The Irresistible Mr Cooper

by Roslyn Carrington

  “You look very nice this evening.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the few seconds’ pause that ensued, she knew what was coming. “Can I have this dance?” He held expectantly one hand out, palm up, for her to take.

  Jenessa hesitated. She’d had a few dances tonight, so she couldn’t claim she didn’t dance. But those were with other office workers, like her. Supervisors, managers, and accountants. Not the handyman! She glanced around. Everybody was having a whale of a time, dancing, talking, and, most importantly, tippling. Nobody would care. What happens at the Christmas party stays at the Christmas party, right? A few moments more and her hesitation would be considered unforgivably rude. She smiled, held out her hand in response. He took it as though he hadn’t even noticed she’d hesitated, and led her onto the dance floor.

  Boyz II Men’s “I’ll Make Love To You” was oozing from the speakers. If there was anything cornier than that, she didn’t know what it was, but hokey R&B ballads were a weakness of hers, with their seductive harmonies and lazy, mind-drugging beats. And once she’d overcome her misgivings, she relaxed enough to notice the man could dance. He moved with confidence, grace and sensuality, lulling her into stepping in time with his body. His big hand was in the small of her back, and the other held hers firmly.

  The track segued into Usher’s “Can U Handle It”. She almost felt compelled to make an inane, nervous crack about the DJ making sure that somebody got laid tonight, but that would have done nothing to distract them both from the incredible feeling of rightness. There was nothing but the music and him. His warmth. His scent.

  One dance later, it occurred to her she still couldn’t remember his first name. “Michael, right?”

  “Mitchell,” he corrected.

  She felt a flush of embarrassment. “Sorry.”

  A tremor of laughter rippled through him. “No problem. No reason for you to know it.”

  “You know my name,” she pointed out.

  “Guess I do.”

  There was a music-filled pause, and then he enquired, “You still planning to spend Christmas alone?”

  She frowned. Being alone for the holidays was a sore point. It wasn’t something she was looking forward to—and it certainly wasn’t any of his business. Her defensiveness was audible. “Yes, why?”

  “Just asking,” he answered mildly.

  She felt bad about snapping, so she softened enough to explain. “My sister and her husband migrated to New Zealand. My father died late last year, so Jordana flew our mother out there to spend Christmas with them.”

  “So you’re on your own.”

  The sadness almost stuck in her throat, but she tried to sound as though it didn’t matter. “Guess so.”

  “You shouldn’t be,” he murmured. His chin brushed the top of her head, but whether it was by accident or not, she couldn’t tell.

  With great disappointment, she discovered the song, and the set, had ended. He released her and stepped back, slipping his hands into his pockets and watching her gravely. “Thank you.”

  She had the oddest feeling she’d been deposited on a lonely island, and the ship was backing slowly away from the dock. She felt a slight chill, in spite of the heat being generated by the dancers, and the baby-blanket warmth of her new sweater. “Um, I’ll see you around,” she managed, with very little of her usual poise.

  “I’ll see you again before the night is over,” he promised, and gave a courteous nod before he turned away.

  After that, she ate little and drank even less, waiting with her back to the wall for the highlight of the Bianchi’s Christmas party: the unmasking of the Secret Santas. One by one the identities were revealed. The recipient of her own surprises, a nineteen-year-old called Louise from the secretarial pool, thanked her effusively for the gifts of an Hermès scarf, a subscription to the Chocolate Box of the Month Club, and tickets to a Shakira concert that was coming to town.

  Jenessa rubbed absently at the fuchsia lipstick that had been smeared on her cheek during Louise’s yelping embrace and waited her turn. Each pearl adorning the collar of her sweater felt like it was burrowing into her skin. Who could this man be, who knew her so well? When the announcement was made and her Santa worked his way toward her, beaming, she was poleaxed. Al Wainwright? The Routing Supervisor? Al was a fifty-three-year-old bachelor who lived with his older sister. His race was indeterminate, as he had no hair to speak of and his skin was the dull, sallow ochre that could only be achieved through years of being locked up in one’s room, playing Halo and avoiding the sun.

