by Teddy Hester
“Second time?”
“Never mind. So, are we dating?”
“Oh, my God!” Her eyes roll up in her head, and she throws her arms out in supplication. One falls across my lap to land on my thigh. “Is that your idea of a romantic invitation? Has no one ever taught you about hearts and flowers?”
“I have a brother who likes poetry.” I raise that hand from my thigh to my lips.
“Take lessons and get back to me. No, don’t. I don’t really care about poetry. So, okay, yes, we’re dating. Are we exclusive?”
“Yes.” I nibble her knuckles.
“So, no more Jade?”
I stop kissing her hand to ponder. “When you get rid of Ratty.”
“Roddy.”
“Ronny.”
She slaps her forehead. “Dammit. Now you’ve got me doing it. Rodney!”
My chuckle is deep and filled with satisfaction. “Gone?”
“Yep, bossy.”
“Now that we’re dating, does that mean you do as I say?”
She scoffs. “Am I adding ‘insane’ to your list of foibles?”
“Time to take you home.”
“What the—”
I stand and pull her up beside me. “My girl wants hearts and flowers. That means our first night in bed together isn’t gonna be after negotiated clubbing. Where’s the romance in that?” I tease.
“But I like clubbing.”
“But I don’t. You’re in a relationship now. It’s not about you or me or what we want individually, unless it’s good for the relationship.”
“Are you serious?” She’s practically wailing.
I give her lips a quick kiss. “Always, little hummingbird.”
The covers are too heavy, so I kick them to the foot of my bed.
I’m in a relationship. How the hell did that happen? One minute we were sassing back and forth, and the next I was agreeing to date Tony DePaul exclusively.
Am I okay with this?
Right now it sounds okay. But who knows? I've never had an adult romantic relationship. A high school sweetheart, a college beau, nothing too long-term.
No. On second thought, this is a huge mistake.
Well, nobody said this needs to be permanent, either. If he gets too overbearing—like when he said, “Does this mean you have to do what I say?”—then I’ll dump his bossy ass.
Yeah. That’s all I have to do.
It’s winter, for Christ’s sake. Where are my blankets?
But, wait. What would dumping Tony do to the Regal project? Not to mention my silk boxers campaign?
What the fuck was I thinking?
Savvy businesswoman, my ass. I’m obviously hormonal.
Juliette’s not going to be happy because of the possible impact on the project. But she’ll be unhappier if she doesn’t hear it first from me.
I flop over on my belly and pull the covers over my head. My brain needs to stop buzzing so I can get some sleep. This is ridiculous.
Oh, hell, I might as well get some work done.
I flip back the covers, slide my feet into my canary-yellow, Tweety-bird houseshoes, and pull on a purple sweatshirt over my flannel pjs. The shoes make scuffing sounds as I schlep my way to the kitchen to make some herbal tea. Maybe not as effective as warm milk, but a lot tastier than cow juice.
Nothing’s working. Reading my accounts-receivable and accounts-payable reports make my eyes cross, but they don’t lull me to sleep. An old movie runs on cable and neither sucks me in nor induces coma.
My phone rings. Who’s calling me after midnight? Something’s happened to Janelle or Juliette. I lope back to my bedroom and grab the phone.
“Tony?”
“Yeah. Am I waking you up?” His voice is gravely. Dark and rough. He has my full attention.
“No. Something wrong?”
“Not here at the beach. Can you hear it?”
I strain my ears, and sure enough, the surf comes through. “Where are you?”
“Out on the deck, all wrapped up in sweats and blankets.”
“Must be nice.”
“I’ll share. Bring your laptop to bed and Skype me. I’ll hold on here.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
How weird is this? I get my iPad and go through the steps of connecting with his account. His face pops up on the screen. He really is bundled up, lying on a reclining lawn chair, his computer on his lap and phone to his ear.
“Okay, I’m here.”
He shuts off his phone. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”
“How’d you know?”
“You were pretty keyed up when I dropped you off. Want me to help?”
“You deliver the big O via Skype, Obi-Wan?”
His chuckle is gravely, too. I love the way it rolls down my spine, whisking away muscle tension. “Put your computer on your bedside table where you can hear me and I can see you. Then take off that cute sweatshirt and tuck yourself in bed.”
“My, aren’t we bossy.”
“It’ll be worth it if you fall asleep.”
That’s for sure. This tossing and turning is for the birds. Hummingbirds, to be exact. So I follow his instructions. “Okay.”
“Can you hear the ocean?”
I hold my breath and listen hard. “Barely.”
“Perfect,” he whispers. “I want you to close your eyes and listen for the sounds of the surf coming into shore. In… In… In… four… five… six…”
He continues to ten, then repeats from one, following the crescendo of the tide rolling in. His voice coming from the side is like there’s an angel lying next to me.
Inevitably, my mind wanders, and my body starts its twitching again.
“Gently bring your mind back to the surf. Back to me. One… two…”
I love having his voice in my ear. It’s better than clubbing. Everything melting away…Eight… nine… ten… one… two… three…
“Sweet dreams, Clementine,” is the last thing I remember.
