletch, I apologize,” I said. “But I’m not sure that we can expect more than that, at her age.”
He shrugged. “You can’t.” He picked up his briefcase. “I’m done for the day. Ready to go?”
I returned my pens to their box, then slid the design I’d completed that afternoon into a portfolio case. “Yep.” I followed him downstairs to snag Natalie and Sam before we all piled into the limo.
Surprise jolted me yet again when Fletcher got out of the limo at our health club and took a workout bag from the trunk. “Where are you going?” I demanded as Sam helped me out of the car.
“To work out.” Fletcher slammed the trunk closed.
“What?”
“Why do I repeat myself so often when we’re together? I’m beginning to think that you don’t listen to what I say.”
“I’m listening. Did you join this gym?”
“Yeah. I thought it would be convenient. Do you lift weights?”
I swallowed further surprised exclamations. With his fit, muscular build, I’d known at least subliminally that Fletch had to exercise, but I hadn’t expected him to work out at our club. Didn’t his fancy apartment have a workout room?
I looked over to scope out Natalie’s reaction, but having retrieved her gym bag, she hurried toward the door of the club. She liked to be on time for her gymnastics class, since tardiness earned a latecomer twenty push-ups for every minute late.
“No,” I answered. “I take an aerobics class and occasionally swim.” I grabbed my gym bag and my satchel.
“See you in, oh, about an hour and a half,” Fletcher told Sam. “Is that enough time, Cara?”
I nodded, and he went with me into the gym.
The eyes of the woman behind the counter widened when she saw us. “Hi, Cara. Who’s your friend?” Vicki reached for my membership card.
“Vicki, this is Fletcher Wolf. He’s a new member. Do you have your card yet?” I asked Fletch.
“I have a temporary. Can I get a locker?”
“Sure,” Vicki said. “Cara, Natalie didn’t give me her card.”
“Oh, she didn’t want to be late. I’ll put her stuff in my locker after she changes.” I took a key from the woman while Vicki, a flashy redhead who wore a blue, thong-style leotard and little else, surveyed Fletch while licking her lips. Boy, that’s tacky. I sure hope he doesn’t like tacky! Hey, am I jealous?
Fletcher, who seemed unaware of her interest, squeezed my shoulder. “I’ll see you back here in a while, honey.” He headed to the men’s locker room without a glance at the woman behind the counter.
“You’ve been holding out on me,” Vicki said. “When did you get a boyfriend?”
How would it feel to be Fletcher’s girlfriend? Pretty good, I bet. The heat in my lower body cranked up a few more degrees. “He’s not my boyfriend. I just work with him, that’s all.”
“I bet he doesn’t think so. When he does the squeeze and calls you honey in front of witnesses, he’s staked out his territory for sure.”
“He’s interested
in business, not me.”
She laughed. “Yeah, right.”
“I’d better get changed and go to class.” Uncomfortable with the conversation, I zipped into the women’s locker room. I tugged on Spandex tights while wondering if there was some truth to Vicki’s observation. Slowly but surely, Fletcher Wolf had taken over. Since I’d first heard the name just six months before, he’d demanded and gained entry into my workplace, my health club...my entire waking life. He’d even showed up when I visited my parents.
I stepped into a leotard. If this day were any example, I’d be seeing him morning, noon, and night. The only hours without Fletcher were those in my townhouse, but that wasn’t entirely true, was it? He’d haunted my fantasies since our first meeting, in the hallway of the courthouse, before I’d even known who he was.
I pursed my lips and laced up my aerobic shoes. I couldn’t deny that since he’d turned from predator to partner he’d become a lot more likable. The suspenders were charming, and so were his silly little habits such as the coffee, which I’d learned he drank with just a drop—no more—of the fresh cream that he bought on the way to the atelier.
