by Nancy Warren
“I know, I was hoping I’d get time to do a couple more things today.”
“Do you want me—” Sonia started hopefully.
“No. I need to see him in person and get a feel for how Steve Jackson is going to be to work with. If he’s a prima donna type, I need to know it right away. Did you check that his suite’s ready? I don’t want to start out with any temper tantrums.” They grimaced at each other. They’d dealt with some colorful characters in their time.
“It’s ready,” Sonia assured her. “And I checked the flight; it’s on time.”
“Great. I’ll make it if I hurry. Knowing models, he’ll have so much baggage he’ll take an extra half-hour anyway.”
In one move she shoved her arms into her suit jacket and reached over to close the file on her computer screen. It wasn’t one of the most coordinated moves of her life—and since her life was fairly chock-full of uncoordinated moves, that was saying something. There was a small and insignificant sound of plastic hitting a solid surface, then Sonia’s cry of “watch out.” Startled by the cry, she glanced down and saw she’d knocked the Maalox bottle over and it was spilling thick, white, stomach-acid quelling, ulcer-coating gunk down her suit jacket, her skirt, and pooling in a globby puddle in her lap. Sonia righted the bottle, but the damage was already done.
“I guess I forgot to tighten the cap,” she said. “Stupid, stupid.” She rose, grabbing a tissue and dabbing at the gooey mess.
“You can’t go out looking like that. I’m not even going to tell you what that looks like.”
“I have to. No time to change.”
“Honey, no male model is going to be seen with you looking like somebody barfed their vanilla milkshake all over you.”
“I thought you weren’t going to tell me what that looks like,” Lise reminded her assistant.
Sonia sent her a knowing smirk. “I was being polite. What that really looks like is worse.”
Another glance down and she got the general idea. “Eeew, gross,” she cried and pulled out another wad of tissue, though what she thought it was going to do she had no idea.
Now she was leaving behind bits of tissue on her suit fabric along with the chalky white stuff. Sonia, meanwhile, reached for Lise’s phone and pushed a couple of buttons. “Eddie? Can you bring Lise’s car around to the front door in five minutes? I’ll leave the keys out on my desk for you.”
She snapped her fingers and Lise, realizing she was going to do whatever Sonia told her to because she was tired, her head ached, and she had officially lost it, obligingly scrabbled in her purse and passed them over.
“Now strip,” Sonia said.
“I’m meeting our model in my underwear?”
“We’re switching clothes,” Sonia said, wrinkling her nose. “And believe me, I am expecting a gigantic Christmas bonus.”
“I can’t—”
But there was no point continuing, since Sonia was already running out of her office, the keys jingling in her hand. Lise took one more look down at herself and slipped out of her jacket. When Sonia returned, she shut the door to Lise’s office and reached behind her for her zipper. Lise was already down to her underwear.
“The bra and camisole have to come off.”
One look at the strappy sundress and Lise could see the woman’s point. Okay, so her small breasts would be swimming in a too-large bodice. It was better, she supposed, than her own soiled suit.
“Come on. Off.”
It was only for an hour, Lise reminded herself. She had to chauffeur a guy who, for sure, was going to be a lot more interested in his own looks than hers. Wearing a wardrobe that was a little on the wild side and skimping on underwear was not going to ruin her life. But being late to pick up an international model, one whom Jennifer Talbot considered critical to the campaign she was running, could ruin her life. She yanked off her camisole, unsnapped her bra, and, as the much less modest Sonia, wearing nothing but a thong that looked anorexic even for a thong, wafted the bright colored dress over her head, she pulled the bra off.
“You’re bigger than I am,” she complained as the straps settled on her shoulders, leaving her modest cleavage immodestly on display.
“Attitude, babe. Stick your chest out and no one will notice.”
She tried sticking her chest out and the dress did sit a little better, though she still felt like a little girl playing dress-up in her big sister’s gown. Still more naked than not, Sonia bent and pulled off one of her high heels.
“And here, take the shoes.”
“My shoes are fine.”
“Fine to be buried in. You are not wearing those shoes with my dress.”
Feeling as though a clock were embedded in her esophagus, ticking away the seconds, she kicked off her shoes and stepped into the orange strappy things Sonia passed her. They were slingback and didn’t fit too badly if she didn’t actually try to walk.
“Great, thanks.” She wobbled for the door, only to feel her hair practically dragged out of her scalp.
“Ow. What are you doing?”
“Brushing.”
“Gotta go.”
“Lipstick,” Sonia begged.
“No time.” But even as she closed her lips on “time,” a gold cylinder was aimed at her lips and—swipe-swipe—she was lipsticked. She really hoped it wasn’t the same shade as the shoes.
“Now, go,” Sonia said, giving her a sharp pat on the behind.
Lise was not a woman who got swats on the butt, but somehow, she felt a woman in a dress like this was going to be vulnerable to butt-swatting. She’d have to be vigilant. Although, she suspected her chances of breaking her leg—or neck—in the shoes was going to be a greater danger than itinerant airport gangs of bottom-slappers.
“Don’t forget the sign,” Sonia reminded her.
