Just Breathe Trilogy Box Set

by Martha Sweeney

  “Spill it,” I command.

  “Even if I know something, I wouldn’t tell.”

  “Why not?”

  Maybe I can persuade him.

  “Why do you need to know so badly?”

  “Because I don’t like surprises.”

  I’ve never liked surprises.

  “I am a man of my word,” he goads.

  “What do you want?”

  Let’s see what the bargaining options are with him.

  “You sound a little desperate,” he alleges. “Maybe I could be persuaded for a fee.”

  “Like I said, What do you want?”

  The fish has definitely taken the bait.

  “How desperate are you?”

  “Depends,” I begin. “What do you think is an equal exchange?”

  “Hmmm . . .” he ponders.

  I know he’s deliberately stalling.

  “A date.”

  “No.”

  He knows I don’t date.

  “It’s just one date.”

  “I don’t date and you know it,” I softly contend.

  “There’s a difference between dating and a date,” he points out.

  “I know the difference.”

  “Good. Then it’ll be easy for you. You. Me. Dinner. Tonight,” he directs.

  “This is not a fair exchange and you know it.”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. But you’ll have what you want. Even if it’s just part of the picture. I know you want it,” he coaxes.

  “What’s expected on the date?”

  I should at least know all of the terms.

  He pauses, probably for some kind of dramatic effect. “Like I said, You. Me. Dinner. Tonight.”

  “Anything else?” I check.

  A wickedly, erotic tone that I’ve never heard before from Joe is let out with his next statement. “What did you have in mind?”

  My throat dries and my thighs moisten at his voice. “Nothing. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

  If he thinks this is an opportunity to making out or have sex, he’s wrong. This date shouldn’t be an issue. We’ve had meals before together, some of which he paid for and some of which I have. So what’s the whole thing with calling it a date?

  After mulling it over, I agree, “Fine. What time do you want to meet and where?”

  “I’ll pick you up at your place at six,” he instructs.

  “No.”

  “Yes,” he insists. “If you want to find anything out, you won’t argue with me. Besides, it’s customary to pick the woman up at her place.”

  “Fine,” I whine.

  “Make sure you wear a dress.”

  “What? Why do I need to wear a dress?”

  “Do you want the information or not?”

  “Okay. I’ll wear a dress.”

  “See you in a few hours, beautiful,” he hums.

  I don’t answer and just hang up the phone.

  What have I gotten myself into? The thought that no good will come of this is creeping into the pit of my stomach. Crap.

  An hour before my meeting with Joe, Sadie is already fed and walked and I’m standing in my walk-in closet trying to decide on what to wear. What kind of dress? Causal? Dressy? Ten minutes of staring into my closet produces only more anxiety on the subject of proper attire.

  Maybe I should just cancel. I don’t really need to know that badly. Do I? Yes I do. I like control — I need control.

  Not wanting to waste anymore time, I jump in the shower. I wash my hair and body and shave. Why did I just shave? I don’t plan on having sex. There will be no sex happening tonight, but I do decide to pleasure myself to reduce my edginess.

  I choose what to wear while putting on my makeup; something cute and comfortable. With my hair almost dry, I put on a smoked pearl colored cocktail dress that is embellished with metallic lace, has one inch straps that contour into a deep v-neck just between my breasts that hugs my upper body and loosens slightly two inches above my knees. I adorn my neck with my happiness necklace from Energy Muse that is made of a thirty inch, solid gold chain with a pendant consisting of quartz crystal, kyanite and moonstone. After giving my hair one final toss and brush, I put on solid gold earrings. To finish my outfit, I put on my light bronze, four inch strappy Jimmy Choo heels.

  Just as my second shoe slips on, I get a text from Joe letting me know that he has arrived. Like clockwork, Joe is early, fifteen minutes early to be exact. Grabbing my clutch, I kiss Sadie goodnight.

