5. Stacey
CHAPTER 5
STACEY
A FEW DAYS LATER
Y ou’re just ... too much, Stacey.
It comes through my head in Trevor’s voice, condescending with a sigh on my name.
But I know I’m not being too much. I’m doing my job, advocating for my client. So why can’t I just get out of my own head on this?
Because it’s for Mitch.
And when he said that thing about his mother, well, something inside me broke a little, I think. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. Why don’t they talk?
Not that it’s any of my business.
But what is my business is getting this damn hotel to let us bring rescue dogs for people to be able to adopt right at the gala.
“I understand your concerns, but you are a dog-friendly hotel according to your website, Harold. Why are these dogs any different? ”
“You know why they’re different,” he says as if I’m not fully aware that most of the dogs at his fancy-ass place of work are purebreds placed in puppy training before they can walk.
His reasoning is, frankly, bullshit.
“Would you not allow a new rescue to stay with its family at your hotel?” I ask pointedly.
“Well ...” he starts.
“We both know you would. And we both know I’ve provided your lovely establishment with plenty of income over the years,” I say.
What I don’t say is that if I have to, I’ll register these dogs under my guest room at the hotel to make this happen. When I set my mind to something, I figure out how to make it happen.
“Fine, but if there’s damage ...” he says.
“I know, Harold. I read the contract,” I say with an eyeroll. Thank god this is a just a phone call so he can’t see my annoyance on my face.
“Okaaaaay,” he says, long and drawn out, as if he doesn’t trust that it will all be fine.
But I know it will be, and something deep within me is compelling me to get this done for Mitch. Which is a new, strange feeling, and I’m not sure if I like it or not.
“Thank you, Herald. It’s been a pleasure as always,” I say.
“Uh-huh,” he says in a way that tells me he does not, in fact, feel it’s been a pleasure, and hangs up the phone.
I take a deep breath as I place my phone down on my desk, pick up my favorite pen, and triumphantly cross Dogs at gala off of my to-do list for the day. I smile and try to remind myself that I am damn good at my job. Maybe that means being too much sometimes, but today I’m glad I was.
I pick up my phone and type out a text to Mitch to let him know the good news.
Stacey: Good news—dogs are a go .
Mitch: No way.
Mitch: Are you serious?
Mitch: How??
I small laugh bubbles up from inside my chest and escapes my body before I can stop it. No, not a laugh, a giggle. Mitch Greggs is making me giggle. Since when is that a thing?
Stacey: Need I remind you that I am very good at my job?
Mitch: No reminder needed, but remind me about this when we re-negotiate your retainer next year.
Wow. Okay then. I don’t usually increase my retainer for existing clients. One of the many ways I keep them around. But I guess if Mitch thinks I’m worth more (I am) than I’m not going to stop him from paying it. I just have to make sure the organization raises enough to cover the increase.
Stacey: Don’t have to tell me twice.
Stacey: Thanks, Mitch.
There’s a long pause, and the little typing bubble pops up several times before Mitch’s response finally comes through.
Mitch: No. Thank YOU, Stacey.
Mitch: See you on Saturday.
Stacey: See you then!
This might be the most pleasant interaction we’ve ever had. Too bad it’s over text and not in person. Still, as I’m packing up my laptop and shutting down my office for the night, I find myself actually looking forward to Saturday. I’m not sure if it’s because there will be puppies there, or if it’s because I’m excited to exceed my fundraising goal, or something else entirely.
I’m at home on my couch when my email pops up with a notification. Knowing exactly what it’s for, I hop off my couch where I’ve been enjoying a glass of wine and the Blizzards game and make my way downstairs. I don’t even open the email because I know what day it is.
It’s Thursday.
My flowers are here.
I walk through the lobby of my building and approach the front desk, where my flowers are sitting. I sign for them and head back upstairs, eager to arrange the new bouquet on my coffee table. Last week’s still looks lovely on my kitchen table, so I’ll leave that one where it’s at.
Once the flowers are arranged to my standards and I’ve refilled my wine glass, I settle in on the couch for the last third of the Blizzards game. It’s a home game, and it’s a bit of a nail bitter. The score is 2–2 and Mitch is on the ice alongside Caleb, but shortly after I sit down, icing is called and the lines change. The camera zooms in on Mitch as he skates to the bench and hops over the barrier.
He's dripping with sweat—they’ve played him a lot tonight—but looks just as driven and energetic as ever, even as he catches his breath.
I keep expecting the camera to veer off of him, but it doesn’t, so I’m stuck looking at his obnoxious, but admittedly gorgeous, face. There’s just something about him that does it for me, and I learned a long time ago that it’s perfectly fine for me to be attracted to someone I don’t particularly like.
But the thoughts that I have about him on nights like tonight—nights when I’m all alone—are, well, dirty as fuck.
Before I can think better of it, I turn the TV on mute with one hand and let the other wander down to the button of my jeans, unhooking them. I slide the zipper down, letting my hand rest on the exposed lace.
This is a bad idea , I try to tell myself.
But really, what’s the harm? He’ll never know. And it’s been a while since I had a close to decent hookup. Also, this is not the first time this has happened, let’s be honest.
I wiggle my jeans down to my ankles and pull my t-shirt up and lace bralette down, exposing my chest to the chilly air of my apartment. My nipples harden immediately, and I circle one lightly with my finger. My hips start to move involuntarily, but I don’t touch myself, not yet. If I’m going to do this, I want to do it right. Let it last a little bit.
As I switch to the other side of my chest, I let my mind wander. At first, it’s just Mitch’s face, somewhat hazy in my head. But before too long, it becomes more vibrant, and I imagine it’s his tongue doing the work on my nipple instead of my fingers.
My hips continue to wiggle against the couch, and in my mind, Mitch grinds his hips into mine, hands bracing on either side of my head while he looks down at me, hair perfectly imperfect, and a smirk across his face.
Then, when I finally feel ready, I reach my hand under the lace just below my stomach and reach one finger inside myself. I’m dripping wet and one finger doesn’t feel like enough (it never does), so I slide a second in and begin to thrust lightly. My breath hitches in my chest as I move faster and faster, until my body feels even closer.
I pull my fingers out, and using the wet dripping down them, I circle my clit. I do it slowly and lightly at first, but pick up speed as my hips buck upward. Mitch is in my mind again, this time his head between my legs, looking up at me with a grin. I continue to circle myself with more and more pressure, Mitch’s smile in my head as my body seizes up and releases, every bit of me shaking as it does.
In the moments after, I think I should be embarrassed or ashamed. But I shake it off, not wanting to wallow on my Mitch Greggs weakness for longer than I have to. I turn to the TV for a distraction to see that Mitch just scored the game-winning goal, and I can’t help but laugh.
Of course he did.