  Like most of the Santas, he came armed with his final gift, and he pressed it into her hands with a bashful grin. “This is for you, Jenessa.”

  She thanked him politely and peeked into the open mouth of the bright foil gift bag. An electric can opener/knife sharpener. This was the man who’d bought her the divine scented oil she’d been pouring into her bath every night? The book of erotic poems? The sweater that wrapped itself around her curves like a lover’s embrace? The wave of disappointment that broke over her brought with it a backwash of nausea.

  She let Al hug her, feeling the soft roundness of his Weeble-Wobble belly pressed against her flat one. Thanked him again with the best smile she could muster under the circumstances and fled.

  It was time to go home. The sweater she’d loved the moment she’d touched it was beginning to make her skin crawl. Protocol demanded she inform the CEO, and at least her VP, Sharona, that she was leaving, but even though as Corporate Communications Manager she was the keeper of company protocol, she decided the hell with it. Everyone was having too much of a good time to miss her. She’d grab her coat, duck outside, jump into her car and get out of here. She’d make her excuses when they opened again for business the day after Christmas.

  The coats were kept in a small cloakroom off the cafeteria. In the dim lighting, the forest of coats made her feel as though she was stepping through the wardrobe into Narnia. She went over to the spot where she’d left hers, still battling the nausea that was due partly to disappointment and shock, and partly to the wine.

  The prickle of hair along the backs of her arms told her she wasn’t alone. There was someone there; a tall, dark shape. “Hello?”

  More curious than afraid, she stepped forward, and then almost choked on her own tongue. The tall shape was Mitchell Cooper.

  And he had his hand in her coat pocket.

  His stunned surprise mirrored her own. “Jenessa!”

  Her breath escaped her in a raspy gust of shock and outrage. “You thieving bastard! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  He withdrew his hand slowly, and there was something in it. “You’ve got it all wrong—” he began.

  “What? What did I get wrong?” The evening was getting worse by the minute. First, her sensual, charismatic Santa had turned into an odd little elf, and now the man who’d danced with her like he’d done it dozens of times before turned out to be nothing more than a pickpocket and a scrub. “I come in here and find you taking something out of my pocket, and I’m the one making a mistake?”

  The thieving scum bucket had recovered fast, she’d give him that. There was no evidence of guilt or shame. His voice was soft and even. “I wasn’t taking anything out of your pocket. I was putting something in.”

  She sputtered, not believing him for a second. Appalled that he had the brass to stand there and lie to her face. “Don’t try any Jedi mind-tricks on me. I saw what you were doing. What’d you take? What do you have there? Hand it over.”

  “With pleasure.” He extended his hand, open. It dwarfed a small box, wrapped in bright red paper and tied up with a white bow.

  The only sound that passed her lips was a squeak.

  “Merry Christmas, Jenessa.”

  She glared suspiciously at the package as if it were ticking. “What the hell’s that?”

  “It’s a present,” he answered. Patient. Pleasant. “For you.”

  She redirected her frow
n at him. “Why?”

  His handsome face revealed not guilt but indulgent amusement. He was still holding out the package. “Because I thought you’d like it.”

  She still didn’t move. “I ought to call the cops,” she muttered, but with much less conviction than before.

  He laughed softly. “Right. I hear giving Christmas presents is a felony in at least twelve states.” When he saw she still wasn’t reaching for it, he drew his hand back and tugged on the ribbon himself. “I’ll open it for you, ‘kay?”

  She watched, intrigue muddying her anger. He let the satin ribbon swirl to the floor, tore off the paper, and opened the box. She tried to act nonchalant, tried not to peep inside. She’d rather die than acknowledge that she was aching to know what was in it, as bizarre as the circumstances were. He withdrew a slender object, set the box down on a nearby shelf and reached for her hand without asking.

