Chapter 3 #2
Shelley narrows her eyes. “You’re afraid of him.”
“No,” I say too quickly. “Not afraid. Just… wary.” I don’t add that it’s not just his job offer I’m dodging, it’s the heat that built in that office, thick as velvet, with a single look.
Like a light bulb went off in her brain, she gasps. “Oh my God. Do you have a crush on the boss?”
“No,” I deny with mock disgust, though considering I haven’t stopped thinking about him, it’s entirely possible.
“We all do, Jay Jay, so you’re not alone. You’re female after all. Did you see the photos of him from last night in the paper today? Hot. I’d jump his bones in a second if it was even remotely possible.” Shelley grins while sipping her coffee.
“I don’t have a crush. It’s just, you know I’m not great with people.”
“What are you talking about? You’re fantastic with people. Personable, friendly, confident.”
“I’m not fashion forward… like, at all.”
She tilts her head, stealing a chip from my plate. “That’s not true…”
“And if I go from contract position straight to executive, it looks a little…”
“Like you slept with the boss to get where you’re going?”
“Yes.” I sigh in disappointment.
“Jay Jay, half of New York has slept with someone to get where they’re going.”
“Yeah, well, I’m in the other half. I want to be known for my skills and intelligence.”
“That’s exactly why he offered you the job. So why did you really decline?” Shelley knows me too well. I take a deep breath and blow it out slowly.
“I don’t know. I was caught off guard. It was unexpected.
He was standing there, all suited up and stylish, looking at me like I amazed him.
I panicked. You know I like to take my time with decisions.
” I omit the fact that my experience with men is a little lackluster.
So much so, I wasn’t sure if he was checking me out or if my brain was playing tricks on me.
I had a few short-term boyfriends in college, a couple of drunken one-night stands, but not much since then. Dating is not really my thing.
“You need to take the job,” she insists, looking at me more seriously now.
I push my glasses back up my nose, the one act I do constantly. “Maybe…”
“Alright, look, I gotta run. Just email him. Tell him you’ve had time to think about his offer, and if it still stands, you’d like to take it. If not, no harm.” Shelley makes it all sound so easy.
“I’ll think about it.”
She huffs playfully. “Fine. I need to go see my mom. See you later.”
“Okay, see you later.”
She walks out, her quick visit leaving me with my thoughts before Uncle Bob snaps me out of them.
“Jay Jay. Jimmy’s out front to see you.” He looks at me, concerned.
“It’s fine.” I wave him off, standing and heading toward the front, my sandwich now forgotten.
“Hey, Jimmy.” Moving to the boxes, I grab another one to unpack while we talk. Might as well get back to work, these boxes aren’t going to unpack themselves.
“Hey, Jay Jay. Need a hand?” He reaches over to grab the box, but I beat him to it.
“I’m all good. What’s up?”
Jimmy Stallone comes in every Saturday. I’ve known him for a while.
He’s a young lawyer in the city, and we catch the same train most days.
He’s also asked me out more times than I can count.
Each time, I say no. But instead of becoming disinterested, it seems to make him even more committed.
It leaves me a little unsettled, but I figure he probably just needs a friend.
“I thought I’d ask you to lunch today. Mr. Zimmi has a soup and coffee special.” He smiles, enthusiastic as ever.
“Sorry, Jimmy, I just ate with Uncle Bob.” I nod toward the register, where Uncle Bob watches us closely, his sandwich half-eaten. He’s never been a fan of Jimmy, says his kind of persistence is a red flag.
“Oh, shame! I’ll have to come in earlier next weekend. What’s happening? It seems like you have a lot of stock today.”
“We’ve got a big sale. Need a sprinkler for your place?” Uncle Bob interjects, his voice sharp.
“No, sir. Not today.”
“Well, best leave my niece to her work, Jimmy.”
I offer a polite smile. Jimmy nods, taking the hint.
“See you soon, Jay Jay.”
“Bye, Jimmy.”
We watch him go before Uncle Bob mutters, “Never liked that kid.”
“He’s harmless.”
“Maybe. But I still never liked him.” A weird, heavy feeling settles in my chest as I look out the window at Jimmy’s retreating form.
“Need help with anything else? Or should I keep working on the boxes?” I glance at the stacked wall of boxes on my right, knowing it’ll take all afternoon.
“You know you don't have to spend your weekends here. Your aunt’s right; you should be out, meeting new friends.”
Uncle Bob is protective of me. The idea of me out in the city at night, especially with men, is probably more than he wants to imagine. Although I'm in my mid-twenties, live on my own, and have worked in the city on and off for years.
“I’d rather be here. Besides, it’s good exercise.” I squat to lift another box, earning a shake of his head and a smile.
“We like having you here too, kiddo.” He walks off, and I open another box.
As I kneel again, box cutter in hand, the little silver bell above the shop door jingles.
Uncle Bob and Aunt Vivian are busy in the back, probably finishing their lunch, so I stand partway, still crouched at knee height and glance up to greet the customer.
My breath catches.
Donovan York stands in the doorway, black coat open, scarf loose around his neck, like he just stepped out of a winter fashion magazine spread and into my quiet little world. Once his eyes land on me, they stay there.
For a moment, we simply stare at each other. The store fades. The air stills.
Then his gaze lowers slowly, taking in the dust on my knees, the box cutter in my hand, the practical boots. And something flickers across his face, something not quite like amusement. Not quite desire. More intense.
I straighten, drop the cutter, and awkwardly brush my palms over my thighs.
“Mr. York.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel as I push my glasses up higher.
He stalks toward me. “Call me Donovan. I was… in the neighborhood,” he lies. “Thought I’d take a look at this sprinkler empire you’ve built.”
I arch an eyebrow, because he’s clearly researched me. One look at my resume, and I assume he saw our new website, where Uncle Bob insisted my face be on the ‘About Us’ page alongside his and Aunt Vivian’s.
My hands hit my hips as I look at him pointedly. “In need of a sprinkler?” Where did that sass come from?
He steps closer, just shy of too close, and his mouth quirks slightly. “Actually, I’m here to renegotiate.”
“Renegotiate?”
“This time”—his eyes lock on mine—“I’m not leaving without a yes.”