*****
Mmm, it’s so cozy. I don’t want to wake up yet. I had such a good dream. Tony was here. Counting. Calling me by the name my daddy gave me. I haven’t felt that safe and loved since Dad died.
I roll to my side and stretch luxuriously, like a piece of warm, salt-water taffy. I slept so well.
Skype’s still on the iPad, but the screen’s not in video mode. However, at the bottom is a message from Tony.
You snore, pretty lady.
CHAPTER 8
Today’s offering is a pair of pillows on my leather sofa. One pillow’s the color of orange sherbet, the other, raspberry. The woman’s a marvel. How’d she get those so fast? It’s only been four days since our talk after clubbing.
Juliette carries a third pillow to the conference table where Tom and Eldon already sit. She stuffs it behind her on the chair. Since she’s petite and her legs are short, she has to perch on the front edge, which must be uncomfortable for her back. It’s something I’ve never considered, but which I imagine some of my clientele will find helpful.
“I just love this periwinkle,” she says to Cleo, adjusting the position of the pillow for more comfort. “I may try to sell my next bride on the color. This purplish blue would coordinate with lots of flowers.”
Cleo pours herself some coffee and adds a splash of cream. “It’s a wonderful, subtle accent color.”
Sensing a conversation which could go on forever between the two artistic women, I get down to business. “This emergency meeting has been called to inform you of new developments with the Regal.” My call-to-order complete, I turn proceedings over to Tom.
Poor guy. College professors aren’t geared toward this kind of pressure. The bags under his eyes look like valances, fold upon fold, and I don’t like the sallowness of his complexion. I’m sure he hasn’t slept well since the project began. When I ran into his wife, Sally, at the grocery store over the weekend, she expressed her concern for his health.
He smooth
s a stack of papers on the table in front of him. “Good news first. Structural stability has been restored, thanks to Eldon and his crew working practically non-stop ever since the money from the Historical Preservation Society came through. Very good job, Eldon.”
The contractor, his yellow helmet sitting on the corner of the table, nods as congratulations and thanks ripple through the group. But, knowing bad news is coming, the kudos are subdued.
“The next job to tackle is the electrical system. We’ve always known it wouldn’t pass today’s code, so that’s not a surprise. The problem is, the city has put a timeframe on it. We have one month.”
The pen Cleo’s been treating like it’s a twirler’s baton between her nimble fingers clatters to the table. “Impossible. You can’t meet that deadline, can you?”
Eldon clears his throat. “Anything’s possible, with enough workers and supplies.”
“And there’s the rub,” Tom says. “The Historical Society’s money won’t stretch that far. We always knew it. We just didn’t think we’d be pushed to come up with more so soon.”
“How much will it take to finish the electrical?” Cleo asks.
“Two million.”
Juliette sits quietly, typing on her smart phone. “What happens if we miss the city’s deadline?”
I glance at Tom, who stares at Juliette. He’s apparently unable to say the words. I open my mouth, but Eldon beats me to it. “The property’s condemned and scheduled for demolition.”
The silence, as they say, is deafening.
“So we need to hold the first fund-raiser immediately,” Juliette says.
Tom nods. “That’s the size of it. We’ll run out of money about a week before the electrical is done.”
Cleo turns stormy blue eyes to me. “Is there anything in your bags of tricks, money-man?”
“We’re exploring possibilities.”
“Care to enlighten us?”
One involves Tom’s personal finances, to which I’m opposed and have no intention of divulging. Another is to sell the property to a developer. I believe that’s the most expedient and financially responsible option, but Tom’s understandably against it, and I don’t think it would be my hummingbird’s first choice, either. In the meantime, her tail’s twitching, waiting for my answer to her question. “Not at this time.”
“Well,” Juliette says, “we have the first fund-raiser planned. It’s ready to execute. But it will take money, too. If we’re able to use the theater’s lobby, we can keep costs at about thirty-five thousand. Fifty for open bar. The biggest hurdle would be getting the right guests notified quickly enough that their social calendars aren’t already booked. We can schedule it for a week night, which may help. I’ve drawn up a list. Let me finalize it, and we’ll be ready to send out the invitations.”
“Which segues to me,” Cleo says, with a quick smile to her friend. “Since this is an affair with a targeted audience, the cost of advertising will be negligible. Juliette’s planning for a thousand guests, so ten thousand dollars will cover the series of reminders that will be sent out between now and the night of the event. My in-house tech has already built a website for capturing RSVPs and fielding inquiries. The biggest expense by far is the virtual tour presentation. It’s going to cost seventy-five thousand.”
“Who’s the videographer for the virtual tour?”
“Rennie Olson.”
Good man. And a client. I’ll take him to lunch and see if he’s in a mood to be generous. “So, as it stands, the event will cost one hundred-twenty thousand dollars. Tom, Eldon, what does that do to your construction budget?”
“Negligible impact,” Eldon says.
Tom nods. “It needs to be done, so let’s do it. Gotta spend money to make money, right?”
Cleo sits back in her chair and flashes a triumphant smile. “That’s always been my philosophy.”
I dip my head toward her, acknowledging the zinger. “We need each guest to donate twenty-five hundred to cover those costs and raise the two million Eldon has to have.”
