by Gayla Twist
I snatch the book from the floor and fling it out the window, ignoring her startled look. “No,” I tell her. “Those are definitely out. At least,” I add, “the ones on relationships.”
This makes Dahlia’s eyebrows rise even further up her forehead. “You plan on reading something else for advice?”
“Yes,” I say while flinging myself back on the couch, heedless of how it makes the bookshelf tremble.
She’s intrigued. “What? If you don't mind me asking.”
“This,” I say, shoving the book that’s just been engrossing me into her hands.
Dahlia perches herself on a chair and crosses her long legs. “The Art of War,” she reads, then glances over at me. “By Sun Tzu.”
I give her a tight, affirming smile, nodding my head once.
Dahlia tosses me a concerned look. “You realize this is a book on military strategy.”
“No.” She’s wrong there. “It's THE book on military strategy,” I tell her.
Glancing back at the book’s cover, she frowns. “I'm not so sure this was meant to be used as a dating guide.”
I cross my arms. “Says who?”
“The guy who wrote it.”
“That's just bad marketing.” I wave off her criticism. “It's the perfect dating guide.”
“Because?” she wants to know.
“Because I'm sick of being a doormat,” I blurt. Yes, I’ve come to realize my worst fears are true. I know I’ve been a doormat, but I’m not going to be anymore. “I'm sick of dating losers.”
I kick at a few pages of self-help book that are near my feet. “And these stupid books do nothing but compound the problem with their moronic advice!”
I can tell by the way she’s holding herself and tilting her head that she’s horribly engaged in my plight. “I've never tried dating men,” she tells me. “But is it really that bad?”
Slumping down on the couch a little, I grumble. “It's horrible.” She leans in very attentively, so I continue. “Do you know that Elliot was at least an hour late for every date we ever had? At the very least an hour. But these books say stupid stuff like I should be patient with him and explain that he's hurting my feelings.” Dahlia shakes her head, confirming that it’s bad advice, but I cut her off before she can say anything. “As if telling a guy he's being a giant dill hole ever made him less of a giant dill hole. That's bullshit, and I'm sick of it!”
Dahlia pulls back. She’s a little ruffled. I don’t think she expected me to yell. “Yes. I can see that.”
I grab The Art of War out of her hands and start waving it around. “Tactics! Strategy! Maneuvers! This is the real advice you need not to get stuck with a schmuck.”
Holding up both hands in a gesture of mock surrender, Dahlia says, “Okay, I’m convinced.” She lowers her hands. “But just how, exactly, are you going to pull it off?”
To be honest, I haven’t got a clue about that part, but I’m not going to let it stop me. I at least have the kernel of a plan. “I've already scouted my conquest,” I tell her. “Now all I have to do is follow the advice of the master.”
My idea has Dahlia intrigued; I can tell by the way her whole body seems alert. She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “Ooh, who did you target?” Her eyes glow a little in anticipation of some juicy gossip.
Her intense interest makes me cautious. I mean, Chicago’s a big town, but Dahlia rubs elbows with a lot of rich people, and you never know who knows who. “I probably shouldn't say...” I try to evade the question, really not wanting to shoot myself in the foot.
“Come on.” Dahlia won’t be dissuaded that easily. “Wasn't I going to call 911 if you were dead?” she points out.
“Okay... Well...” I’m still reluctant but can’t resist at least giving a hint. “He's someone I work with.”
I can tell from her reaction that my hint was too obvious. She’s already come to a conclusion. “Trent Winchell!” she says. Her answer is more like a pronouncement than a guess.
I’m surprised and more than a little embarrassed. There’s no point in hiding it. “How did you know?” I ask.
“I'm gay, not a moron,” she tells me in a very droll tone. “Besides, it's who I'd go for.” After thinking about it for another moment, she adds, “Not to be rude, but seriously, don't you think you're aiming pretty high? He is one of the most eligible bachelors in Chicago, after all,” she points out.
