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“Um, sure, that sounds great. Do you need the address?”
“No, we have it, thank you.”
My heart sinks.
“A buyer is meeting me this afternoon.” I turn back to Race. “Must be some big shot with lots of money to throw around. It makes me sick to my stomach.”
Race nods in understanding.
I'm whiny, but I think I’m allowed. It’s not easy to let go of the building that has been a part of me since I was born. I grew up there, working in my parents' diner, hearing stories of my grandparents, and dreaming of the day I would make it my own. I put five years of sweat and some tears into it, loving it and the people it brought into my life.
If I could only sell it to someone like me, a small business owner and dreamer, rather than to some corporate jackass who will probably turn it into a condo for the super-rich. If I didn’t need to sell so badly, I wouldn’t even take the meeting without knowing more details about the prospective buyer.
Race looks at me with sympathy. “I can’t imagine what you're going through, but you're strong. Don’t let Money Pockets bully you into selling if you don’t want to sell to them. You do have a say.”
“I know. But if it’s a good offer, I don’t think I have the luxury of turning it down, no matter what. I’m in survival mode. The banks are breathing down my neck.”
My financial situation became critical once I started losing business to the big chain coffee shops. It took about two years for the final straw to break the camel's back. There is a Starbucks or Dunkin’s on every other block, a convenience my small coffee house couldn’t compete with.
Thinking about the future of my beloved building turns my stomach upside down. I barely closed the doors to it a few short hours ago, and I already have an offer. I thought there would be more time to come to terms with my loss. How will I find the strength to let go of so much history this quickly?
Race’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
“How about after lunch, I take you shopping for new clothes? On me? You need a professional wardrobe now that you’re working for a big-shot corporation, and I have all the connections. It’s as good of an excuse as you will ever have.” He smirks at me and winks.
I glare at him. “Please don’t remind me.” I sigh. But I start work tomorrow, and I should take him up on his more than generous offer.
It’s great to have a friend like Race. He comes from money and is generous to a fault. Although he doesn’t have to, he works. Outfitting celebrities on the daily and sharing all the juicy gossip he overhears with me is his jam.
“Okay, let's do it,” I say, and he laughs. He waves his hand, air signing to get the waiter’s attention.
Spending money with him will be fun.
After we pay the check, we walk a few blocks to Court Street where the best shopping starts. Race is a style consultant and has connections in most high-end clothing stores.
We walk to Rag and Bone, and I stare around me in fascination and excitement. I may not like the corporate world, but I do love wearing expensive clothes.
Talk about contradictions.
But then again, what’s wrong with looking good while you’re saving the world?
While we’re at it, there’s also nothing wrong with swooning over a hot billionaire, even if he is the CEO of an energy infrastructure company and your future boss.
It’s bullshit rules, and I don’t buy them.
One of the store clerks comes over and asks us if we need any help. We politely decline and begin rifling through the racks. Race knows my size, as any good style consultant worth his weight would, and by the time we make it back to a dressing room, he has eight outfits for me to try on. I rub my hands together in excitement.
Race hangs the clothes up for me. “I’ll be right out here if you need a different size or color.” He walks away, and I hear him dismiss another store attendant, saying, “I’ve got her.”
I close the door to try on the exquisite pieces. Just holding these clothes against my skin makes me feel special. I put on a skirt and a matching jacket that mold to my figure as if they were made especially for me.
I walk out and model it in front of the larger mirror. “Race, what do you think of this one?” He comes over, a finger on his lips, and circles me.
“I like it. Try the others on so I can compare.” I walk back into my dressing room and change into a pair of pants and a top. It’s flattering, and out of nowhere, I wonder what Brando will think of me wearing it.
Between outfits, another thought about Brando sneaks in. My skin tingles. That man might represent all that I dislike about the corporate world, but my physical reaction to him is undeniable. I wrap my arms around my waist as a memory of his strong shoulders flash across my vision. As I begin to pull my arms apart, I flatten my hands on my belly and close my eyes. I see Brando, his hands on my waist, fingers kneading my skin and inching their way toward my chest. I slide my hands over his shoulders while his fingers brush against the cotton-covered swell of my breast, snaking their way up to my neck. I can smell his cologne from earlier, and I inhale deeply. He leans in, his lips millimeters from my parted ones. The heat spreads. My panties are soaked just as he dips his head…
Knock, knock…