  She stared as he slipped the bracelet around her wrist. It was made of small gold loops, interspersed with stones that looked like polished jade. When he released her, she lifted her hand up to eye level and examined it with perplexity and fascination. Mitchell Cooper had bought her a bracelet. A delicate, absolutely gorgeous bracelet. “Why?” she asked again.

  “I told you. I thought you’d like it.”

  She swallowed hard. This made no sense. “I do like it—”

  “I’m glad.”

  “But why do you want me to like it?”

  His response was simple and direct. “Because I like you.”

  She desperately wished there was a wall nearby that could support her. A desk, a chair, anything. Her head was swimming. “Mr. Cooper. . . . ”

  “Mitchell.”

  She began again. “Mitchell, I don’t think. . . . ” Then, finally, she caught on. She gasped. “It was you! The bath oil! The poems!” There’d been two gift-givers, not one. When she thought about it, it made so much sense. Poor old Al, trying so hard with his Snoopy mug and his fudge. And all along, he’d had competition that had blown him out of the water.

  The smile that spread across Cooper’s lips made it all the way to his eyes. They glowed with warmth and pride. He didn’t need to acknowledge her discovery verbally.

  She tugged at the neckline of the exquisite sweater she’d so fallen in love with. “You got me this sweater!”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  Flattering, but she had to ask, “Why didn’t you just get presents for your person? Aren’t you someone else’s Secret Santa?”

  The high-wattage smile dimmed a little. “No.”

  She was suspicious again, but curious, too. “What do you mean, no? It’s a Bianchi’s tradition. Everyone has to get presents for someone. Didn’t you pull a name out of the basket?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Why? Because you’re new here?”

  “Because you-all didn’t invite me. Or any of my staff, actually.”

  With sinking shame, she knew the answer to her question before she asked it. “Why not?”

  The door blew inward, bringing with it the sounds and smells of the revelry outside. Two tipsy, giggling secretaries with tinsel in their hair tottered in on high heels, crashed around looking for their coats, loudly discussing the party. “Oh, man, oh man,” one was saying. “Good thing we don’t have to work tomorrow, because I’m gonna be sooo hung over!”

  “My shoe heel’s broken. How’d my shoe heel get broken?” came the response.

  “What you doing tomorrow? I’m sooo going shopping. You going shopping?”

  “You don’t think I broke it stomping on balloons, do you? I just wanted to hear them pop.”

  They gathered up their coats, squinting at them, asking each other for reassurance that they had the right ones, and then threw them on in preparation for stepping outside into the light snow. The girls spotted Jenessa and Cooper standing in the corner and were momentarily silenced. Looked from face to face, frankly curious. Cooper was cool, unperturbed. Jenessa slightly embarrassed. She’d been caught in the semi-darkness talking to Bianchi’s head handyman. She hoped they didn’t think. . . .

  “Hi Jen,” one said cheerily. “Are we disturbing . . . ?”

  “No,” Jenessa said a little too quickly. She couldn’t bear to look at him.

  “Righty-o then.” The girls, protected from the cold now, headed for the door, dismissing her and Cooper without effort. As the cloakroom door shut, Jenessa heard, “Shoes. That’s right. Think I’ll go shopping for shoes. Christmassy ones, ya know?”

  Mitchell was leaning against a locker, arms folded across his chest. He answered her question as if they’d never been interrupted. “I’m not psychic or anything, but I’m guessing you fine office folk didn’t think to invite us simply because you forget we exist. Until you need us. You call us in, we do our jobs, and then you forget about us all over again.”

  Jenessa put her hands to her lips, hot with embarrassment and uncomfortable with what she knew to be the truth. “I’m sorry.” Then she added defensively, “I didn’t organize the game, you know.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I assumed everyone . . . I hope we didn’t offend you.” Which was a stupid thing to hope. If she’d been in his place, she’d be offended.

