Tough Customer: A Hero Club Novel

by Erin St. Charles

  He waves a hand, looking distracted. He shows no emotion at this disclosure, but I immediately feel sympathy and am oddly willing to do anything to help. He turns away from me and disappears into an office behind the reception area. I follow him.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. My voice cracks a bit when I say this. He sits behind a giant desk, rifling through the piles of paper there. He looks up from the mess on his desk to cock an eyebrow at me.

  “Great, then you see why I need your help,” he says, returning his gaze to the drifts of paper that litter his desk.

  I’m being manipulated. I know I’m being manipulated, but I also know that I cannot say no to this man. With a sigh, I sit in the guest chair in front of his desk.

  “For you, my services start at…” I quote him a dollar amount that is fifty percent more than what I normally charge in an effort to dissuade him.

  “Fine,” he says, then launches into a ramble on what he needs done. Encouraged by the buttload of money he’s willing to pay me, I capitulate and take all that shit down on my notes app.

  With that kind of money, I realize, I can move ahead on my plan to have an app developed for my service. Therefore, I’m taking this job.

  Chapter Four: Lincoln

  I suggest we have an early lunch to go over some of the tasks that need immediate attention. Samantha agrees, and I sweep my arm in an “after you” gesture to usher her through my door. I’m not ashamed to say I take this opportunity to get a good look at her ass, which is round and firm and does an excellent job filling out her jeans. Her email name gives me ideas of what I could do to that ass. Starting with smacking it while fucking her.

  I have the hots for Smack. I’m sorely tempted to grab her ass right now. I want to smash Smack, but in a good way.

  My rational brain knows I can't afford to get involved with her. Sheila is out of the office for God knows how long, and I'm going to need Ms. Samantha Mack’s services without any complications for the foreseeable future. I remind myself that I rejected Marcia Pittman's advances the night before because I do not get involved with women I work with. Samantha Mack is completely off-limits.

  Even as I work this out with my rational brain, my lizard brain still wants to fuck her.

  Over a meal of sandwiches and soup, I go through a list of duties Sheila would ordinarily complete. Samantha eyes me cautiously for the first few minutes of our meal, then gradually relaxes as we go over the details of what I'll need done for the next week or so.

  She reiterates the fact that her time is limited, as she has other clients, and that face time with me will be on a strictly as-needed basis.

  As the week progresses, things go swimmingly. She takes care of all my meetings, scheduling them so efficiently I hardly know that she is not on the premises. She takes care of little details that I tend to let slip, usually emailing me brisk, professional email or emoji-less text messages when tasks are completed. All I have to do is mention something I need done, and the next thing I know, it is done. And she is all business when she does it.

  I had a woman who cleaned my condo twice a week, and despite my repeated instructions, the cleaning lady failed to take the trash out when she left, and refused to separate trash and recycling. I left notes for her on multiple occasions and even purchased a special trash and recycling sorter to make things easier for her, to no avail.

  I mentioned this to Samantha, and two days later, she had terminated the cleaning lady and hired a new one who was so thorough she leaves perfect diagonal vacuum cleaner tracks on my carpets, and a mint on the pillow of my freshly made bed. She even organizes my dresser drawers, finding the long-departed mates of socks, reuniting them, and cuddling them up in the appropriate drawers. She tosses old takeout containers and wipes the shelves of my refrigerator. The undersides of sofa cushions no longer harbor crumbs of mysterious origin, and no dust lurks in corners. The new cleaning lady is more like a cleaning fairy.

  Samantha doesn't only book my meetings. She chats up the assistants of the other parties, gets the inside scoop, and prepares brief dossiers on the people I am to meet with. She reviews my calendar in advance and determines what I'll need for all aspects of a meeting, including appropriate attire, optimal meeting venue, and even how early or late to show up. She has been more than just an assistant.

