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“Hello.” All I can think of is that meager greeting. I remain rooted to the spot, but at least I don’t back away from his towering height as he approaches.Oh my God! It shouldn’t be possible. But wearing a martial band motto shirt and three-quarter camouflage pattern shorts, he looks even hotter than last week!
“Ms. Lechner.” He leans forward, his warm fingers grasping my hand, which he lifts to shake. “Nice to meet you—again.”
His arm sets the air in motion, and the triad of smells characteristic of him flows into my nose and straight to my nerve center, where it spreads its paralyzing effect.
Oh my Go—!I interrupt myself in thought.Get ahold of yourself, Celine!
He points with his left hand to a seating area made up of a neat but scuffed three-person sofa and randomly thrown-together armchairs. “Shall we take a seat?”
Like a weak-willed talking doll, I follow him. “Glad you could make the meeting happen so quickly.” The sentence doesn’t fit at all with how the appointment came about. But I’m glad I can articulate anything at all without stammering.
Mr. Sandtmann settles down in one of the chairs, exactly half a minute after I have taken my seat on the couch.
This touch of the manners of an old-school gentleman elicits a quiet smile from me. Apparently, inside this outlaw with his paintbox-colored armor of skin is someone who has experienced a good childhood upbringing. Instead of disturbing me, even being a warning to me, this contradiction makes me intrigued for completely illogical reasons.Well, such manners are rare to find these days. Why shouldn’t I enjoy being treated like a lady?
“…coffee?”
What did he say?I have to blink to focus on Mr. Sandtmann’s face… and collide with his attempt, half-hearted at best, to hide a wolfish grin behind tattooed fingers.
“As long as we’re sitting, we shouldn’t have any accidents today, right?” A smirk, not at all mocking, buzzes around the even perfection of his full mouth.
I melt inside like a pack of milk chocolate in the sun, only to catch his gaze, in which irony sparkles like polished jet stones.Oh my God! What a self-regarding jerk! Why does his physical presence have such a catastrophic effect on me?To come to my senses, I jump up, pluck the bag ofChic & Gracefrom my roomy purse and hold it out to him. “Here. Before I forget all about it.”
Mr. Sandtmann looks at me in irritation—ha! At least I’ve managed to knock him out of his complacency!—then rises in slow motion. “Ahh, the shirt,” he remarks after peering into the bag. “Gracias.”
And then his affected shtick using Spanish phrases…I jut my chin. “De nada.”I don’t want him to think he’s the only one here with knowledge of foreign languages!
“I’ll take it to the back.” Mr. Sandtmann makes a gesture with his head. “Will you come with me? Then I can show you the heart of our parlor right away…”
The room where tattoos are done?With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I notice the steady purr of an electric motor.Doesn’t any—blood flow in the process?I swallow dryly, wetting my lips.
“…which is to say, our kitchen.” His words relieve me of the frightening idea I am about to witness a bloodbath. On his way to the back, he stops at the level of the desk, and I praise my prudence in keeping enough distance not to run into him. He points to the bureau’s corner. “We use KISSCAL as our client and appointment management program,” he informs me. “It’s the linchpin for keeping track of requests, appointments, and orders for consumables.”
I nod, pull the pad out of my front pocket, and make a note of the program’s name. I could already tell Mr. Sandtmann was on intimate terms with IT from the perfectly designed printouts he brought with him to our first appointment.
The narrow kitchen only gets light through the frosted glass window high above the door. But cleverly-placed spotlights in conjunction with the kitchen cabinets, which are painted in cheerful colors bathe it in a warm light. A space-saving fold-away semicircular table and folding chairs hanging on the wall invite up to four people to a crowded but probably all-the-more cheerful gathering.
Mr. Sandtmann has apparently noticed my glances. “Yes, it gets pretty crowded here sometimes when we are sitting together with the guest artists. They usually bring a plus-one.”
“That’s right, aside from you and your live-in partner, your records noted many different artists—”
“Parlor partner,” he cuts in on me in—it’s hard to describe—a strange kind of voice. Very insistent, almost imploring. As if it were incredibly important to him to point out this nuance.
It is completely irrelevant to the business plan and the implementation of his project whether he shares only the workplace or also his table and bed with this Bea or whatever her name is. Thank goodness the times are over when a marriage certificate was the deciding factor for the granting of a loan.
“…did you want to say?” Mr. Sandtmann’s words meander into my subconscious, which has gone astray. “Sorry for interrupting you.”
I have to think for a moment, laughing to cover the awkward silence. Oh my God, what was I saying? Usually, I’m not so forgetful!
Mr. Sandtmann gives me an ambiguous smile, confusing me even more. “How about if I first introduce you to our parlor based on our daily routine? I’m sure this will help you remember what you wanted to ask me…”
I don’t like at all how he takes the lead in the conversation at the drop of a hat. In the communication training seminars, I took during my studies, I always did extremely well.I never let them take the reins of verbal exchange out of my hands!Against my will, I wrestle a smile from myself as Mr. Sandtmann points past me to the back entrance.
“Normally the day starts like this,” he starts, and I surrender.
Assigned to the thankless role of stenographer, I fish a pencil and a notepad out of my pocket to diligently take notes.
“We arrive at 8:30 in the morning. I unlock the door, and the first thing I do is turn on the coffee maker. Then I go into the front room to—”