Not that this thought hasn’t crossed my mind already, but I’ve blotted it out. “I have to do something different,” I insist, the pitch of my voice expressing my exasperation. “After Elliot, I don't think I can aim any lower.”
“Yes,” she nods, pursing her lips together. “You've got a point. I've seen your ex in the halls.” She suppresses a slight shudder. “He wasn't really into grooming, was he?”
I fold my arms tightly across my chest. “He was more into cheating.”
Dahlia doesn’t try to hide her revulsion. “What?” she almost gags. “That thing got more than one woman to sleep with it? In the same decade?” She is simply incredulous. “Wow! You straight girls really do have it rough.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, slumping even deeper into the couch. “If I don't do something drastic, I'm going to end up sneaking into coffee houses and whacking members of the slacker generation on the backs of their skulls with a two-by-four.”
“Good for you,” Dahlia nods, as if what I’ve just said makes perfect sense and doesn’t, in fact, sound on the verge of psychotic. “I admire your determination. How are you going to put this whole war book plan into action again?”
And there’s where I’m stumped. How does one adapt a book on military strategy to the battlefield of dating in the modern world? “I don't know yet,” I have to confess, “but I'm going to figure it out.”
Chapter 8
I show up for work the next day still puzzling over how to enact my genius plan. There’s no doubt in my mind it’s a great idea, but how does one go about executing it? After Dahlia left, I spent the rest of the night taping a bunch of cardboard over my missing window and thinking about The Art of War.
Someone has left a large ladle in the break room. I don’t even want to begin to think about why it’s in there in the first place. Instead, I tuck it under my arm to take it with me as I head for the kitchen, making a mental note to hand it to one of the dishwashers for a thorough cleaning before it’s rotated back into service.
As I come out of the break room, I’ve got the ladle clamped under one arm, and I’m tying a fresh apron around my waist. Paolo looks up from where he’s chopping vegetables at one of the prep stations. “Ah, Suzannah. The boss, he want to see you,” he informs me.
I’m not exactly sure which boss he’s talking about. “Mr. Winchell?” I ask.
Paolo gives me one of those Italian looks of minor exasperation as if what he’s said was perfectly clear and he doesn’t understand my need for further explanation. “Yes, that is what I say.” I know it’s a cultural thing, so I don’t take his Latin snippiness personally.
Trent wanting to see me is perfect for the launch of my new campaign for finding love. The fact that I’m wearing my baggy chef's jacket, checkered pants, and clogs is not. It’s hard to dress sexy when you work over a hot stove all day. But I guess I just have to go see what he wants and maybe figure out how to use the situation to my advantage. I’m trying to think of it as reconnaissance. Tucking some loose hair behind my ear, I head for the Winchell lobby and the service elevators. I realize when I’m already halfway there that I still have the ladle with me. With a shrug, I hook it over the ties of my apron so that it dangles at my waist. Maybe it gives me the appearance of being a busy professional.
I need to hurry up and see Trent then get back to the kitchen and start cracking the whip for the day. I know everyone thinks that Bouche is going under and they might as well goof off until Escoffier comes back and fires us all, but it’s my job to make sure neither of these things happens.
�
�Hold the elevator!” I call, hurrying down the hallway, my rubber clogs slapping the tile. I’m a few yards away and the doors to the service elevator are wide open, so I know whoever is in there can hear me. That person does nothing, of course, to stop the metal doors from closing. I’m not a huge fan of getting squashed by closing machinery, but I’m also not a huge fan of waiting for the service elevator to finally get back around to me on the return trip.
I rip the ladle from my waist and use it to stop one door while jamming the other with my rubber-clad foot. With a little grunt of exertion, I manage to pry the doors back open. It’s Kiki inside, giving me her look of disdain. “Thanks,” I tell her. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t hold the door for a centenarian with a walker.
I go to stab the button for the 65th floor, but it’s already illuminated. Kiki must be going to see Trent as well. “Great,” I think to myself. She is so not a factor in my plans.
