Text Me On Tuesday: All is Fair in Love and Texting ... (An Accidentally in Love Story Book 1)
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Oh, Cindy, why do you have to go all Jiminy Cricket on me? Can’t we just take this one advantage and go straight to the top? I’ll just never look at myself in the mirror again. It’ll be fine.
No, it won’t. Damn. She’s right.
It takes everything in me to shake my head and force myself to say, “No, of course not. That's not how we do business.”
“Are you kidding me?” Jack asks, sitting back in his chair. “You said it yourself—this is the most important pitch of our lives. If we've got an edge, we’d be stupid not to use it.”
Double damn. He's also not wrong. Having access to the materials they've chosen, the design itself, and their fees would easily allow us to make adjustments that would solidify our position as front-runner for this job. This is one of those moments when valuing your integrity sucks overcooked Brussels sprouts. Turning to my brother, I say, “Do not accept the invitation. Do not. Tell him you appreciate it, but no.”
As an afterthought, I add, “You have my blessing to still ‘take one for the team’ if you so desire. Just don’t tell me about it.”
“Are you serious, Noel?” senior architect Ali Burman says. “I don’t know if this is how they do business in London, but in New York, it’s dog eat dog. I've got four teenagers, Noel. Four. They’re going to break me financially between dance classes, baseball camps, saving for college … not to mention the food bill. Do you know what it costs to feed four teenagers?”
“Twelve-hundred a month,” a few of the people at the table say.
Ali’s head snaps back, and Byron says, “You may have mentioned it.”
“Sorry, Ali, but I don’t think it’s worth the risk,” Cindy says. “I mean, what if we got caught?”
“We’re not going to get caught,” I say, as eleven sets of hopeful eyes turn to me. “Because we’re not going to do it. Delete the email immediately. We’re not trading our integrity for a job. Even if it is the biggest, most incredible project we’ll ever bid on and it’s the type of legacy every architect dreams of having.” Rats, I’m talking myself out of doing the right thing. No, Noel. Stop that. “What we are going to do is win this thing without cheating or undercutting someone else's bid or stealing their ideas. We don’t have to stoop so low because we've put together the best team in the city. Plus, we’ve checked off every box the client is asking for and then some.”
I glance around at their faces, giving them my best impression of an ultra-confident CEO. The response is underwhelming to say the least. “Okay, I say we call it a night. Go home and do whatever it is you do that helps you relax and recharge. Hopefully by this time tomorrow night, we’ll be celebrating. Thanks, everyone.”
Murmurs of relief and the closing clicks of laptops bounce off the glass walls of the floor-to-ceiling windows. A quick glance at the East River and the Brooklyn skyline behind it tells me it’s late evening. A single ferry crosses the dark shimmering waters of the river, taking the last of the haggard suits home for the night. I pick up my pen and jot some notes on a pad of graph paper while my weary staff slowly make their way out of the room. I don’t dare look up because that would mean facing the utter disappointment in their eyes. I’m fighting every impulse I have to grab Byron’s phone and download the presentation, and I don’t need to see Ali’s let-down expression as he slinks home to his brood of hungry children.
Cindy stops beside me on her way out. “You did the right thing,” she says, touching my forearm in a way that makes me wish I had left the sleeves of my dress shirt rolled down today.
I give her a quick nod and a distant smile. “I appreciate your vote of confidence.”
“I'm not sure if it was the smart thing. I mean, we probably won’t win the bid now, but it’ll help you avoid prison time anyway.” She shakes her head at me. “I had a cousin who went to jail for tax evasion. I don’t think you’d do well in that sort of environment.”
Brilliant. “I don’t think I’d go to—never mind. Have a lovely evening, Cindy.”
Byron is the only one who remains, tapping away on his phone. “Do you need me to stick around, boss?” His use of the word “boss” is done in the same vein that hipsters grow beards—ironically. “What are the chances that you’re going to actually leave here before midnight?”
