by Lyz Kelley
“No. Cute is when Sam eats blueberries and sticks out his stained tongue. Baby, Weston Carver is sizzling hot.” She held up her index finger and blew out a stream of air. “Sssss-sizzling. That man’s got more sex appeal than Idris Elba. Mmm-mmm-mmm.”
“Hey, what about Bradley Cooper?”
Valerie’s pupils expanded. “Him, too.”
“No way.” Courtney mentally dug in her heels. “I don’t see it.”
“Yes, way. Once you see him work with others, you’ll know what I mean. He’s confident, yet humble. He listens and accepts feedback. He’s loyal to his family. Plus he’s generous with his time and money. Don’t believe everything you read on the internet or in magazines. See the man with your own eyes, and then you’ll understand what I’m talking about.”
Courtney picked up the tea bag’s tag. She tugged at the string, then released it, letting the bag sink before tugging again. “You really like him, don’t you?”
“I have a great deal of respect for Mr. Carver.”
And that was saying a lot. Valerie was open and giving with a lot of people, but she stuck to her standards when it came to letting people in her life. Safe people. That’s what she called them. The concept helped her find the right people to accept into her life.
But Weston Carver? That was a huge stretch.
“So you want me to take the job?”
“Baby, I can’t make that type of decision for you.” Valerie propped her hip against the counter. “Did you talk about the salary or benefits?”
Courtney focused on dunking her tea bag, rather than opening her mouth and removing all doubt about how silly—and rude—she’d been.
“I can see the answer from your reaction. If you sit down with Mr. Carver and discuss terms, you’ll be in a better position to make a rational decision about whether you prefer the steady paycheck or being your own boss.”
“What I want is to keep my business and help women get out of abusive situations. I don’t want a big, fancy title.”
“Wait, a minute. Weren’t you talking about improving...what did you call it?” Valerie wiggled her fingers in the air as if trying to conjure up the word, and then her eyes brightened, “…your influence score? That was it.” She slapped the counter. “You said you want to do a Ted Talk. Write articles. Take your ideas global. A big ol’ fancy title would sure help.”
“Sometimes you can be a pain in my ass.” Courtney smiled at the woman she adored.
“Baby, I want the best for you. You have a dream. A vision. You need to be brave enough to follow your heart. You’re always working, going, doing. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Go to the park? Go to a boo-hoo movie? Release some stress. Be mindful of what gets your attention. I’m sure the right answer will come to you.”
She spotted a trace of food scraps on the counter and reached for a washcloth and organic disinfectant. “I wanted this business to stay small so I could care and make a difference for a few. Taking on such a large role, I’m afraid I’ll lose sight of why I started it.” She scrubbed the counter, her hands moving in tight circles. “I can barely manage the twenty rooms I have. What makes Weston Carver believe I can run a company as big as Empower House?”
“You gotta have faith in yourself.” Valerie slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Baby, I believe in you. I’m certain you can do anything you set your mind to.”
“But what if I take the job and it’s too much?”
Valerie released her and took her hand. “Don’t you go building bridges that don’t need to be built yet. Let your heart guide you. You’ll figure it out.”
Courtney rested her eyes and brought awareness to her aching muscles. She scanned and found resistance. Saying no to Weston Carver would feel empowering, thrilling—but also judgmental. And she’d been judged enough in her life. Judging Weston without knowing him was wrong.
The loving-kind-trusting self-talk she counseled others to instill in their lives was lacking in hers.
She’d worked for years to stop the automatic rejections and open up to new possibilities. Avoiding a hurt, though, didn’t make the wound less painful.
But then again, trusting a man as powerful as Weston Carver was risky.
Maybe too risky.
Chapter 4
Courtney felt Soho’s energy this morning.
The funding goal for the community garden project had been met when a generous donor contributed the last eight hundred dollars needed to convert the restaurant’s unused backyard into an urban oasis.
