A Package Deal

by Mia Kerick

  Copyright

  Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  5032 Capital Circle SW

  Suite 2, PMB# 279

  Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

  USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Package Deal

  © 2013 Mia Kerick.

  Cover Photo

  © 2013 Terry J Cyr.

  Cover Design

  © 2013 Paul Richmond.

  http://www.paulrichmondstudio.com

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

  ISBN: 978-1-62798-215-3

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-214-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  November 2013

  To my children, who are my reason.

  Chapter 1

  Robby

  “SHE more than meets the criteria… don’t you dare try to deny it, DeSalvo.”

  “Don’t you go forgetting who came up with the fucking criteria in the first place.” Nonetheless, Mikey took one last long look up and down the silhouette of the female in question and conceded. “But, yeah, she’s smoking hot…. You gonna do her or is it gonna have to be up to me again?”

  With balled-up fists, I drilled him a couple times on his shoulder, pleased with my best pal’s admission that the girl I’d dragged him over to this less-than-five-star diner to check out had sailed right through the stringent requirements of his very own Michael DeSalvo Hot Chick Test. “Nah, man, I wouldn’t want to put you to any extra trouble. I’ll take care of it myself this time.”

  “Okay, but jot down lots of notes, Robby.” After a wide yawn followed by an exaggerated stretch, Mikey dragged himself from his stool. “’Cause I’m gonna want all the dirty details.”

  Glancing several stools over at the lady in question, and hoping like hell that she hadn’t heard my buddy’s last comment, I gave him a shove toward the door. “Go ahead and get out of here, Mikey!”

  Yes, she was indeed a vision of hotness. White-blonde curls, nearly long enough to brush the rounded top of a fine, curvaceous ass. And as far as this babe’s face was concerned, her most notable features were her sea-green eyes: wide-set, but not even slightly innocent, as I didn’t go for that pure-as-the-driven-snow type of girl… never had. And a strong jaw, none too eager to allow even a hint of a smile; this girl was much more comfortable sporting an unyielding, and by now, rather predictable, scowl. Thought-provoking, slightly intimidating, and at the same time incredibly easy on the eyes. To seal the deal, my best pal, Mr. Michael Joseph DeSalvo, connoisseur of the female face and form, had been hard-pressed to control his salivation in her magnificent presence. And since I had a brain in my head, I wasn’t about to let this golden opportunity pass me by.

  I’d bumped into this lovely young lady at this very café at least ten times since the flood in the Tardiff Building’s top-floor science lab, which had occurred right after the university opened for the fall semester. They’d needed a small commercial construction firm that was available on short notice to fix the damage, and my company had been ready and willing. And yes, Dalton Builders was just about as able as a small construction firm could be; I’d spent the better part of the past five years ensuring that. Including nights, weekends, and holidays.

  Anyways, if this girl’s gradually more frequent half-smiles, which I assumed were in direct response to our semiweekly, increasingly cordial banter sessions, hadn’t exactly become what you’d call inviting, they had at least given me the distinct impression that I was, in her opinion, tolerable. Maybe even mildly interesting. That was enough for me to work with, seeing as it had been at least six months since I’d last had a date. Past time to make my move, unless I was moving toward the priesthood. For which I had no immediate plans.

  I’d never claimed to fully understand it, but I had this peculiar “little quirk” when it came to the ladies. More specifically, in order for me to possess even a hint of interest in a woman, she had to be compelling in some nonphysical way. In other words, she had to possess more assets than a pretty face and a well-shaped backside. And I could tell this girl was complicated, in a more-than-meets-the-eye way I was drawn to. Deciphering this puzzle of a lady might even keep me mentally occupied for more than the standard three or four dates I normally endured before I typically lost interest in a woman.

  But I was probably putting the cart before the horse; I didn’t even know her name.

  “Seems that you like the coffee here as much as I do.” She spoke first again tonight.

  If that wasn’t an invitation to chat, I didn’t know what was. “It’s more of a need-the-coffee kind of thing.” I let my best sideways grin fly across those two unoccupied barstools separating us, knowing fully well the effect my smile had on females. “I merely appreciate its stimulative qualities.”

  Honestly, I don’t know if I was trying to be suggestive with my choice of words or not, but neither my flirtatious words nor my devastating grin seemed to make even a bit of impact. The girl nodded blandly in response. “Caffeine addiction? I can totally relate.”

  I lifted my mug, as if to toast her. “So what brings you to this cozy café, every… let’s see… most every Tuesday and Thursday night, am I right?”

  Blonde hair pooled up on top of the bar as she nodded again, this time pensively. “I have an evening class at Somerville U, and I always stop here for a latte before I catch the bus to my apartment. Good coffee makes the ride seem shorter.”

  Those no-nonsense eyes returned my gaze, and I knew she was waiting for my explanation of my own rather frequent evening caffeine fixes. And since I always aim to please, I replied, “My company is renovating the classrooms in the Tardiff Building… and it’s a rush job, so we’ve been holding fairly regular evening job meetings, you know?”