As usual, Kiki is dressed to the nines in a skin-tight black dress and killer heels. She also has the requisite compact walkie-talkie clipped to her waist. That must be for hostessing emergencies. She is obviously wishing me a million miles away and blatantly ignores me, glaring fixedly at the sequentially illuminating numbers as we climb floors.
I guess it’s become obvious that I’m looking her over because, without glancing in my direction, Kiki says, “If you're falling in love with me, you can forget it. I don't swing that way.”
I am justifiably embarrassed, so I try to counter with, “Well, neither do I, but if I did, I’m sure you wouldn’t be my type.”
“Yeah, right,” she scoffs, the tone of her voice implying that she is obviously everybody’s type.
The doors open on the 65th floor, and everything is instantly nicer than even the hotel lobby. The paneling is a beautiful, glowing tiger maple, and the pile carpeting is plush and new, unlike the carpeting on most of the floors in the hotel, which could really use a freshening. The 65th floor is where the executives have their suites. That means three offices: one for Trent, one for his father, and one for his grandfather. The senior Mr. Winchell isn’t even alive anymore, but his office has been preserved. The hotel maids even have to clean it, but I’m sure that involves just shaking a dust mop over a few surfaces once a month. I mean, how much of a mess can be made by an executive that’s been dead for eight years?
Trent’s father doesn’t show up very often himself these days. I guess the Winchells have a lot of properties besides the hotel, so he’s usually pretty busy. The Winchell Hotel is supposed to be Trent’s baby so he can cut his teeth before taking on more of the family empire. Still, it seems kind of wasteful having an entire floor where there’s just one office in use, but it’s not my company to run.
Kiki and I both head down the hall toward the large double doors at the end. It’s obvious from the daggers Kiki keeps shooting in my direction that she’s not thrilled I’m there, but I feel the same way right back at her. If I’m going to figure out a way to land a twelve-point buck like Trent, I don’t need the vixen called Kiki hanging around and showing off her legs.
When we get to the double doors, Kiki stops and waits with an air of expectation like I’m going to open the door for her. Why do some women do this? I am also a woman. I do not feel compelled to get the door for another female unless she’s pregnant, has her arms full, or qualifies for a senior discount. I guess Kiki feels that all doors should be opened for her at all times. Fine. I reach for the knob and give it a twist, opening the door, but before Kiki can sail on through, I shove ahead of her. This pulls her up short, and I feel a brief flash of triumph. It’s out of Kiki’s realm of perspective that the shores won’t always rise to meet her.
The reception area for Trent’s office is probably larger than my condo. A middle-aged, well-groomed woman named Linda sits behind a desk as Kiki and I walk in. I don’t know Linda super well, but I know her to be pleasant and efficient. I guess, when Trent was younger, he went through super-slinky office assistants by the handfuls until his father put his foot down and insisted upon Linda. She’s been running his life ever since.
“Hi, Linda,” I say, giving her a smile. “How's your son doing?
She smiles back. “Hello, Sue. Much better. He might even get an “A” in math this semester.” Linda is a single mom with a teenage son that has proven to be a bit challenging in the past couple of years. She tried to get him a job washing dishes at Bouche last summer, but he only lasted three weeks. Escoffier completely refused to deal with the kid or his mother, so I was the one that had to try to mentor him through the whole dishwashing process and eventually explain to his mother that he was only showing up to work one day out of three, so we were letting him go. Fortunately, she didn’t hold me responsible like a lot of parents would.
“That's great,” I tell her.
I pause, giving Kiki the space to say some type of pleasant greeting. The room is silent. Shooting Kiki a sideways glance, I can see that she’s looking appraisingly around the reception room and has no intention of saying anything at all, let alone anything civil, to someone she probably considers only a lowly secretary.
I’m a little embarrassed by Kiki's rude behavior, even though she is in no way my responsibility. We’re not even friends. But I do my best to gloss over it by stuttering out, “Is... uh... Trent in?”