The goal was to teach at-risk residents how to grow herbs, fruits, and vegetables, and to help teach local families how to cook nutritious meals by holding cooking classes at the local area restaurants.
The idea was brilliant. She’d even contributed twenty bucks herself, just to help fund the project completion.
Just inside the restaurant’s back gate, dozens of kids were sitting around a wooden picnic table and filling egg cartons with soil to start the seedlings indoors. The pounding coming from around the corner meant the raised gardens were underway, and the bare ground revealed by concrete removal was waiting to be enriched with compost, manure or mulch and then planted. Heat radiating from the large pile of compost reminded her of the life-giving effect of the smelly, dark brown richness of kitchen waste compost.
“Mr. See. Mr. See.” A little boy with curly black hair and waving hands ran past her, and skidded to a stop beside a man in jeans and an olive green T-shirt. The cotton stretched across his back wasn’t unusual for the working crew in the area, but the pressed seams in his jeans made her look twice. His baseball cap didn’t hide the white skin exposed by freshly cut hair, and the elastic of his pricey boxers peeked over the edge of his denim waistband.
When Weston Carver slipped an arm around the little boy and leaned in to listen to what the child had to say, her heart sighed.
He tapped the little boy’s cap and produced a glorious reaction. There was nothing more precious than the boy’s giggling smile. The youngster raced around the corner and out of sight.
Weston’s smile started to fade, then reversed direction when their eyes met.
“What are you doing here?” she tried keeping judgment from tainting her question, but the results were imperfect.
“I could ask you the same thing. This restaurant is dozens of blocks from your neighborhood, but I’m glad you’re here. More hands. Less work for all.”
His T-shirt read, “weekend forecast calls for gardening and with a chance of drinking.” She loved the saying, but couldn’t imagine why he’d be wearing such a casual shirt.
“Courtney. You made it.” Jeremy from Urban Greens greeted her with a hug. “You two have already met. Wes See’s the donor I told you about. We couldn’t have made this happen without his help.”
“You’re the person who capped out the donations?” Her voice rocketed to a higher pitch.
Weston’s eyes sparked as he shrugged. “I like to invest in projects that have worthy outcomes. This project will not only feed people, but it will teach them how to live healthy. Jeremy and I have been talking about putting together nutrition counseling and chef hands-on programs for Empower House residents. They’ll help people learn to cook well, plus create a hiring pool for the restaurant.”
“Great ideas, West…er…Wes.” Her mind did a circle around the abbreviated name wondering why he was hiding his identity. Billionaires like to get credit for stuff by putting their names on libraries, airports, even streets. However, this guy liked to be incognito. Why? “Nice to meet you, Wes.” And she meant it. She liked this guy, the one who liked to garden, and possibly hang out and drink a beer to celebrate the day.
“Ms. Kramer.” He pointed to a stack of wood. “Are you any good with assembling planter boxes?”
“Give me a drill, wrench, plunger, or any tool, and I can do a halfway decent job. If you live in the city long enough, you learn to do repairs—or do without.”
Then again, if a person had
enough money, costly repairs were nothing. She cringed when she noticed her undertone of judgment. Why was she judging him? Because you can’t figure out if he’s a good guy or not, came the whispered answer. Weston Carver the billionaire-cum-handyman remained an enigma.
Wes turned to Jeremy. “Seems like we’ve got another set of hands.” Weston handed her a box of wood screws and a drill. “Follow me.”
Weston picked up a two-by-three-foot box. “Want to help make more herb boxes?”
She set the drill and screws on the table and brushed her bangs aside. “I…uh…sure.”
“Great.” He picked up his thermos and took the last swig. “The wood has already been cut, so have at it. Would you like some water?” He took a step back to fill his jug with ice cold liquid from the five-gallon cooler, and then the thermos lid he used as a cup.
She had no option but to reach for the container.
“Is there something wrong, Ms. Kramer?”
“No…um…no. Nothing. I’m fine.” She picked up the drill. “Herb boxes. I’ll get right on it.”