Lise nodded. As she passed Sonia’s desk she picked up the placard with STEVE JACKSON emblazoned on it, then slapped her prescription sunglasses on her face and rushed out into the sunshine. By the time she made it to the arrivals lounge, out of breath and with cramped Achilles tendons from running in those stupid, damn, ice-pick heeled shoes, the flight, of course, had hit some kind of delay.
She sat down to wait. Not a problem, she told herself. She’d practice those relaxation exercises her doctor had given her. Except she’d never felt less relaxed. The air conditioning was goosebumping bits of her that weren’t normally exposed, and her mind began cataloging everything she had to do. Somehow, this was all Mr. Too Handsome’s fault.
Try these other titles by Nancy Warren
You might like to try some more fun, sexy stories by Nancy:
Take a Chance Series:
Kiss a Girl in the Rain, Take a Chance Book 1
Iris in Bloom, Take a Chance, Book 2
Chance Encounter, a Prequel to the Take a Chance series
The Changing Gears series:
Fast Ride
Wild Ride
Crazy Ride
Rich Bitch, Everything’s Going to the Dogs
The Christmas Grandma Ran Away from Home
Steamy Southern Nights
Let it Snow
Unwrapping Santa
The 12 Dates of Christmas
Border Collie Christmas
The Toni Diamond Mysteries Series:
Frosted Shadow
Ultimate Concealer
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Here's a Sample of Kiss a Girl in the Rain, Take a Chance, Book 1
When Evan Chance read the bucket list he’d penned when he was twelve years old, he caught a glimpse of the man he‘d wanted to be when he grew up. Now, at nearly thirty-five, he knew he was not that man.
Lists were important to Evan. He had master lists of ten-year, five-year and one-year goals, broken down all the way to daily task lists. He kept a catalogue of people he hoped
to meet, all corporate movers and shakers or folks who could advance his career. Ruthlessly organized and efficient, he was a top corporate lawyer at a premier firm in Seattle. Seeing his pre-teen scrawl should have made him smile at his young self. Instead, somehow that naive list of unaccomplished dreams pulled at him.
His mom never should have sent him his list of dreamy-eyed ideals along with the birthday card she’d hand made with pressed flowers and a reminder to come home for the weekend to celebrate his milestone birthday.
Thirty-five.
Evan strode across the marble lobby leading to his law firm’s offices like a man in a hurry. In fact, he had ten minutes to spare before his next client meeting. A lot of people might use those minutes to grab a coffee, chat with a colleague or relax. Evan used his elevator ride to read a priority email; the time spent walking from the elevator to his office to consider his client’s question. By the time he hit his office, he was task-ready and sat down at his computer to email back his advice.
Even as he worked, in the back of his mind he realized that his big birthday was almost here and he wasn’t anywhere near where he’d planned to be when he was a pre-teen. Okay, he was a millionaire, but that was exactly the sort of lame goal a twelve-year-old would consider important.
But lists were important to Evan. And the fact that his mother, Daphne, had sent him that old one, as though it were a thing to be prized, bothered him.
Not that a hint of his thoughts showed on his face when he walked into The Rainier Room, one of the smaller meeting rooms. Half a dozen worried-looking executives were settling themselves around a mahogany conference table while Martha, Evan’s assistant, poured coffees and sparkling waters. Evan introduced himself and shook hands all around.
These five men and one woman were here seeking legal ways to raid their company’s pension plan. He had utter contempt for the naked greed of the president and vice presidents sitting in front of him in their hand-made suits and year round suntans hoping they could bail their asses out of the financial jam their fat paychecks and ludicrous bonuses had got them into. However, nothing on his face would give away his personal feelings. He was too good for that.
When the meeting ended, it was six o’clock. He returned to his office, typed up his own notes, then he stared out his office window at the other lighted high rises in Seattle’s financial district where he lived most of his life. In the distance he could see the harbor that led to the rest of the world. He pulled out the list. It was a bucket list made before that term even existed.
EVAN’S AMAZING LIFE LIST
Make a million dollars before age 30.
Ride a motorcycle across the country
Kiss a girl in the rain
Run a marathon
Learn Spanish
Have sex with a woman!
Learn to play an instrument
Travel to India
Fly a plane
Scuba dive a ship wreck
Swim in every ocean
Swim with dolphins
Hike the Grand Canyon
Leave the world a better place than I found it
As if.
He picked up his phone and called his parents’ number. His mother answered. “Well, hello darling,” she cried when he’d identified himself. He’d learned early that when there are eleven kids in the family, you have to identify yourself on the phone or risk insane time-wasting conversations. In the background he could hear rhythmic thudding that made his heart pretty much sink. “What’s that noise, Mom?”
“Your father’s remodeling the kitchen.”
“Again?”
“Well, we had a little problem with termites from the last renovation.”
As usual, he was filled with affection and irritation in equal measure. How many times when he was growing up had they been without the most basic necessities, like running water, because their dad was ‘renovating’. Which pretty much meant grabbing a sledgehammer and bashing down walls or cabinets or bathroom fixtures. Then standing in the midst of dust and destruction trying to figure out what to do next. Jack Chance was a man of strange visions and few handy man skills. But that never stopped him.