“Slim to none.”
“Great,” he says with a sigh.
“I'm not asking you to stay.”
“Yes, I know, but that dreamy jazz musician asked me to dinner and I won't enjoy it nearly as much if I know you're here toiling away into the wee hours all by yourself.”
“Shall I pretend I'm going home too so you can feel better?”
“That would be lovely,” he says, gathering up his laptop and water bottle.
I stand, collect my things, and follow him down the long hall to my corner office here on the forty-second floor of the Liberty Bank Tower—the building that says to the world, I've made it. Byron stops at his desk and drops off his laptop.
I’m just about to bid him a good night when I remember one last thing he was meant to take care of for me. “Byron, I just want to make sure you've got the catering all set up for tomorrow.”
“Yes, of course,” he says in his how-dare-you tone. “What do you take me for?”
“It's just that occasionally you get sidetracked,” I say as gently as possible.
He picks up his messenger bag and gives me a steely glare. “Do you really think I don't know how to host a party?”
“I would never question your hosting abilities. But I overheard you earlier this afternoon when you slammed your hands on your desk and shouted, ‘The bloody caterer pulled out!’”
Byron rolls his eyes. “What kind of assistant would I be if I didn't have a long list of catering companies at my disposal?”
“So, you found someone,” I say, giving him a pointed look.
“Obviously,” he huffs.
“And it’s not just some rando who happened to drop off a flyer?”
Planting one hand on his hip, Byron says, “I am officially offended. I know how important this meeting is. As if I would entrust something of this magnitude to just anyone.”
Here we go. “That's not what I said. I just need everything to be absolutely perfect tomorrow.”
“I assure you I will have an elegantly laid out, absolutely delectable lunch for the clients. The company I chose is extremely professional and highly regarded throughout the city. Now, if there's nothing else, I would like to go home and shower before my date.”
“Go,” I say with a nod. “Have fun.”
He hurries away, calling over his shoulder, “I won't tell you to do the same because we both know you have no clue what that word means.”
“Fun doesn’t pay the bills,” I say as the elevator doors open and Byron steps on.
He spins around, hits the button, and announces, “Life is for making memories. Not money.”
The doors close, giving him the last word, but for once, I don’t care. I’m too tired to think of a good comeback. Sighing, I walk over to my desk and open my laptop, something about his words scratching at my insides. Dropping into my chair, I mutter, “I know what fun means. Maybe I just have a different definition of it than most people.”
I open the presentation file to go over it one last time with a fine-toothed comb. “You know what’ll be fun? Watching WL Brown Senior sign the contract tomorrow afternoon. That’ll be a riot.”
I hope.
Chapter Three
Aimée
I barely got any sleep last night. I’m fueled entirely by adrenaline and caffeine, but it’s a combination that’s never done me wrong. I stayed up until two in the morning cutting up fruit, and marinating vegetables for the roasted veggie and herbed goat cheese baguettes I’m serving.
I woke up at five to grill the peppers, eggplant, and onions, before assembling the sandwiches and rolling them tightly in plastic wrap so the flavors could continue to blend.
And dear God, no crisps! No one wants to sit in a conference room surrounded by crunching.
Byron must be English to call chips crisps. I’m determined to give him the best catered lunch he’s ever had, even if it means lessening my profit margin. If I can reel in a steady client, I can gradually increase my prices to market rate.
Teisha calls at seven sharp. “I covered my shift so I can help you today. When do you need me there?”
“You’re a life saver, Teish! Can you come to my place and help me load everything into the van?” I brought my catering truck with me from Rochester with fantasies of racing all over Manhattan and Brooklyn filling my head. So far it’s left its parking space under my building a grand total of four times. One of those times was to get gas.
“You want me to come now?” she asks.