He seemed to be struggling with the kind of smile a person gets when trying not to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“If I had to guess, I’m the last person you expected to run into here.”
That obvious? “I would think you’d be out golfing or making mega-dollar deals. Whoops. That was rude. I’m sorry.” She tried waving her comments away. “Don’t mind me. I shouldn’t always say what I’m thinking.”
“Spouting what you’re thinking does help everyone know where they stand, though.” At least he smiled, which couldn’t be a bad thing. “As to why I’m here. I enjoy helping others live a full and healthy life, Ms. Kramer. Selling medical equipment is just one way. Neighborhood projects like this one are another.”
He held two pieces of wood together. “Are you ready to use that drill?”
“You bet.”
Growing up in a house with a dad and three brothers, one learned to master many non-girly things. Not that her dad ever divided the chores by gender. All the kids rotated through their assigned tasks, whether they liked them or not. Although most of the time her brothers would pay her to mow the lawn and do the gardening, opting instead to play hockey. The result was a piggy bank full of enough dollars to buy food for the pet rescue center near her high school.
After a few minutes the two of them developed a rhythm of assembling and drilling. She liked that he didn’t speak just to talk, or overshare his recommendations and opinions. He let her find her groove. Less than an hour passed before the last box sat ready for planting.
“May I ask you a question?” she plugged the drill battery in for recharging.
He pulled off his leather gloves and stuffed them in his back pocket. With the sweep of an arm, he wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Sure. Ask away?”
She waited, hoping he might also take his shirt off so she could get a glimpse of that six-pack she suspected he had, but after several seconds passed, disappointment set in. “How come they call you Wes See?”
“It’s something my brother Liam started. In high school he loved playing hoops. Some of the best competition was at “The Cage,” on West 4th Street. He liked the physical and intense play, and didn’t want anyone treating him like he was different, so he used the name Lee See, and it kinda stuck. It wasn’t until years later somebody outed him for being rich, which was a shame.”
“Why? What would it matter? Don’t rich people like to brag about their wealth?”
“Some do, but for Liam, as soon as people knew, it ruined the game play. Once he was outed, he couldn’t walk onto a court without someone asking for money or wanting to bet on a game. He just wanted to play against great players without the distractions.”
And everyone wants our money. Unsaid words flashing like a neon sign in his eyes.
Even she had asked for money. Buy my building. Fund my project. She’d never once considered the other side of the ask. She checked the corner mount again to hide the guilt settling on her shoulders.
“Well, Wes See. I like what you did here. Your secret is safe with me.” She waited while he stacked the finished herb box on top of the others. “What’s next?”
Weston glanced past her shoulder. “Please excuse me one second.” He trotted over to the compost bins, where a little girl in pigtails had scooted a box over, climbed on top of it, and was ready to topple headfirst into the metal container.
Weston grabbed the back of her shirt so she wouldn’t tip over. “Whoa, there. You lean in any farther and we’ll have to plant you.”
The girl’s giggle echoed up and out of the oversized container. “I can’t reach.” She stretched farther into the bin.
“Hold on a second. Let me help.” Instead of pulling her out, he held her suspended while she filled her coffee can with dirt. “Scoop it up. That’s the way. You got it.”
“I did it!” The squeal was loud and clear.
Weston pulled and then rotated the child upright, revealing the dirt smeared across her cheek and elbows.
“Yes, you did.” He set her on the ground and straightened her shirt while she hugged her can protectively. “Do you need more dirt, or is that it?”
She shoved her adorable face halfway inside the tin and then looked up at him, all serious. “This will do for now.”
Only a child could make a person smile in that special way, and Weston responded with that certain sparkle. “Okay, but if you need more dirt, will you promise to come get me before you go diving into the bin again?”
Her pigtails danced when she nodded. “Will do, Mr. See.”