  Rounding the corner of the internal gate to my apartment complex, I find Joe waiting, wearing a medium grey colored suit with a crisp white dress shirt underneath that has the two top buttons undone. Joe is a man that can make any suit look good — actually, he can make any outfit look good. I feel a spark of heat and moisture between my thighs at the sight of him.

  “Wow! Hello, beautiful,” he greets along with his typical lean in hug and kiss on the cheek. For some reason, he lingers close, longer than usual.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I downplay his response and try to gain control over my raging hormones.

  Joe offers me his arm as he leads me to his car waiting at the curb. A driver standing by a luxurious, black Rolls Royce Phantom opens the back right door for us both. Joe ushers me in and follows just shortly after.

  I’ve never seen Joe drive, let alone be driven, in a Rolls Royce. I didn’t know he had one. The thought that he might have rented it for the night comes to mind. Would he? I know he could. But, why?

  “Where are we going to eat?” I search, wanting to keep my self focused on my mission.

  “You’ll see,” Joe replies with a wicked grin. Knowing my car challenge, he instinctually takes my hand just before the car carries us off into the setting sun. “How’s business going this week?”

  “Good, thanks. You?”

  “Great. Thanks.” He adds, “The suggestion you made was received well by the board. They’re starting to understand the requirement to shift more toward technology for many aspects of the industry as well as the economic need for a more ecological approach.”

  “Terrific!” I praise. “Did you mention the carbon footprint reduction concept as well?”

  Joe is a very smart businessman, I can tell he’s learned a lot from school as well as from his father. However, I’ve noticed with some of our conversations that he has a tendency to second guess himself.

  “They loved it. We’ll be taking action steps at the begin of the next quarter,” he confesses. “My father wants to meet you, by the way.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “He wants to meet the mind behind my brilliant consultant,” he compliments. “That and I think he’s considering on hiring you for specific consulting work.”

  “It’s all you, Joe,” I humbly contend. “I have nothing to do with it.”

  “You have more to do with it than you think,” he replies honestly. “We make a great team.”

  “It has nothing to do with me. You are trusting your instincts and that’s what gets it done,” I argue.

  Joe takes his free hand and tenderly caresses the back of my hand he is now holding on his lap. I feel nervous about the proximity of my hand to his groin, but his left hand is resting on his leg, just under my hand, which helps slightly.

  “Have you seen the LA Philharmonic play?” he searches.

  “A few times at the Walt Disney Concert Hall and Hollywood Bowl. They’re phenomenal. Why?”

  “Which place is better to see them?”

  “Either. It just depends on the concert and the atmosphere you want. Why?”

  “If I get tickets, will you go with me?”

  We’ve done a few activities together, but the way he’s asking is a little peculiar.

  “Why don’t I get the tickets?” I offer.

  “You pick which venue you want to buy the tickets for and it’s a deal.”

  I take the highroad not to battle this one, so I suggest, “I’ll take the Hollywood Bowl. There are a lot of op
tions other than just the LA Philharmonic that I think you’d enjoy.”

  Joe smiles with ease and I actually see his body relax more into the seat. “Great. Choose any event for yours. Surprise me.”

  “You sure?” I tease.

  “Yep. I know we’ve have similar tastes based on your playlist.” Joe’s playful grin returns.

  He clearly wants me to remember our last time at Nathan’s.

  When Joe helps me out of the car, I’m tremendously pleased with my attire selection for our — night out. However, I’m a little perturbed by his choice. We are dining at one of Beverly Hills’ top restaurants, the Spago; one of Wolfgang Puck’s locations. A wonderful, delectable choice, but a bit higher in price for a date compared to where we normally eat. The place is busy, but Joe and I are seated immediately which leads me to believe that Joe called for reservations.

  Arriving at our table, Joe pulls out a chair and gestures for me to sit. As I lower down, he slides the chair under me. Joe takes his seat with calm confidence, not noticing the hostess who is practically drooling over him.

  Joe looks to me and asks, “Have you eaten here before?”