“I’m confident we’ll get that,” Juliette says. “We can count on about sixty percent of the guests to contribute. Historically, about twenty percent of those will contribute heavily enough to compensate for the others.”
I’m impressed with how well the team is pulling through for Tom. He looks like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.
“Ben Stanford from my accounting department is going to handle cashflow. Submit your receipts to him for reimbursement of your expenses.”
“So, what date is our party?” Tom asks, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
*****
“Some boyfriend you are. This is the first I’ve seen of you since clubbing.”
My office is finally empty, and my arms are full of Cleo, my lips tingling from our first kiss in four days. “I’m a terrific boyfriend. You’ve seen me every night.”
One of her fingers traces the rim of my ear. “Skype is not the same as seeing you in person.”
“Agreed.” I take her lips again in a long, probing kiss. My hand slides down to cup her rear and pull her into full-body contact so she can feel the effect she’s having on me. She moans into my mouth and grinds against my cock. It wouldn’t take much for me to bend her over the arm of the sofa, stuff one of those decorative pillows under her hips to cushion her belly, and ram that swollen appendage into her from behind. Judging from her gyrations against me right now, she wants that, too.
I break off the kiss and hold her hips still with my hand splayed across her backside.
“Noooo,” she wails.
“Patience, my energetic little hummingbird.”
“Shut up.”
“Good things come to those who wait.”
“Yeah. The operative word being ‘comes’,” she grumbles.
“Dinner, Friday night.”
She looks horror-stricken. “My clubbing night?”
We rub noses when I shake my head. “Nope. Our date night.”
“Mmm,” she purrs. “Date night. I like the sound of that. Maybe you’re not such a bad boyfriend after all.”
“Will you still say that when I kick you out of here?”
“I thought I’d talk you into taking me to lunch.”
I give her a peck on the cheek and begin walking us to the door. “There’s nothing I’d like more. But I have two meetings, back-to-back over lunch.”
“Two lunches?”
“What can I say? The financial world is hell on a guy’s figure.”
*****
I stand to shake hands with my first appointment and signal to the bartender. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me here, Nick.”
“Sure. Thanks for taking the meeting.”
The bartender takes our drink orders, pours two tumblers of Glenlivet, then makes himself scarce.
Nick Elliott is one of the biggest real estate developers in the state. The man may have salt and pepper in his hair, but he’s kept himself strong and fit. Reminds me of my dad in that way.
He also has apartment complexes, professional buildings, and commercial holdings in every major city, and he owns a big chunk of the oceanfront land still available, parceling tiny bits of it for sale every few years. Fortunately, one of his parcels came available when I was ready to build my house, which is how we first met. He’s not one of my clients, but I’d sure like him to be. His account would be big enough that I’d have to hire another floor of employees to handle the load.
“To come to the point,” he says, “I’m interested in making an offer for the Regal Theater.”
“You’ve talked to the owner?”
“Yes. And he wasn’t interested at that time in selling.”
“But…?”
“But I understand things are changing. Conditions are arising which might make him more interested in my offer.” He takes a sip of his drink, watching me over its rim.
The man must have an army of spies with their ears to the ground,
primed to pick up on deals to bring back to him. “Why come to me?”
“You handle his finances.”
“You know this, how?”
He waves a hand. “Immaterial. Use your influence with Tom. I’ll make it worthwhile for both of you.”
The bartender passes by, glancing at the condition of our glasses on his way. “What is your offer?”
“I’ve run the comps and seen the inspectors’ and engineers’ reports. They don’t look good for Tom. But the land’s worth something to me. My offer starts at three million.”
Downtown property is expensive in our ocean city, but I’ve run the comps, too, and know he must be considering something big if he’s willing to pay three million for Tom’s land. The Regal and its parking lot take up a couple of acres. That would make a good spot for a hotel or a luxury apartment high-rise. “Make it five, and I’ll talk to Tom about it.”
His mouth curves in a slow smile. He swallows the last of his Scotch and sets down the glass. “It’s five.”
*****
Well, that was an interesting meeting. At three million, Tom would probably stick to the current plan. But five million? He and Sally would have a lot to discuss. With the investment portfolio I’d create for them, they and their kids would be set for life.
Yes, a very interesting meeting. I doubt this next one will be as pleasant.
After Nick left, I moved from the bar to the restaurant and checked in for my reservation. The hostess took me to my table, and now I’m just waiting, sipping on the glass of Scotch I didn’t drink with Nick.
Eleanor, stunning in an creamy-colored outfit Cleo would probably call beige, enters and smiles when she sees me. I rise, waiting for her to join me. We kiss on the lips, quick and friendly, appropriate to the surroundings. I help remove her coat and pull out her chair before sitting back down.
“Have you been here long?” she asks, eyeing my Scotch and the glass of rosé she prefers.
“No, not at all.”
Our waitress appears with menus. We often have lunch here, so we order without looking. It dawns on me how much history we do have together. I have no idea what Cleo eats for lunch. She had vodka when we went clubbing, but is that what she’d want with lunch? I look forward to discovering all these secret unknowns.