“Please tell me there will be a working kitchen this weekend?”
“Of course there will.”
An almighty crash sounded from the other end of the phone.
“Mom?” He wondered if he should call 9-1-1.
“It’s nothing, Evan. I guess that cabinet wasn’t attached to the wall after all. Don’t worry, the kitchen will be back together when you come for your birthday weekend.”
“I’m bringing Tessa with me,” he said.
“Great. We finally get to meet her.” Then she squeaked. “No. Jack. The electric – oh, dear. Evan, I’ve got to go.”
“Wait. Why did you send me that stupid list of kid dreams?”
“Because you should do some of those things,” she said. “Love you. See you Friday.” And then she was gone. He suspected his birthday dinner would be raw food. Eaten by candlelight.
Because you should do some of those things…
For one second he felt the pull of temptation. Then his mind presented him with a mental view of his schedule, crammed for the next six months. He was a top producer for his firm, clients relied on him. He couldn’t go running off because of a collection of dreams he had when he was a boy.
He folded the list once, neatly so the edges all matched and put a clean fold down the middle. Then, precisely, he turned it again and folded the paper once more. He slipped the paper into his wallet. He had no idea why.
His door opened after the briefest of knocks. He glanced up, not surprised to find Tessa walk in. His secretary only let two people past her desk without alerting him first. Tessa was one of them.
“How did it go?” she asked coming toward him.
He made a face. “I’ve never shared a room with so much naked greed before. You could smell it, like B.O.”
Tessa was one of the newer partners in the law firm of Willoughby, Tyson and Grundemeyer and his girlfriend. She settled her hip on the edge of his desk, something she’d never do if his door wasn’t closed, giving him a nice view of her excellent legs.
“And you’ll help them get what they want. Because you are that good.”
“Probably. And screw the employees who’ve worked their asses off and paid into the pension fund all these years believing they’d be rewarded at the end.”
Tessa reached out and straightened the collar on his shirt. “We don’t make the law, Evan. We work within it.”
“Manipulate it.”
For a moment she looked surprised by his sarcasm. Then she smiled. “You must be tired. You’re in a mood.”
He gripped her hand. “Sorry. Are you sure you’re up to this weekend?”
“Of course. I’m so looking forward to meeting your family at last.”
“I know they feel the same.”
He was the one with reservations. Nothing could prepare a sophisticated woman, an only child, who’d grown up in Manhattan’s Upper West Side for a family dinner chez Chance. His parents were old hippies who lived in an old house in the Oregon countryside that they’d added onto, ineptly, as their family grew. And grew.
He was about to try and prepare Tessa for the weekend ahead when another brief knock sounded.
Tessa was off his desk and standing when the firm’s managing partner Clayton Willoughby walked in. Clay was the other person who never had to be announced before he entered Evan’s office.
“Ah, Tessa, how nice to see you. I was going to invite our boy here for an early birthday drink. You’re most welcome to join us.”
Evan knew that Tessa would sacrifice a chunk of her trust fund to share a chummy drink with Clayton Willoughby. But she was much too adept to take him up on an offer he’d clearly made out of politeness.
“Thank you so much,” she said, showing her even white teeth, “but I’ve got some work to finish up.”
“Next time
,” Clay said.
“Of course.”
She didn’t linger and within minutes Evan and Clay walked over to Clayton’s club and found a quiet corner where a couple of maroon leather club chairs huddled in the lounge. The Port Club had served the affluent and influential gentlemen of Seattle for a hundred years. Recently, they’d had to allow women to join, but the club was the epicenter of the old boys’ network. The lounge they sat in still allowed smoking.
A waiter wearing black tails arrived with the single malt scotch Clayton favored without being asked. As Clay took out one of the cigars his doctor had forbidden, he said, “This scotch is almost as old as you are. Happy birthday, Evan.”
“Thank you.”
They sipped and savored. “Big plans for the weekend?”
“I’m going home to visit family.”
Clayton puffed his cheeks out as he got his hand-rolled Cuban going.
“Take a look at what my mother sent me.” Evan pulled out his wallet and removed the list he’d drawn up, knowing Clay would get a kick out of it. If Jack Chance was Evan’s biological father, Clayton Willoughby was his father in all things business and law. He liked to say that in Evan he saw a younger version of himself. Of course, the man was heavily overweight from all the years of working, the business lunches, and the fine wines and brandies he so enjoyed. He called the current and much younger Mrs. Willoughby, “My third and final wife,” though Evan wouldn’t bet next year’s bonus on the marriage lasting.
“I wrote it when I was twelve,” he said offering the lined school book paper with the scrawled items.
Clay took the list, perused it and grinned. “You had no idea what you were capable of,” he said handing it back.
“But I haven’t done most of those things.”
“Of course you haven’t. Any fool can learn to play the ukulele or swim around with dolphins, but you’re a partner in one of the most prestigious law firms in the country. You know we’re grooming you for great things.” He didn’t say that he hoped Evan would one day stand in his shoes as the managing partner of the firm, but it was understood.