  “Once or twice,” I comment, not revealing the truth as I study him, noting that his eyes never veer from me.

  The waiter greets us with a bottle of wine in hand, which from my angle it’s Dom Perignon. When the waiter offers, Joe takes a look at the bottle and nods. Next, the waiter pops the cork and fills both of our glasses. “I’ll let Chef Andrews know you are here Mr. Covelli,” the waiter confirms.

  “What was that?” I question after the waiter leaves.

  “What?”

  “The bottle of Dom Perignon that we didn’t order and then the whole I’ll let Chef Andrews know you’re here Mr. Covelli statement,” I reply with a hushed, sarcastic voice. “And, where are the menus?”

  Grinning, Joe answers, “I ordered the bottle of wine in advance. Chef Andrews knows my family and we don’t need menus since we’re having whatever the chef decides to prepare for us.”

  “He’s deciding?” I press.

  I’m not sure if I like this whole ordering my wine and food for me deal for a date.

  “We have the same tastes. I told him what we do and don’t like.”

  “How do you know my tastes?” I playfully contend.

  “How many meals have we had together over the past two and a half months?”

  He’s right. If anyone was paying attention to what I ate and what I’ve talked about, my tastes would be easily identifiable. Has Joe really taken notes? If so, why? This is weirding me out a little.

  Joe holds up his glass of wine and toasts, “To trusting and trying new things and being surprised.”

  I clink my glass with his, but I’m not in full agreement to his toast. To me, there are too many underlining messages he has buried in that statement.

  Right as I’m about to begin my interrogation about Henry and the whole Hawaii trip, Chef Andrews himself is standing at our table. Joe immediately stands up to greet him. They hug and exchange pleasantries freely, proving that Joe was telling the truth and that he actually does know the chef.

  “And who is this exquisitely stunning creature?” flatters Chef Andrews, delicately holding my hand and kissing it. He refrains from letting go for a few extra seconds.

  “This is Emma Peterson,” Joe replies.

  How does he know my full name? I’ve never told him and for both of my businesses, my full name is not listed anywhere on the internet. In fact, my businesses and my name are not public record.

  “Since when have you had a girlfriend?”

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” I immediately rebut.

  “And, she’s feisty too! I like her already. I see why you’re with her,” Chef Andrews adds.

  “She is most certainly feisty, but unfortunately we are not dating,” Joe comments with a hint of rosiness developing on his face. “But, we are on a date.”

  “One step closer to marriage,” Chef Andrews announces.

  “No,” I contend. “I don’t date and I especially don’t plan to ever get married.”

  “Then why are you out on a date with him?”

  “To extort information from him,” I explain.

  “If you hadn’t seen her first, I would be chasing this one for myself. You are a lucky man, Joe,” Chef Andrews admits. “Is she like this all the time?”

  I instantly blush at his compliment.

  “Yes,” Joe confirms.

  The heat in my face increases.

  “I’m working on it being more than just extortion,” Joe states.

  What did Joe just say? Did he just admit that he wants more from this date than what I had intended or agreed upon? Crap. Why does he feel so comfortable being this bold — this forward? What gave him the impression that there would even be a chance for anything to happen between us? I told him nothing would at Nathan’s and it’s like he never even heard me.

  Aware of his time, Chef Andrews redirects our conversation. “Have you ever dined here before Ms. Emma?” He takes my hand again.

  “Once,” I confirm the truth.

  He kisses the back of my hand while eyeing Joe. “Well, I’ll be sure not to disappoint!” He bows to Joe before returning to the kitchen and Joe ushers my chair in again as I sit down.

  I sip on my wine a few times before I’m fully refocused back on my task at hand. “So what do you know about Hawaii?”

  “Going right for the kill, huh?” Joe laughs at my blatant directness.

  “It’s why I’m here,” I reply fully composed.

  “How about I’ll answer whatever you want to know when dessert is served?”