“Yes, please. You’re the best, T. I’ll see you soon.” I hang up and hurry to my closet, looking for the perfect thing to wear. In Rochester, I usually went with the stereotypical black dress pants and white shirt. It wasn’t important that I looked like anything other than I was there.
But here in New York, I feel like I need to be chicer and more refined. You know, like the kind of person who works for the satisfaction of a job well done and not because I’m running low on toilet paper. Which I am.
I settle on a navy wrap dress that hugs my generous curves without looking slutty. Then I roll my long blonde hair into a french twist, releasing a couple of wavy tendrils to avoid looking severe.
After putting on a pair of low heels, I check myself out in the mirror that’s wedged behind the bathroom door. I want to say that I look like a movie star from the fifties—sexy, feminine, and alluring. But the truth is, I’m giving off a modern-day Mary Poppins vibe. Why is that?
I decide it’s my matronly footwear that no other twenty-eight-year-old on the planet would be caught dead in. I throw a pair of higher heels into my bag so that I can put them on before serving lunch.
I pull out two aprons with the company logo for Nibbles and Noshes on them—the three words all caterers have to remember are, “advertise, advertise, advertise!” Once that’s done, I start checking things off my list of everything that has to go down to the van.
Teisha arrives wearing her work uniform, black pants and a white polo. She takes one look at me and says, “You look efficient.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Because it sure doesn’t sound like a compliment.
“You look nice, professional,” she decides with her head cocked to the side.
“Do I look like Mary Poppins?”
Tapping her finger to her nose before pointing to me, she says, “Yes! I knew you looked familiar.”
“I don’t want to look like a British nanny about to spend the day drinking tea and flying kites,” I tell her in a pout.
“Psh, yeah you do. Every little boy on the planet had a thing for Mary Poppins. The men will love you and the woman won’t be threatened by you. It’s a good look.”
I don’t have time to worry about it now. I hurry to the bathroom and generously spray on my favorite perfume in hopes of adding to my appeal, before Teisha and I get busy loading up the truck. I keep my serving trays, utensils, and linens in the van because my apartment is too small to store them. Pushing aside a large storage bin, I make room for the coolers and assorted grocery bags.
“How many people is this lunch for anyway?” my friend asks.
“Seventeen,” I tell her. “I made enough for twenty-two just in case. You never want to run short, especially on a first impression.”
After pulling out onto 34th Street, which is the southernmost tip of the Garment District, we drive through Chelsea, Greenwich Village, Soho, and Tribeca before finally hitting the Financial District. I’m so in the zone, that we’ve gone several blocks before I notice the trees, that only weeks ago were bare, are now full of lush green leaves. Some are adorned with pink and white buds primed to burst into blossoms. It takes us forty-five minutes to go three miles. So, surprisingly fast for New York.
Pulling under the building, I park the van in the loading area by the elevators. With the emergency lights flashing, we unload. Then Teisha stands guard, while I go park.
By the time we’re on our way up to the forty-second floor of the Liberty Bank Building, my heart is racing like I just ran a three-minute mile. I’m so nervous I’m sweating. Lifting up an arm, I take a sniff to make sure I’m not stinky.
My friend laughs. “You smell fine. You look fine. Relax, will you? You’re acting like you’ve never had a catering job before.”
“I need something steady to come from this if I want to stay in New York. I need them to like me.”
“Girl, you’re the most likable person I’ve ever met. Of course they’re going to like you.”
When the elevator finally opens—it takes a long time to climb forty-two floors into the Manhattan skyline—I’m feeling a little better.
A tall and very good-looking man with light brown hair is waiting in the lobby right outside of the elevator. He stands up and greets us, “Which one of you is Aimée?”
He is English! I raise my hand as he gushes, “Thank you so much for being so accommodating. My boss would have made me make lunch myself if I couldn’t find someone, and I assure you, nobody would have survived that.” He winks playfully before adding, “Plus I had a date last night. And while we’ve just met, I feel comfortable telling you that he let me blow his trumpet.”