I’d never dreamed that Fletcher had such an array of bizarre personality quirks, but he liked things to be just so, precisely placed in some order, the mechanics and logic of which seemed to be hidden to all but Fletcher himself. His favorite saying seemed to be “Organization is the key to success!” Maybe he was right. The haphazard way I’d run the business hadn’t benefited anyone.
I’d miss the luxury of the limo on days when Fletch went to Delaware. Besides, since we’d negotiated the joint venture, the vandal hadn’t bothered us. The hang-up calls continued, but that could be attributed to a glitch in the phone lines. The truly bad stuff seemed to have stopped. I hated to think that the presence of a man in my life scared the perpetrator away, but that was a possibility in this backward, sexist world.
Perhaps there was a closer connection. Maybe the harassment had ceased since I now danced to the tune the harasser—Fletcher—played. I loathed that possibility, but returned to it over and over again, the way a child tests a bruise to see if it still hurts.
As I walked from the lockers to the aerobics room, which already boomed with the sounds of the hip-hop beat played during workouts, I couldn’t resist peeking into the weight room to check out Fletch. Oh, my. There he was, all juicy and sweaty on a rowing machine, wearing a ragged, torn T-shirt with the Phillies logo atop very short shorts. The muscles I’d admired in Ithaca bulged and strained as he worked the machine. “Whoa,” I breathed. Did he prefer briefs or boxers? Not much room under those little red shorts for either. I craned my head to get a better view.
When we met in the lobby after we’d finished our workouts, I couldn’t overlook the jaunty way he wore his suit, with the jacket and tie draped over his shoulder and the collar unbuttoned, revealing a V of dark, masculine hair. What did he look like naked?
Oh yeah, Fletch was impossible to ignore.
The next day, the August sun heated humid Manhattan like a sauna. The air conditioning in the atelier labored and everyone stripped down, especially the denizens of the loft. I wore a loose, unconstructed dress. Fletch had replaced his Brioni suit with a much more casual outfit. Shorts exposed brawny, tanned legs while his T-shirt set off the broad shoulders and rippling pecs I’d seen flexing on the exercise machine. He’d tied his long hair back into a short, neat ponytail, which should have looked dopey but somehow made him even sexier. I wanted to free that wild hair and run my fingers through it, feel it stroke my naked body.
Shit. I had it bad for this man.
“Hey, Cara, when were you planning to break for lunch?” he asked. “There are some figures here that I want to discuss over a sandwich in the park.”
I looked up from a mannequin on which I’d draped several different weights of silk blended with linen. If I went heavier, I wouldn’t have to line the textured, cream-colored fabric. But how might that affect the flow of the garment? “What time is it?” When working, I generally didn’t notice the passage of time, or much else.
“Eleven-thirty. If we leave now, we can beat the crowds and get lunch early.”
“Okay.” I slid off my stool and rounded my shoulders a couple of times, doing shrugs to release tension.
“Maggie, can you come with us?” Fletch asked.
“Sorry. I have a lunch date. See you in an hour.” She took her purse and left.
“She’s certainly hot to help out.” He moved behind me and rubbed my sore shoulders. Nice.
“I can’t really blame her for her attitude. She feels that every irregularity you find in your review of the company’s books is a criticism.”
“She’s unprofessional. We’d achieve more at a faster clip if she’d cooperate.”
“Mmmm, that feels good,” I said, changing the subject.
“You know I can make you feel much better than that,” he murmured into my ear. His warm breath tickled pleasantly, sending a hot shiver down my spine.
I frowned. “Forget it. I have an example to set for a twelve-year-old.”
“That’s a good point, but when will you allow yourself to have a life beyond Natalie?” Stepping back to his desk, he opened his briefcase and began to stuff some papers into it.
Stifling a sigh, I followed him downstairs. “Nat needs me right now. She’s going through a very difficult period.”
“She’s an adolescent. She’ll be difficult until she’s twenty-five.”
“Please don’t force me to tell you one more time that my daughter is not your concern.” Exiting the atelier, I side-stepped a derelict slouched against the wall.
