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He grins. “You know it. Scary but seductive. And I have some seducing on tap.”
Probably with our new researcher. I push the sour feelings back. “Have fun.”
“Oh, I intend to.”
Rebecca’s warning look doesn’t make any impression either. She grabs her coat off the empty seat. “Off to have dinner with my hubby. He’s cooking tonight.”
I trudge to the office, take-out container in hand, ready for a little research of my own.
ChapterTwo
Smell is something that attracts me instantly. So if the guy smells nice, there is an instant attraction.—Alia Bhatt
March 2014
Micki
JL Martin,a new friend I’d like to know better, asked me out several times in the last month. Good thing he’s persistent because getting up to speed on the insider trading case is kicking my butt big time. Today is Sunday and I’m giving myself the evening off. I worked for five hours earlier, but tonight’s the night.
Except for a few dinners at my parents’ house, I spend every waking hour at my office. Just hours of research, meetings with the client, too much time with Hayden, and at least one meeting a day with our team of seven. We’ve added a legal secretary, a file clerk, and a first-year associate.
No friends, no hockey either at the arena or on TV. All my meals are delivery, or just bowls of cereal. Three boxes of Chocolate Chex stashed in my credenza help with sudden hunger attacks.
JL is just my type. Not breathtakingly handsome like my friend Cress’ boyfriend, Max. I don’t need movie star good looks. He’s got that craggy jawed, French-Canadian hockey-player aura. He’s well-muscled but not muscle bound. No visible tattoos. Cropped brown hair, sprinkled with gray. Deep brown, almost black eyes, like pools of dark chocolate, complete the package. My heart stutters every time I see him.Take a deep breath.Then snort as water goes up my nose.
I met JL last December. He’s a security specialist. His company, WatchDog, Inc., supplied bodyguards to protect my best friend. A narcissistic lunatic, someone we went to school with, tried to destroy Cress’ life and career. Still entangled with my now-former boyfriend, the immediate attraction unsettled me, and I buried it deep. Now that Sam is an ex, I dig it up. JL can be the safety valve to relieve the pressure of work.
Water drips down my long hair into my face. My eyes are squeezed shut to keep errant drops from seeping in. The slick, soapy granite surface means one hand stays flat against the marble cladding, so I don’t slip and fall. I fumble to find the knobs that shut off the multiple sprays. When the hot water stops, the immediate sensation is ice coating my skin. Shivers run through me while I grope for a towel. Any old piece of cloth in a storm would help at this point.
Where the fuck is it? I know I put it in easy reach. But this master bath is so much bigger than the normal-sized room in my former condo that I feel spatially challenged. The walk-in power shower is at least three times the size of anything I’ve ever used before. Too many months alone, my mind wanders in sexy directions. If things move along well, JL and I might have fun in here.
That’s all I want. Some fun. After the shit show that is Sam Beamer, I deserve a bit of no-strings happy.
My feet start to slide, and I grab on to the edge of the glass with my left hand, grope with the right, and dislodge a soft French terry textile that I catch just before it hits the floor. I wipe my eyes, then rub the cloth against my dripping hair. So what if it’s the bath sheet. At this point a washcloth would do. I wrap the cotton fabric around me and notice, my eyes now open and dry, the hand towel is right where I put it for a quick pick up.
Bending over, I use the newly rediscovered hand towel to wrap my hair in a makeshift turban, tighten the bath towel around my quivering body, and step out into my slippers. At least they’re where I expect them to be.
The frustration that made my heart pound leaks away now I’ve reestablished control. The weakness in my limbs subsides and I don’t need the wall to prop me up. The generous bath sheet starts to slip, and I readjust it once more before walking into the bedroom. That’s when I hear shouts. Not screams of distress or pain. More like the insistent howl of an angry predator spewing pure vitriol.
“I know you’re in there, you fat slut. Show yourself, bitch. I have things to say to you.” A drawl. How does he do that? Howl with a Southern accent?
Sam. Can’t believe he found me. Goosebumps march up my arms and across my chest, the good-old-boy accent sending me into high alert. I force myself to keep my hands down so I can’t put my fingers in my ears, then slip behind the edge of a long curtain, craning my neck to peek out the window.
Dancing in rage on the narrow sidewalk, Sam’s hand curls around something, but from this distance, no glasses or contacts, I can’t make out what it is until the former baseball wannabe does a wind up and lets the object fly.
The condo I’m subletting is on the top floor, and he throws like a girl. That’s why he’s a wannabe. No way that missile is going to reach me. When the projectile hits the wall two stories below, I see it’s a small rock. Not only is he incompetent in throwing, but he didn’t even use something that would cause much damage.
“Where are you, shyster? Stop cowering and show yourself, you filthy cow.” His invective might make a passerby think he was harassing his lawyer instead of his former girlfriend.
I edge away from the window, flop onto the king-size bed, let the towel drop to the floor, and wrap myself in the royal blue velour bedcover. The velvety feel is comforting as I try to ignore the epithets and relax into the luxurious warmth. The memory of our next-to-last encounter sweeps over me.
A cold,sunny December day and we’ve had an early adjournment, so I decide to surprise Sam with a lunch date. Opening the door, I hear loud noises. “Sam,” I call out, wondering if he’s sick. When I walk inside… Surprise.
Sam’s not alone. His companion’s red hair splays out against the deep plum of my new couch.
Startled, I scream, and he lifts his head, a bald spot outlined by the straggly, shoulder-length hair. Hazy eyes stare into mine. His thick, gravel tone is accusatory. “What the hell you doin’ here, Micki? Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Yeah. Who are you?” The redhead’s voice is high and nasal.