  That nod again. But this time her chin stayed down and just her eyes lifted to mine. “Your company?”

  Apparently I’d caught her interest; it was my turn to nod. “Yeah…. Robert Dalton Builders. I’m Robby Dalton, CEO and president… and vice president and treasurer… and, well, I guess I’m the secretary too.” Feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment at my disclosure, I held out my hand. “Management for Dalton Builders is sort of a one-man show at this point, or, well, a one-and-a-half man show since I hired my buddy. I don’t know if you noticed me talking to a guy a little while ago—he helps me part-time with the estimating. But I subcontract all of the labor.”

  After a brief hesitation during which she kept her stony eyes leveled on mine, the girl very loosely clasped my extended hand in her small one. “Isn’t that kind of a big job for such a… a tiny company?”

  “No, not really; it’s only five upstairs classrooms, a l
ength of the hallway, and a ladies’ room. Water damage from a leaky roof… but they found a big name contractor to do the roof part. I still have to go to all of the meetings, though, so I’ve been stopping here for coffee before I drive home.” I’d never been more certain of the fact that I was being sized up. The way she was examining me made me feel like a lab rat. And, at the moment, a nervously rambling lab rat. Oddly, in all of my past experience with women, I had always considered them my lab rats.

  “Well, Robby, my name is Savannah.” I must say, in my humble opinion, Savannah certainly wasn’t the breeziest girl I’d ever come across, but since she was still examining me with the detached interest of a scientist, I allowed myself limited hope. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Okay, so this girl unnerved me. “D-do you have a l-last name, Savannah?”

  Very patiently, she answered, “Of course I do.”

  “Oh.” I mean, how does a dude respond to that? “Uh… well, yeah.”

  “Meyers.”

  “What?”

  “It’s Meyers…. Savannah Meyers.”

  Here’s where I demonstrated my witty and well-polished conversational skills. “Oh… sure. Right.”

  But my awkwardness, which I thought would’ve sunk my chances at a date with a girl like her, seemed to be the factor that won her over. Savannah finally smiled at me, her expression alive with either approval or pity (hard to tell which in the heat of the moment), and she said brightly, “We should meet here for dinner tomorrow night. How’s seven o’clock for you?”

  I have to admit, I was thankful she’d made the first move. Despite my alleged all-American good looks, agreed upon by a general consensus of collegiate, coworking, and bar-hopping females, my confidence when dealing with the opposite sex was minimal at best. I just had such a hard time connecting with them—all except for my sister, that is. But sisters don’t really count. If Savannah hadn’t asked me to dinner, I’d have been destined to lurk around this cozy café for an indeterminate number of Tuesday and Thursday evenings, waiting for her return to coincide with a fleeting moment of courage on my part. So it was with great relief that I bestowed upon Savannah my most Brad Pitt-like smile. “S-sounds r-really g-good.” Yes, it seemed that I had quite recently acquired a minor speech impediment.

  Savannah just stood up, shook her head as if she’d had enough of me already, and turned toward the door, glancing back once to say, simply, “Oh, Robby….” And then she tossed back her unruly waist-length curls one more time and headed for the door.

  Chapter 2

  Tristan

  WHERE is she?

  The only way I was going to get through this in one piece was by rocking my body, cross-legged, arms tightly wrapped around my shoulders. And so I did it, I’ll admit not without a heap of shame weighing me down. I tried to keep the motion slight, but the very second Savannah stepped through the doorway, I could tell by her baffled expression that she noticed it. She closed the door smoothly and moved with purpose to stand in front of where I swayed on the couch.

  “Tristan.” She placed her little hand firmly on the several days’ worth of dark scruffy growth I normally wore on my face and dragged her cool fingertips down to my chin; the physical contact served to make my rocking stop.

  “You’re late, Savi…. I got worried about you.”

  She plunked herself down beside me and somehow pulled the entire long length of me into her teeny arms. Yeah, I was a rather tall man, maybe a bit on the bony side as well, but I let my body melt against her petite one like I was just a little boy. I felt her fingers slide up my back to the top of my head. She shuffled them through my dark, shaggy hair like she was feeling around for my brain. “Well, I’m here now.”

  We stayed like that, tangled up in each other’s arms, until we were both fairly sure my rocking had stopped for good. Then she nudged me with her shoulder, a tad less than gently, so I’d release her from the near choke hold I had around her neck. “How was your day off?” Savannah’s eyes met mine with what I’d call wary interest.

  “Same old, same old.” I grabbed the remote and turned off the television set so that now we sat in virtual darkness as well as complete silence. “Where were you?”

  “I had classes this morning, and then study group. And it’s Thursday—Ethical Standards Class night—you know that.” Savannah lifted the huge mass of blonde ringlets from off of her shoulders and, with some effort, roped them into the thick elastic band she wore on her wrist. I had to restrain myself from tucking the curly strands she’d overlooked behind her ears. “And I stopped by the S-Squared for a mocha. I’m going to have a late night. Major exam in the morning… counts for a third of my grade.”