  And speaking of assistants, as I muse over how competent Samantha is, I receive a call from Sheila. On her way to her follow-up appointment with her doctor, Sheila fell on the slippery marble tile of her physician's lobby. As if having the flu wasn’t bad enough, Sheila has managed to break her hip and will be out of the office indefinitely.

  As a result of these mishaps, I am even more determined to make Samantha an exclusive offer so attractive that she cannot refuse it.

  The more I work with Samantha, the more I want to continue working with her. But I want her exclusively, even after Sheila returns to work. I want Samantha to run my life for me indefinitely, to be my own personal concierge all the time. I'm annoyed she has other clients, but I believe I can offer her enough money to work for me exclusively. I fantasize about other areas of my life Samantha Mack can improve. She's a beautiful woman in a natural, non-fussy way. She is intelligent as well. She would make an excellent plus-one for those occasions where one is needed. I do not want the complication of inviting someone who will take the invitation for more than what it is.

  With the expansion I have planned, not having Sheila on board is a real inconvenience. This is absolutely not the right time for me to be short on support staff. It's imperative that Samantha continue to work for me. There's too much at stake for me to let her go without a fight.

  Samantha Mack first visited my office on Tuesday. Now, it is Friday, and already she has improved my life immeasurably. As I watch her stride into the dining room for what she believes to be our wrap up meeting, I prepare to charm her and make an attractive offer to get her to stay on. She wears her customary dark jeans, plain T-shirt, a business casual blazer, and a pair of high heeled wedges. Her hair is pulled up in a large puff around the crown of her head, and her dark curls look glossy and soft. She gives me a megawatt smile and extends her hand in greeting.

  On the table is a tilapia sandwich, sweet potato fries, and sparkling water with a lime wedge.

  She sits, and we go through everything that she has completed. Her tone is crisp and professional, as always, and it is clear that she expects this to be our last meeting. Knowing how resistant she was to working with me in the first place, I try to find a way to ease into a conversation about her continuing to help me out.

  "Samantha," I say, watching her face carefully for a reaction. "I received some disturbing news this morning."

  Her brows knit, and her deep brown eyes look concerned. "What's wrong?"

  She dabs at her lips with her napkin, leaving behind a faint trace of deep red lipstick, and licks her lips, temporarily distracting me with the unwelcome carnal thoughts I always seem to have around her. I remind myself that I'm here for business, and ogling Samantha Mack is not a good idea. I give myself a mental shake and clear my throat.

  "Sheila called this morning," I say, then launch into a recounting of my assistant's latest mishap.

  "That's terrible!" Samantha says, her expression stricken. "Maybe it's time you looked at getting a temp to help you out."

  I look into her eyes, trying to gauge her receptivity to my proposal.

  "I already have a temp," I say, giving her my most confident smile. "You."

  "I'm not so sure that's a good idea," she says, frowning.

  "Why is that?"

  "I do have other clients," she says. "This was meant to be a temporary solution for a short-term problem. I don't know how long it takes to recuperate from a hip fracture, but I can't possibly help you any longer."

  "What would I need to do to persuade you to make time for me?"

  Her frown deepens, and it's adorable. Her cute little freckles stand out from her bronze complexion, and her nos
e wrinkles when she frowns. To be honest, it's so cute that it's a bit distracting.

  I do not like being told who will or will not work for me. Why is Samantha Mack being so obstinate? Doesn’t she like money? She’s not making sense, so I decide she’s going to do the sensible thing and keep working for me.

  As I watch, she finishes her sandwich without another word, clearly believing she is done with the conversation.

  One of my staff appears to clear away her plate.

  "We're not done," I snap, wanting more time to persuade her to stay. The young man looks a little appalled at being barked at and backs away from the table.

  "You didn't have to do that," Samantha says, giving me a disapproving look. Even her disapproving looks are cute.

  "Do what?" I snap again, then toss my napkin on the table, annoyed at her.

  "You don't have to be rude to the waitstaff because you can't have your way with me," she barks right back at me. Then she thinks about what she just said and how it might be taken, and I see the moment she realizes her unintentional double entendre. Her face goes bright red under that beautiful bronze complexion of hers. She studies her hands and picks at her napkin.