  “Whatever I want to know?”

  “Yes, whatever you want,” he agrees.

  During our first three courses, caviar, followed by stir-fried eggplant with Chinese black bean glaze and rice puff, and then a vegetable cos cos with Padron peppers, asparagus and light tomato broth, Joe and I comment loosely about the food and other general topics when he evades some of my indirect questioning that pertains to Henry and Hawaii. He doesn’t comment that he notices, however, he just brings up another topic instead.

  “I had an idea about how you can easily increase your profits for Raven Media without having to take on new clients or too many new staff members,” Joe mentions.

  I’m not surprised that our conversation is venturing back to business; it’s typical for us.

  “How?” I ask, full of intrigue.

  “You said you created the entire software system yourself, right? From the ground up?” he searches.

  “Yes, why?”

  “Why not package it as a software program service for companies?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are businesses who have their own internal social media staff to handle each platform, but not a single system to access and monitor it all like Raven Media does. So, why don’t you offer it as a cloud-based system service? They pay a monthly fee and have functionality based on their needs,” he explains.

  Soaking in his statement, my brain factors out what could be done and what it would entail.

  “That’s a really great idea. I’d have to hire direct staff to handle that division and do some tweaking to the overall company structure, but I don’t see why it couldn’t be done,” I reply.

  His point makes complete sense to me.

  “I’d be happy to help in any way that I can,” Joe kindly offers.

  “Thanks.”

  I sit pondering the different things I can do and almost forget where I am and who I’m with for a few minutes until our next dish arrives to the table.

  Taking a second bite, I finally ask, “So, how do you know Chef Andrews?”

  “My brother, John Jr., and he were good friends growing up. Our families know each other.”

  I nod my understanding since I have a mouthful of food. About to take another sip of wine, my hand stops just before the glass touches my lips. I see some
one across the room heading in my direction. I quickly look away but not fast enough to not alert Joe.

  “Everything okay?” Joe questions with a little concern in his voice.

  “Yep,” I agree, keeping my attention on him. I take a gulp of wine.

  “You sure?” he presses.

  “Mmm hmm . . .” I begin to assure until I hear my name called.

  “Emma!”

  Crap. This is not good.

  I awkwardly stand in an effort to not encourage the person to linger or to cause the potential for Joe and him to talk. “Hi, Chris,” my voice waivers a little. “What are you doing here?”

  Chris places one hand on my waist and the other behind my neck, and taking me by surprise, plants a long kiss on my lips. My eyes are wide with shock and disbelief at his blatant, unwelcome show of affection in public.

  Releasing my lips after I push away at his chest, Chris answers me. “I’m meeting with my agent. What are you doing here?” he asks, keeping his hands on me.

  Joe clears his throat loud enough for Chris to turn his head. “Hi. I’m Joseph Covelli.” After he stands, Joe reaches his hand towards Chris.

  There is a cool, calm, distinguished manner to Joe which catches me by surprise and ironically turns me on.

  “Hey man, I’m Chris Cooper.”

  “I know who you are,” Joe states. “Seen a number of your movies. Not bad.”

  “Thanks,” Chris replies, still hovering near me. “Apologies, I thought you were Jared or Nathan.”

  I don’t believe Chris. He wouldn’t dare act the way he did to Nathan or Jared.

  “That’s okay,” I interject. “We should let you get to your agent.”

  God this is awkward.

  “It’s okay. I’ve got a minute. He’s not here yet.”

  Chris is clearly not getting the hint.

  “Caleb says you haven’t been back to Ayana’s since we last saw you.”

  “Correct,” I confirm.

  “I was hoping to see you again,” he admits.

  “I’ve been busy.” I shift my body closer to the table, but he follows.

  “Too busy to see me again?”

  “I told you where things stood for me, Chris. They haven’t changed.”

  Even if they had changed, I wouldn’t let Chris know. There is no chance for a relationship between us. I’m attracted to him, but not like that.