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We had plans to charm and woo her, but to be honest, when it came down to it, I wasn’t looking forward to it. Not at all. It’s not in my nature to be disingenuous. I grew up surrounded by fake-ass bullshit like that and swore I’d never be that way.
And yet here I am. Just another asshole trying to make a buck by stepping on someone else’s back.
When the investors first approached me, and I shared their expansion idea with the guys, it sounded so easy. Get the woman next door to sell us her lease, get her the hell out, and double our space. Easy, right?
But when she came to our party, the fact that there’s a living, breathing human being on the other side of our shared wall, who probably has the same hopes and dreams I do, smacked me right in the face.
And by the way, she sure cleans up nice.
The few times I’ve seen her in passing or through the window of her boutique, she’s always a bit of a mess. A cute mess, but a mess nevertheless, with her hair piled on top of her head, sensible shoes, and a smock, I guess designed to keep enthusiastic pets from jumping on her clothes. Because I’m usually in a rush, or thinking about the restaurant, I never give her any more thought than that.
Big mistake.
When she arrived at our party last night, I nearly choked on my bourbon.
I instantly knew who she was—she wasn’t that unrecognizable—but her slinky dress, sky-high heels, and sleek hairstyle threw me for a loop. I didn’t see that coming.
But what I found perhaps most charming was her nervous babble. She wasn’t at all studied in the art of conversation like most women I meet, who carefully measure every word, so aware they are of how they’re perceived. When she told us she couldn’t afford to eat in EastSide, I was amused but my heart also broke a little at the same time, slapping me in the face with a reminder of my privilege.
She had a point. Lots of people cannot afford to eat in a place like EastSide. And I want to do something about that.
When I found her looking over the untouched buffet table—people rarely eat at fancy functions like this—she pointed out a couple things.
“That’s veal tongue carpaccio.”
She looked like she might vomit.
“Would you like to try some snail caviar?” I asked, reaching for a cracker.
She stared me down. “I am a vegetarian. Do you have any fresh veggies? Maybe with dip?”
I looked over the table like we might actually have something like that, but I was really just stalling for time.
I kept to myself that this is not the kind of place that serves a crudité platter, and that we provide a different perspective on food. That’s not the kind of thing she wanted to hear and, besides, I try not to insult people.
Instead, I pointed out our ‘Walk in the Forest’ mushroom dish, garnished with hazelnuts and chickpeas.
She looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language, so before she could say anything else, I scooped some onto a spoon and aimed it right for her mouth. I came at her so fast, she automatically opened, like little baby being fed.
She wrapped her perfect bow-shaped lips around my spoon and when the taste hit her, closed her eyes and moaned a little.
Fucking awesome.
“That… that was incredible,” she said, swallowing the bite I gave her.
It was incredible for me too, but for different reasons. Just ask the stirring below my belt.
Another unexpected treat of the evening.
I excused myself to go greet our city councilperson, so left her to decide whether she wanted more ‘Walk in the Forest.’
I lost track of her after that. After all, we’d invited nearly a sixty people, but when Enzo pointed out her guerrilla marketing efforts—scattering around her Pawsh Pets announcements—well, I almost want to run over and help her. But duty called and we guys, amused as hell, let her do her thing.
I liked that about her. But I also like the space her business occupies and haven’t changed my mind about acquiring it. Just how we might approach her.
At midnight, when everyone but the cleaning crew is gone, Owen pulls his beloved Bud Lite out of its hiding place and we sit for a minute.
“Another great party,” he said, raising his bottle.