  He looked like he couldn’t care less. “Not me, particularly. I’m not that easy to offend. But a couple people on my staff, especially the ladies, were a little hurt.”

  She put her hand to her forehead, suddenly sober. Searching for something to say that would make things better. It was hard to be confronted with the reality of prejudice, especially when, as two black people, they’d both had to deal with the shadow of it from others. She and her colleagues had rendered Mitchell and the rest of his staff invisible because of the work they did. She was sure there was no conspiracy to exclude them; nobody in Bianchi’s was that mean. It had been simple middle-class thoughtlessness.

  She felt his hand close around her wrist, coming into contact with the green stones that had already taken on the warmth of her body. “Jenessa, Jenessa, don’t worry. It’s not that important, really.”

  “But you got me these nice things, and I. . . . ”

  “Like you said, you didn’t organize the game. It’s not your fault.” The glow was back in his eyes again. “Of course, if you want to make it up to me. . . . ”

  Her answer was a hesitant, “Yeees?” She was immediately on her guard, awareness of her surroundings suddenly heightened. They were alone in a dimly lit cloakroom, with a zillion decibels of party music threatening to drown out any shouts for help. He made no attempt to hide his attraction for her; it was there in his eyes and in the story told by his carefully chosen gifts. What if. . . .

  He laughed again. Laughter came easy to him, it seemed. “Oh, tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.” He abandoned her wrist, and it dropped to her side.

  “I’m not—”

  “I was about to offer to cook you dinner.”

  Cook her dinner? That would be a first. “When?”

  “Day after tomorrow,” he answered firmly, as if he’d been thinking about it for some time.

  Day after tomorrow! “But that’s. . . .”

  “Christmas. I know. You said you’d be alone. Has that changed?”

  She shook her head slowly. “No.”

  “Well, then. Why not come over and have dinner?”

  The thing that surprised her most was how tempted she was. Not just because deep down she was dreading being alone that evening, but because Mitchell Cooper himself was as fine a Christmas treat as she could imagine. Unconsciously, she reached up to caress the bracelet. He wasn’t inviting her to share a meal out of Christian charity. He was asking her on a date. To his home, where they’d be alone. . . .

  “We won’t be alone,” he informed her. “If that’s what you’re worried about. I live with my niece, Ruby. Twelve-year-olds make excellent chaperones, believe me.”

  “You take care of her?”

  “Yes.
She’s been with me on and off for a long time. Her mother, my sister, is . . . unable to care for her right now. We’re a happy family of two.”

  She searched his face. Something glowed within him as he talked about the girl, something real that made her feel even more comfortable with the invitation. He was right. Nobody made a better chaperone than a nosy kid. At least, if she accepted, she’d have enough of a buffer between herself and this utterly magnetic man. But she had to ask, “Don’t you have a—”

  “I’ve been a widower for five years.”

  Jenessa swallowed hard. Automatically, the cliché rose to her lips. “Oh, I’m—”

  He rumbled through her platitude like an impatient freight train. “Jenessa, look. I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable. I’m just asking you out, is all. I’d love to have you at my table on one of the most special nights of the year. I’d like to get to know you better.”

  Before she could react to the frank admission, he riffled through his pockets and pulled out a pencil stub and a crumpled piece of paper. “Here’s my address and numbers. If you decide to come over, give me a shout.” He smiled. “I’ll still cook enough for you. And Ruby will love to have you. It won’t be a barrel of yuks with just the two of us.”

  She took the proffered piece of paper and looked at it. It was a department store receipt for a Ariana Grande t-shirt, size small. She turned it over and examined the address and numbers like they would tell her something more about him. While she was deep in thought, he crossed the room, located his navy-blue pea coat and shrugged it on.

  “Are you okay to get home?” he asked.

  “Oh, I’m, er, fine. I’m driving.”

  “Good. Take care now.” He treated her one last time to his devastating smile, and then he was gone, leaving her alone in the room, staring down at that piece of paper, and thinking hard.