Chapter 2 #2
I was two conversations away from leaving when I noticed him near the windows, away from the crowd but not trying to disappear either.
He was fine, yes. Let’s not be ridiculous.
That face, that build, that silver in his beard, that calm way he held himself together.
But fine wasn’t what kept me looking. Fine is everywhere if you lower your standards enough.
Theodore had a presence. The kind that didn’t beg for witnesses.
Somebody introduced us with too many titles attached to his name and not enough attached to mine. Founder. Managing partner. Private wealth. Assets under management. All that language people use when they want you to know somebody can buy the room without needing to raise their hand.
He didn’t repeat any of it.
He looked at me and said, “Ms. Perkins.”
I gave him a little smile then. Not the sweet one. The one I use when a man has about ten seconds to prove he’s not wasting my time.
“You always let other people do that much talking for you?” I asked.
He looked down at his glass, then back at me. “Only when they’re saying things I don’t care enough to correct.”
A man that put together usually means one of two things: discipline or arrogance. Sometimes both. I’d met enough of the arrogant kind to know they get real boring once nobody is impressed.
And this man was not boring by any means.
He asked what I did, and when I told him, he didn’t turn my clinic into small talk.
He asked about my margins, my expansion plan, my lease terms, my client retention, and whether I owned the equipment outright or financed it.
I remember looking at him over the rim of my glass because finally—finally—somebody in that room had asked me something worth answering.
“You ask every woman you meet about her balance sheet?” I asked.
“Only the ones who look like they already know their numbers.”
Well.
That was inconvenient.
“Boss lady?”
I blink, and I’m back in my clinic, behind frosted glass and the kind of privacy clients pay extra for without asking too many questions, with Jetta staring at me like she’s been calling my name long enough to get irritated about it.
“You planning on answering me,” she says, “or are you just going to stand there smiling at that card like you forgot where you are?”
I look down at the envelope in my hand and fix my face before I answer her.
“I’m working.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, not believing me even a little. “Because that’s what that look was.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you are absolutely not thinking about work right now.”
She’s not wrong, but I don’t owe her ass that satisfaction.
She leans forward on the desk, lowering her voice and chewing that gum like Janet Jackson did in Poetic Justice when Tupac asked her out.
“You going to lunch?”
I glance at the clock, then at my schedule.
“Why?”
“Lizzie called earlier. Said to tell you to stop acting like you’re too busy for her and meet her at one.”
That sounds just like my best friend.
“Go ahead and reschedule my twelve-thirty,” I tell her.
Jetta’s eyebrows go up.
“Oh, so now we rescheduling people?”
“Girl. Just do it.”
She grins and turns back to her screen.
“Yes ma’am.”
I don’t make a production out of leaving.
I finish what needs finishing, grab my bag, and take the flowers before Jetta decides to inspect them any harder than she already has.
“You taking those with you?” she asks.
“I paid too much for this front desk for you to sit here asking questions you already know the answer to.”
“I work here. Asking questions is part of the culture.”
“You won’t be for long if you keep at it.”
She grins. “Whew, that man done came up in here and got your panties all in a bunch today. Tell Lizzie I said hey.”
Before she can say anything else, I head straight for the door. Knowing Jetta, she’s got at least three more comments ready, and none of them need my attention.
The flowers ride shotgun, buckled in so they don’t end up rolling around my floorboard.
Home comes first, because there is no version of me sitting across from Lizzie at lunch pretending Theodore didn’t have me changing my panties in the middle of a workday. Best friend or not, some things don’t need to be discussed over salmon and sparkling water.
I pull through the gate and into the garage. Four acres stretch between the road and the house, giving all that cream stone and glass room to breathe. I like space. I like privacy. I like knowing nobody can look too hard unless I invite them to.
From my bedroom balcony, the pond and fountain sit below, and there isn’t a neighbor close enough to catch whatever motion happens out there when Theodore and I decide walls are optional.
Once inside, I walk through the foyer and the flowers go on the kitchen island, the card still tucked between the roses.
Honey.
Hard-ass or not, I love this kind of thing. Him taking time out of his day just to make me smile.
After cleaning up, I change into something that doesn’t make me think about him every time I move, and head back out. Halfway to the garage, I talk myself into texting him something I’m going to pay for later.
You had me coming home to change my panties. I’m really tired of you always creating problems.
Theodore
Your mouth been real smart today. You know what to expect tonight.
Pushing my limits with him is something I love. I know it’ll set him off. I know it’ll have me in trouble. I know exactly what I’m doing.
When I pull up to lunch, Lizzie’s already waiting near the bronze-framed entrance of Toffee Noir, a Black-owned Scottsdale restaurant with valet out front and tinted glass that keeps the dining room from advertising itself to everybody passing by.
Sunglasses on, phone in hand, she looks like she got there early just to be offended about it.
“You’re late,” she says.
“I had to go home first.”
Her eyebrows lift, pushing themselves to meet each other, as she reaches for the restaurant’s walnut-brown door’s long black handle. “Mm-hmm.”
I walk in ahead of her, still feeling Theodore’s text sitting in my head, making it way too hard to keep my face together.
You know what to expect tonight.
And I do. That’s the problem. I’m not scared of what he’s going to do to me.
I’m looking fucking forward to it.