“She hates me, doesn’t she?”
I sighed again as Sam opened the door of the limo for me. “That’s not the issue.”
“Isn’t it?” Climbing in after me, Fletch kissed me.
I kissed back, but dragged my mouth away after the briefest touch of lips. “I don’t quite trust your intentions.”
“I have the best intentions in the world, honey. And to prove it, I’m going to fix your company for you. Look at this.” Releasing her, he pulled a sheaf of papers out of his briefcase. “While we were negotiating the joint venture agreement, I had a couple of long lunches with the C.F.O.’s at a few other couture houses. I think I’ve figured out a way to cut costs in a big way.”
“Oh, really? That’s good news.” Excited, I hoped that the gamble—the joint venture—would pay off quickly. Fletch was a genius if he could turn the company around so fast. Then I could get rid of his distracting presence in my workplace, at my gym, in my life. “How?”
“By hiring offshore factories to make the ready-to-wear apparel. Look at these figures for Kidstuff and Comfort Zone. They’re less expensively priced lines, so I think we should look to Asia and Latin America for our manufacturers.”
My good mood crashed. “I’ve always used union labor here in the U.S.. It’s something I feel very strongly about.”
“Look, I’d never accept any diminution of quality. But we can get clothes made overseas for a fraction of what it costs us now. This one change will bring you from red to black within one year, two at the outside.”
“I won’t allow sweatshop labor, and that’s final.”
“I’m not talking about sweatshop labor.”
“Hey, I’ve read about what happens overseas. Little kids who work for Nike or Reebok are paid pennies a day while big time sports stars make millions off endorsements. No. No way.”
“You’re jumping to conclusions. Who said anything about Nike, Reebok, endorsements or sweatshops?”
“Listen. This is my company, my name’s on the clothes, and I won’t allow it.” I rapped on Sam’s window. It lowered. “Sam, stop the car.”
“Here, ma’am?” Sam pulled over on Center, near the Brooklyn Bridge.
Fletch raised his voice. “Sam, do not stop the car here. Cara,” he said through his teeth, “this isn’t a good place to stop. We’re pra
ctically in Brooklyn. Where do you want to eat lunch, the Gowanus Expressway?”
Sam sped up and turned on Park Row.
“Any place will do, as long as I don’t have to debate this any longer.” I folded my arms over my torso.
A muscle in Fletch’s jaw jumped before he took a deep breath. “I do not propose the use of sweatshop or grossly underpaid labor,” he said, in very precise tones. “Nor will I sanction the manufacture of our clothes in Chinese prisons, or anything of that nature. The adverse publicity could be horrendous.”
“Our clothes?” The nerve of the man.
“Yes, dammit. Our clothes. I own half of this company. Please don’t forget it.”
“You’ve made it impossible for me to forget.” I steamed with resentment. I’d agreed to the joint venture and done my best to live with it, but some issues just weren’t negotiable.
“I’m trying to work with you. When I make a suggestion, I’d appreciate a fair hearing and a little respect.” He shoved his papers back into his briefcase. “Sam, stop the car.”
“Yes, sir.” Sam pulled over near City Hall Park.
After getting out, Fletch stuck his head through the open car door. “We’ll discuss this again when you’re more rational.”
“I’m totally rational, and it’s insulting for you to imply otherwise.” My voice rose along with my temper. “Tell me something, Fletcher.”
“What?”
“Do you object to underpaid Third World labor because it’s morally wrong, or because of the negative publicity?”
He hesitated. Got you this time, I thought.
“They’re inseparable. Sam, take Cara to wherever she wants to go, and pick me up here in an hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Left alone in the limo, I fumed. Why did men always imply a female is irrational if she disagrees with their oh-so-holy opinions? Next he’ll ask me if I’m premenstrual when I object to some other misbegotten proposal he invents!
“Where to, Ms. Fletcher?”
Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015 Page 163