  I wouldn’t mind having my way with her...

  My heart pounds with excitement at the thought, but I quickly push the inappropriate thought away.

  "Anyway, I have plans this afternoon." She gets up from the table, then pushes her chair in.

  I'm not happy with this woman, but I still have good manners, and when she gets up, I get up. The phone in her purse rings, and she answers, smiling.

  "Peter! How are you?" she says. "Hang on a moment, please."

  She mutes the phone, looks at me, and says, "I'll send you my invoice."

  Before I can respond, my phone starts to ring, and I see Marcia Pittman's name on the display. Although I want to go after Samantha and try to convince her to stay, I really have to take this call from Marcia. All I can do is watch as Samantha turns on her heel and walks out of my restaurant for good.

  Chapter Five: Samantha

  I leave Lincoln's restaurant and drive to the airport to pick up Peter Shark. On the way there, I receive several calls from Lincoln, whom I assume wants to persuade me to keep working for him. However, that whole little interlude in my personal concierge career is behind me, and I would like to keep it that way.

  When I pick up Peter, I learn things did not go the way he anticipated during his London trip. His marriage proposal fell flat, and he does not want to discuss it. I feel terrible for Peter; he is a nice guy, and he'd make a terrific husband someday. I never liked Lisa much, and the crestfallen expression on Peter's face makes me want to cut a bitch.

  Peter is in his mid-30s, tall, attractive, and owns a small, fast-growing software company; a generally great guy. We've been working together for about eight months, and I feel kind of protective of Peter, even though he's a bit older than me. I drive to Peter's office, and we spend the rest of the afternoon catching him up on a few hanging issues. When it's time to quit for the day, Peter tells me he's going to take an Uber home, and he wishes me a good weekend. When I drive away, I see I have several missed calls from a number I do not recognize.

  With nothing else work related to do, I head home, stopping at a grocery store to pick up a rotisserie chicken and a couple of sides for dinner. I park at my building and take the elevator to my floor. It is then that I remember all the calls I had earlier received from Lincoln. I head down the corridor from the elevator to my condo with my purse slung over my shoulder, my dinner in one hand, and my phone in the other. I scroll through my recents and see three voice messages from Lincoln. When I replay them, they are all hang ups. In addition to this, I see I also have several terse text messages from him.

  1:45 pm. Tough Customer: Answer my call.

  2:13 pm. Tough Customer: It isn't professional to ignore your clients.

  This man is really something. Can't take no for an answer, Mr. Cooper? Something about the way he won't take "no" for an answer makes me want to dig in and resist even further. At this point, it’s the principle of the matter.

  3:17 pm. Tough Customer: Call me. We need to talk.

  "No, Mr. Cooper, we do not need to talk," I mumble to myself and delete the messages forcefully with my thumb.

  Sighing, I trudge toward my front door, which is at the end of a long corridor. When I get there, I go to set down the grocery bags, only to have a strong hand take the bags from me. My heart pounds in my chest, as I'm freaked out by a would-be attacker. I clutch my keys in my hand with the ends pointed out, then assume a defensive stance, and look into the face of my would-be attacker.

  Who just happens to be…

  "Lincoln Cooper?"

  My mind works overtime processing the fact that Lincoln Cooper is on my doorstep. He gives me a charming smile that brings out his dimples. Despite my irritation, his smile makes my belly do a slow, sensual flip, and I feel other body parts react to him as well. I shift on my feet, trying to put inappropriate thoughts out of my mind. Then I remember how this man just showed up on my doorstep.

  "What do you think you're doing?" I sputter. "Are you stalking me?"

  "I don't think it's stalking when I already have your address," he says, his blue-green eyes lit with humor.

  "I already told you, I can't work for you any longer," I say, fumbling with my keys. "How did you manage to get in the building, anyway?"

