The Whole Package

by Cynthia Ellingsen

  “New York’s too much for me,” Andy said, brushing his hands off on his boxers. “Besides, I think I like it here.” He tossed Cheryl a dimpled grin.

  Feeling warm, Cheryl was suddenly grateful for her fake tan. Her tendency to blush was part of the reason she’d gotten caught up in the spray-tan fad in the first place, no matter how much Doris tried to tell her the chemicals were just as poisonous as the sun. Cheryl’s fair skin and freckles had made her readable in a way that she much preferred to hide.

  She eyed Andy in his button-up shirt and white boxer shorts. The crisp cotton shirt was only half buttoned, exposing his muscular abs. She eyed the fit of his boxer shorts, toying with her light blue camisole. Cheryl smiled, remembering the struggle she’d faced trying to find something to wear down to the kitchen. For all her sexual exploits, she had never had a need for the morning-after outfit. She usually insisted on going out to breakfast instead of hanging around. But here it was three o’clock in the afternoon, Andy was still in her kitchen—and she was surprised to find herself dreading the moment he would leave.

  That morning she had asked him, “Don’t you have to go to work? You didn’t get fired.” Andy had called in sick to TurnKey, lying to Stan right in front of her.

  Cheryl made little fists with her hands, clenching and unclenching, watching as Andy navigated her kitchen. The way he moved his body was aggressive, like a tiger taking on a cage that wasn’t big enough. But in bed, he’d been a perfect mix of gentle and aggressive, always maintaining just the slightest level of control. She shifted in her seat, thinking of it. He gazed over at her, green eyes glinting.

  “If you’re trying to read my thoughts, you’d better like stories that are X-rated,” she said.

  Andy gave a final evaluation to whatever he was preparing, then carried it across to the table. He set down a plate and Cheryl laughed. On it, there was a perfectly formed truffle oil omelet, mandarin orange segments, and fresh-baked cinnamon bread.

  “Did you go for takeout when I wasn’t looking?” she said, taking a big bite of bread. “Wow. That’s actually good.”

  Andy grinned and grabbed his dish. Settling in across from her, he reached forward and brushed a crumb off her lip. Quickly, she took his finger in her mouth, biting it playfully.

  “No, no,” he scolded, pulling his finger back. “What you’re doing there just isn’t fair.”

  Cheryl grinned, leaning forward slightly to give him a clear view down her top. His green eyes followed her every movement and the moment they were finished eating, he threw their dishes in the sink and led her to the rug by the fire. They made love against her collection of colored throw pillows.

  After they were through, gasping for breath and gazing at each other in amazement, Cheryl hopped up and lit some candles. A nice cinnamon scent wafted over them and she flipped on her stereo, blasting music from the Bing Crosby Christmas collection.

  “Hope you like Christmas music,” she said, dancing seductively to the first notes. Pulling her down to the rug with strong arms, Andy kissed her again as she ran her hands over his hard stomach. “You must do Pilates, Jane Fonda, or hot yoga,” she accused him.

  “I’d do anything to get your attention,” Andy said, touching her face.

  Cheryl snorted. “You had it from day one.”

  “No way,” Andy said, sliding his hands under her lacy shirt and running a thumb over her bruised nipple. “I was just the new guy. You didn’t even notice me. Until I rescued you at racquetball.”

  Gently, Cheryl pummeled his chest with her fists, and then rolled on top of him. “You didn’t notice me!”

  “Oh, really? Let’s talk this through,” Andy said, sliding his hand up her thigh. “I wanted to rip your skirt off when you were unconscious on the floor at the Racquet Club. Take you on the table when you licked salt off your margarita that day at lunch . . .” He cupped her backside and pressed her against him. Lips tickling her ear, Andy whispered, “And I definitely would have enjoyed a little going down that day in the elevator.”

  “You shrugged.”

  “It worked.” Andy grinned. “You should have seen your face. You wanted me bad.”

  Cheryl laughed. Rolling off him, she snuggled into the crook of his arm.

  “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas . . .” Andy sang, staring at the fire.