Teisha bursts out laughing. “That’s a euphemism I haven’t heard before.” Then she sticks out her hand and says, “I’m Teisha.”
Byron winks at her. “My date was with a jazz musician, lest you think I was being too loose with my charms.”
“Ah, so he let you play his actual trumpet,” she says.
He shrugs. “Sure, let’s go with that. Now, let’s get you moved into the kitchen and then I’ll show you the conference room we’re using for lunch.”
The view walking through the clear glass doors of Fitzwilliam & Associates is very impressive. Sleek furniture, primarily in black leather and chrome, adorns the lobby. The walls are painted a grey so light they almost look silver. The paintings hanging on them are modern splashes of color that probably cost more than I make in a year.
Looking out the window at the Brooklyn Bridge causes me to be momentarily paralyzed as a wall of amazement hits me. This is the big time, Aimée. Do not screw it up.
A tall brunette in a pencil skirt so tight it looks painted on, pulls me out of trance by asking, “Who smells?”
I’m about to covertly sniff my armpit again, when she clarifies, “Who dared to wear perfume today?”
Byron looks at her, and shrugs. “That’s my bad, Cindy. I forgot to tell Aimée here that WL Senior is severely allergic to scents.” Turning to me, he says, “Do you have anything else you can wear? After we get you washed up that is.”
“I … I don’t,” I stutter, horrified to have made such a bad first impression. I always used to keep extra clothes in my van upstate, but I haven’t exactly had a run on business since I’ve been here.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Cindy sneers. “I have an extra pair of slacks in my office if you can find her a shirt.”
I’m pretty sure Cindy is at least six inches taller than me and at least two sizes smaller. I’m guessing I couldn’t even decompose to her size until I’d been dead for a year. There is no way I can wear her pants.
“Go get them,” Byron tells her. “Meet me in the boss’s office. She can shower in there.”
I’m suddenly whisked away to some inner sanctum while leaving Teisha in charge of the food. I could die of mortification.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam will be out for the next hour, so you can use
his private bathroom to see to things.” He waves his hand in front of me like he’s either casting a spell or trying to read my aura. Then he hurries out of the room.
The office is as elegant as an Edwardian gentleman’s club in England. I know that from the descriptions in the hundreds of bodice-ripping historical romances I read as a teenager. There’s a wide bookshelf (full of books and awards), an enormous mahogany desk, a sitting area including armchairs and a couch, as well as a round table with four dining chairs tucked carefully under it. Everything looks antique and awfully expensive. I’m half-tempted to lie down and roll on the oriental rug to see if it’s as soft as it looks.
I cannot imagine being this important. I only hope the short bald man—because the boss is always short and bald for some reason—who calls this office his own appreciates how good he has it.
When I open the door to the bathroom, I let out an audible gasp. The shower is as big as my entire bathroom and it looks out onto the East River. Getting naked in here is going to make me feel like I’m on display for the world to see.
I hurriedly pick up my phone and text Teisha.
Me: Are you okay?
Teisha: I’ve got everything under control. Don’t worry about a thing.
Me: Are you wearing any perfume?
Teisha: Nope.
Me: Okay, I’ll be out as soon as I can. You would not believe the office I’m in!
Teisha: Pretty flashy, huh?
Me: You could say that.
I slowly start to take my clothes off while hoping that Byron finds a fat woman’s pants for me to put on. Once I’m in the shower, I scrub myself as quickly as I can. The soap is an old-fashioned bar of Ivory and I run it all over my body before giving myself a good rinse.
I’m about to step out of the shower when I hear, “For the love of God, Byron, leave me alone. I’m in a hurry.”
The voice is right outside the bathroom door! Holy crap, did I lock the door? I step out of the shower in hopes of making sure no one can get in. As soon as my wet foot hits the shiny marble floor I slip and slide across the room like I’m starring in Frozen on Ice. Let it Go!!!