“Looks like you’re doing a good job over there, too.” The child sounded more grown-up than most adults and managed to tickle Courtney’s funny bone. “Keep it up,” she said with an encouraging nod.
When the little girl gave Wes a firm nod and said, “Keep it up,” before trotting off, Courtney had to cover her mouth to stifle a laugh.
“Thanks,” Weston winked.
The tiny compost-container diver lugged the oversized can back to the wooden picnic table.
The child’s stubbornness reminded Courtney of herself at that age. She remembered trying to make pancakes for her mother. Her mom had prepared the breakfast a hundred times, the process looked simple enough, and she wanted to do something special for her mother’s birthday. The pancake mix, however, never made it out of the pantry. She fell off the chair just as her fingertips touched the box and dumped the entire contents on the floor, spreading the mix several feet in every direction.
She was willing to bet Weston never made a mess. He stood there with his perfect smile and perfectly pressed jeans, and he looked perfect. Damn him.
For years she tried convincing herself she wanted fun and messy, just like her brothers, but in reality she wanted quiet and predictable. A rock to hold onto in her chaotic world.
Someone stable. A person who was the opposite of her mother, father, and brothers.
In the past few years, all she’d been able to do was tread water. There was no safety net. No rock. No perfect man.
Weston stood ten feet away watching, waiting to be of service again, until the little girl settled at the table.
She moved closer to watch with him. “Superman saves the day,” she said, softly enough that only he could hear.
“No. Not Superman. Batman’s way more cool.” His response was a teasing caress. “He’s got freeze grenades and batorangs, and then there is the batboat and batcycle.”
“Not to mention the batcopter and batmobile.”
His eyes lit up like a little boy getting his first model car. “Exactly.”
“Are you a little kid in disguise, Mr. See?” This fun and messy she liked. A lot.
“‘It’s what I do that defines me,’ says Batman in Batman Begins,” his voice was soft next to her ear, his hot breath tickling her neck. She contrasted the man against the hero and wondered if he might be the modern-day Bruce Wayn
e.
Oh, how scrumptiously fun.
A shrill scream broke her reflections, and she leapt into action.
Chapter 5
“What did you do?” someone screamed from around the corner. “You ruined everything!”
Weston raced around the corner of the building to find a young teenager scolding the little friend Weston met when he arrived. A jumble of egg cartons and dirt lay scattered at his feet.
Tears welled in the little guy’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to. They fell over.”
“You always ruin everything, you idiot.” The girl pushed the boy out of the way and knelt to scrape the spilled dirt back into the containers, oblivious to the trauma she’d caused.
A protective anger raged in his chest. He moved closer, but Courtney managed to rush between him and the kids.
“Hey? Hey? What’s all this?” Courtney turned the little boy toward her. “It’s okay. You were only trying to help.”
The teen girl’s face crunched into a scowl, and her eyes widened as if Courtney suddenly had evil horns coming out of her head. “It’s not okay.” The girl emphasized her point with a sweeping gesture toward the ground. “All these seed trays are trashed, and now the seeds won’t grow. My brother ruined them.”
The boy moved out of his sister’s reach. “I’m sorry.” His bottom lip quivered. “Don’t hate me.”
Weston’s desire to swoop the boy into his arms was delayed by Courtney’s maternal body language taking control of the escalating incident.
“Hate you? Awww.” Courtney put an arm around the tyke’s waist. “No. We don’t have a reason to hate you. We can fix this. It’ll be okay.”
The snide tsk-tsk from the young woman made Courtney extend a hand to the young woman’s arm to soothe and calm. “I’m Courtney. What’s your name?”
The girl eyed her warily. “Emma.”
“Emma. I bet you’re the oldest in your family. Am I right?”
“Yeah. How did you guess?”
“The oldest always has the most responsibilities, and the most critical eye from their parents. You’re their first, and they want to get it perfect. By the time the second or third child comes along they’ve had more practice, and things change. Most often the oldest feels resentful. At least my brother did.”