  "One of the other tenants let me in," he says. "Aren't you going to go in?"

  I think about this and realize whatever conversation I'm about to have with this man, I probably don't want to have in the hallway. "One of the other owners," I correct.

  I shake my keys in my hand, looking for the door key. My hands shake with nerves, and I drop my keys.

  "One of the other owners?" he asks. He bends down to scoop the keys up, finds the door key, and unlocks the door. With the toe of his loafer, he nudges the door open and makes a sweeping motion for me to go in.

  "This is a condo building," I say, stepping inside my unit after a moment’s hesitation. He follows me in and closes the door behind us.

  I've owned this condo for several years now, and it always seemed like more than enough space for me. But something about Lincoln's presence seems to crowd the spacious living room so that I feel as if he is too close to me. Unsettled, I walk to my galley style kitchen and set my purse on the tiny kitchen table. I set my phone and keys on the counter and turn around to face him with my arms crossed over my chest.

  "What can I do for you, Mr. Cooper?"

  Lincoln stands there with a thoughtful look on his face, then crosses the living room to stand close to me. He places the bag of groceries on the kitchen counter, crosses his arms over his chest, and leans against the door jamb.

  "I think you already know what you can do for me, Ms. Mack," he says. He cocks an eyebrow, and his lips quirk. I square my shoulders and narrow my eyes at him.

  He grins at me and gives me a knowing look, almost like he knows the way my body reacts to his and the filthy thoughts in my mind.

  "Oh? And what would that be?" I ask, making sure my voice holds an appropriate amount of pique.

  "Why, helping me out while my assistant is indisposed," he says, a twinkle in his eye. It's almost as if he knows my mind is in the gutter.

  "One of my regular clients is back from vacation," I say, thinking about Peter. "I did have some extra time this week, but I'm afraid I'm all booked up again."

  Also, I need to keep my distance from you...

  "But surely, you can squeeze me in, can't you?" He still has that arrogant little smirk on his lips, almost as if he knows that what he'd said could be taken as sexual innuendo.

  "I'm sorry," I say. "I don't want to do a disservice to my current clients by stretching myself too thin."

  "I had something come up today, something that compels me to find a replacement immediately," he says. "A new investor wants to move up the open date of the new restaurant
by three weeks. I'm going to need help with all of the arrangements, and I do not have the time nor inclination to try working with a temp, especially when it's obvious you're more than qualified to do this job."

  "Well–I'm sorry I can't help you," I say. "I do wish you the best."

  He keeps looking at me, and his expression is sly. With his eyes pinning me in place, he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, takes out his wallet, opens it, and takes out a folded check. He hands the check to me. I take it, but don't look at it.

  "You did such a great job for me this week that I included a bonus," he says, his eyes boring into mine. "If you change your mind, you have my contact information. I promise I can make it worth your time."

  "But I haven't even sent you an invoice yet," I say, puzzled by his demeanor.

  "I'm a businessman, and I don't give out bonuses lightly," he says. "But when a bonus is warranted, I do not hesitate to give them. This check is for one week's worth of full-time work. I would need you for the next six weeks, and I would pay you the same amount of this check for each of those six weeks. I need to know your answer this evening."

  With that, he gives me one last smile and leaves my unit. I enjoy the view of his butt filling out a snug pair of jeans as he goes.

  After he's gone, I turn on my tablet and look for the Dear Ida advice column. I enjoy reading about other people's life dilemmas. Since I started my business almost a year ago, I've had no time for a life, and therefore, I have no life dilemmas. Dear Ida, and my collection of vibrators, have kept me sane through my self-imposed man drought.

  Dear Ida:

  I've been dating my boyfriend for three years. Last month, he attended a bachelor party in Las Vegas. We've been talking about moving in for months, but I found a photo of him at the bachelor party with a topless woman sitting on his lap. He insists the picture is not what it seems, but I can't help but think that he's not telling me the whole story. I love him, but I don't know what to do. Should I trust him and ignore my instincts? What should I do?