  “Don’t worry, Savi, I’ll stay up and help you study.”

  She smiled at me so prettily that I had to swallow deeply to soothe the lump of emotion that had risen in the back of my throat. “You’re so sweet, Tristan. I can always count on you.”

  “And don’t you forget it,” I joked as I lifted up her hands, which had by now dropped to her lap, and brought them to my lips and just held them there. But the air between us crackled with the tension of unspoken words.

  “How could I ever forget?” Sounding just a hair shy of sarcastic, she looked away quickly.

  Silence enveloped us, but after more than four years together, Savannah knew me well enough to wait. I’d say what I needed to say when I was ready. And it didn’t take too long before my body’s rocking restarted and I was rambling. “I don’t care what you’re doing when you aren’t with me, I’ve told you that over and over, but you’ve got to call me when you’re going to be late—I have to know that you are safe.”

  Leaning over me to switch on the lamp beside the couch, she huffed softly. “You do so care what I’m doing when I’m not with you; you care about every single detail of what I do when I’m not with you. And Tris, that’s okay, because I care about every detail of your day too.” Again she lifted her dainty fingers, this time to caress the length of my cheekbones beneath the slight slant of my eyes. “And by the way, there is nothing that I do at this point in my life that does not involve or revolve around you, okay?”

  I ceased my rocking, but still I wondered about her words: at this point in my life.

  “And I’m sorry that I didn’t call you—it was inconsiderate. I was talking to someone at the S-Squared.” She didn’t look away.

  After about thirty seconds, during which my brain absorbed that information, my body very predictably resumed its rhythmic swaying. “Who were you talking to?”

  It took Savannah almost a full minute to respond. “His name is Robby Dalton.”

  Chapter 3

  Robby

  THE next morning when I arrived at my office on the third floor of a renovated but still rustic brick mill building in Cambridge, I wore on my face the proud smile of a winner. Because yes, I’d scored with a lady (well, not scored in the sense that most men thought of it, but still).

  And thanks to that “little quirk” I had with women, my motivational level, in terms of cruising bars and clubs and collecting phone numbers from eligible babes, wasn’t as healthy for me as it was for Mikey (and the rest of the male population).

  Let’s face it, scoring for most men was as basic as: 1) registering hot chick on radar; 2) collecting said hot chick’s cell phone number; 3) waiting two days and making quick call to hot chick; 4) taking hot chick to dinner; 5) scoring in sack with hot chick. Simple as connecting the numbers, right? Well, not so in my case, mostly because number 1, “registering hot chick on radar,” happened to me only a couple of times per year. At the most. Yes, hot chicks on my radar were very few and far between. And as I mentioned before, this was due to the apparently ridiculous notion that in order for Robby Dalton to experience so much as a spark of interest, a woman had to be in some way, um, actually interesting.

  So, yes, last night was momentous—I’d met a woman who’d managed to light my fire, or at a minimum get the kindling to smoke a
bit—and I felt like most guys do after completing number 5. I’d scored big time.

  My mind fully occupied with visions of Savannah, I pushed through the door of my office and was greeted by the sight of my chief (and only) estimator, Mikey DeSalvo, or as he liked to refer to himself when he was at one of his two part-time jobs, “Mr. Numbers,” laying out the architectural drawings we were using to complete an estimate for a small library addition in Medford. Unfortunately, for the time being, he had to set up shop in my own small office. But according to Mikey, in his other occupational capacity as part-time rental agent, by late spring of next year an adjacent office space in this very building was going to open up. Late spring couldn’t come soon enough; Mikey could be tough to take in large doses.

  “What’s wit’ the shit-eating grin, Dalton?” Mikey’s Boston accent was prominent. He pulled his hairy, crumb-covered hand out of a white bakery bag and popped a colorful cookie into his mouth (Mama DeSalvo owned a bakery in Revere).

  Snatching the bag, I asked, “You save any for me, Mr. Numbers?” Empty… naturally.

  “Course not, A-hole. Not my day to feed you, ’s far as I know.” He turned his attention to the blueprints spread out all over my plan table. Tapping their corners with his pencil eraser, he squinted his dark eyes and stated thoughtfully, “I think we can get this one ’s long as we can find the right guy to wire it.”

  I kept my mouth shut and waited for the rest.

  “And come to think of it, my cousin Davey-boy’s a pretty decent electrician, and he just got an opening in his schedule that would coincide just perfect wit’ this job here. I’d bet my fine Italian ass that he’d be interested in helping us out too.”

  I did my best to send Mikey a stern “I’m the boss” glare, but seeing as we’d been best pals since well before our days at St. Joseph’s High and that old habits, like bad friendships, died hard, it was completely lost on him. “Your job, bud, is to find the best electrician at the cheapest price possible, not to keep the entire DeSalvo clan employed.”