“It’s nice to see you too, Kiki.” Linda has no reservations about giving Kiki the stink-eye. It's obvious she knows her executive assistant position at the company is secure. I bet she’s probably set up some traps in her filing system so that if Trent ever tries to replace her, he’d have to hire her back just to find anything. “Mr. Winchell said he wanted to see both of you as soon as you got here.” Linda presses a button on her phone, probably to alert Trent that we’ve arrived, and nods toward a large oak door. “You can go right in.”
As we both walk toward Trent’s office, Kiki literally jockey’s me out of the way so she can be first when we enter. I guess she wants Mr. Winchell to have an unobstructed view of her hotness. It’s really tempting to step on the back of her mile-high heels, but I restrain myself. It’s not in my nature to get into a cat fight.
From what I can see around the sides of Kiki’s head, Trent is sitting at his large desk, leaning back in his chair. He’s in his usual, ridiculously expensive suit and looks as well-groomed and suave as always. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he says with his full lips and his perfect teeth.
***Kiki***
I was all excited about my meeting with my Trent until I found out Miss Kiss Ass was also invited. Trent Winchell is exactly the kind of man I should be dating. He’s successful; he’s good looking; and he’s not afraid to throw a little money around to have a good time. Is it too much to ask for exclusive access to him once in a while so I can see if there’s an opportunity there? And I don’t mean opportunity like all of those bimbettes who used to line up to be his secretary, launch what they thought was a romance, and then quickly find themselves tossed aside as soon as he got bored. Men like Trent like to conquer. It’s stupid to think falling into bed with him is the way to go about actually landing him.
Guys always complain that women only want a guy with money. This makes me laugh because you ask any man what he wants in a woman and he’ll say he wants a hot chick. Even some tub of lard with stains down the front of his T-shirt thinks he deserves a beautiful female on his arm. But for whatever reason, men get all upset when we women want something in exchange. They just don’t see their wants and our wants as comparable. They somehow believe it’s natural for a man to want an attractive mate, but it’s petty for a woman to want a confident and successful mate in return. How is it my fault that confidence and success are what I find attractive in a man and they usually come with a plump bank account? It’s like Marilyn Monroe said in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, “Don't you know that a man being rich is like a girl being pretty? You wouldn't marry a girl just because she's pretty, but doesn't it help?”
So, anyway, Trent has all the
trappings of what I’m looking for in a lifetime partner, and I’ve caught him checking out the goods and services I have available on more than one occasion. But I can’t make much progress with the Mouseketeer in on our private meeting.
Unfortunately, there’s no way to get rid of her, so I’ll just have to make the most of it.
Chapter 9
Kiki tries to pause in the doorway and strike a pose before entering Trent’s office, but I ruin that coy little maneuver by bumping into the back of her and making her take a few stumbling steps. She shoots me a death glare over her shoulder, and I toss her an innocent little shrug in return. If she’s going to stop abruptly, then she’s got to expect to possibly get rear ended.
We walk over to Trent’s desk and stand in front of him, almost as if for inspection. “Good morning, you,” Kiki purrs. She’s got her hip cocked and her hand on her waist, showing off her curves to advantage.
I stand next to her, my arms straight at my sides, feeling like a goon. “Good morning... Trent,” I mumble.
He spends several seconds looking at us, making me self-conscious to the extreme. Kiki, on the other hand, is totally at ease. She shifts her body position slightly, tilting her head and raising her shoulder as if she’s on a photo shoot for Vogue. “Please,” Trent finally says, gesturing toward the two small chairs in front of his desk, “have a seat.”
We both settle on the chairs. Kiki crosses her legs away from me, giving me as much of her back as possible without twisting in her seat. She is literally trying to shut me out through body language.
Trent leans forward, resting his forearms on his desk. He locks his deep blue eyes on to mine and says, “I called you here because I really want you.”
I know he can’t mean it the way he sounds, but that doesn’t stop me from blushing anyway. “You do?” I stammer.
“Yes,” he assures me, then turns his eyes to Kiki. “Both of you.”