  Cheryl froze inside, so surprised was she at the feelings his resonant baritone brought up in her. Sean had had a terrible voice and because of it, never sang. Cheryl’s voice wasn’t great but she could carry a tune. Still, whenever she would sing along with a song on the radio or something, Sean would sneak irritated glances her way, turning up songs he didn’t even like just to drown her out. Now, probably as some sort of a test, Cheryl took a deep breath and started singing along with Andy. He looked over at her, gave the thumbs-up sign. Laughing, the two belted out the Christmas carol, arms wrapped around each other. Cheryl’s heart leaped. This was the type of guy she should have married.

  The idea of growing old with someone had been very appealing to Cheryl, especially since her parents had such a fun time together—cooking dinner, running two miles every day, happily raising their boisterous brood. Cheryl had always planned to find the perfect guy by thirty. Of course, once the deed was done, she had spent as many nights away from dreary Sean and their dull little home as she could. If only she had picked someone like Andy instead . . .

  Looking over at him, Cheryl noticed the way his lashes threw shadows over his handsome face. Cheryl’s stomach knotted. She didn’t know if it was the warmth of his body or the pleasant hum of Christmas tunes or simply getting older, but Cheryl found herself once again wondering what it would be like to grow old with someone by her side. She couldn’t help but think—what would her life be like if . . . say . . . this man was singing to her next year at Christmas and the next and the next, for years and years to come?

  Chapter Thirty-five

  JACKIE WAS IN THE OFFICE OF THE WHOLE PACKAGE, WORKING ON some paperwork George had requested they turn in. She was irritated because, for the first time in her life, she was the one doing all the work. Doris’s day was booked with beauty treatments and Cheryl had stopped picking up her cell phone, probably holed up with some guy. So Jackie was stuck filling out forms she had no real idea how to complete. As she studied the contracts in front of her on meat shipments and vegetable orders, she wanted to bang her head against the table.

  “Is it too early to start drinking?” she bellowed.

  Anthony laughed. “I won’t tell,” he called back. Anthony was out in the main room, sifting through boxes of point-of-sale items, making sure they’d gotten everything that appeared on their extensive tracking list.

  Jackie rested her chin on her palm, watching as he sliced open a packing box, then started counting through one hundred laminated menus. That looked easy enough. Why wasn’t she doing that?

  Anthony stood up and stretched, glancing at his watch. “Jackie, the boys will be here for dance rehearsal in a half hour,” he called. “I’m going to finish up here and then go grab a quick bite. Want anything?”

  Just as she was about to request a latte, a key turned in the lock. She watched as Anthony looked at the door in surprise, and then leaned forward in anticipation as Gabe bustled in, dressed in a leather jacket and a pastel scarf. The scarf was light blue, probably meant to accent his china blue eyes. Spotting Anthony, Gabe jumped.

  “Hi,” Gabe said, shifting from one foot to the other.

  Anthony looked over at Jackie and she pretended to read her paperwork. Turning his back to Gabe, Anthony deliberately ignored the greeting. He continued checking inventory against the boxes on the floor.

  Gabe sighed and came into the restaurant, navigating through packing materials. He accidentally stepped on a piece of bubble wrap and it popped like a pistol. After a moment, he took off his coat but left on his blue scarf.

  “Sorry I’m early,” Gabe ventured. “Thought I’d stop by before rehearsal and get some
things done. I have to check the inventory on the—”

  “I’m already doing that,” Anthony’s tone was sharp.

  Jackie jumped, surprised. That was the type of tone she and Robert would use with each other after a fight, not the way you’d speak to someone you worked with. Jackie peered at the scene from behind a paper with interest, dying to see these two interact. After the awesome makeover Gabe had done on Doris, she was 1000 percent sure he was gay. Now, she just wanted to know what was going on. She’d tried asking Anthony, but he had breezed over the topic and started chatting about good restaurants in Chicago.

  “Actually, I’m supposed to do inventory for the bar,” Gabe corrected, standing in front of Anthony with hands on his hips. “Make sure all the alcohol came in.”

  “Already did that.” Anthony was brusque.

  Jackie smiled to herself. The tit-for-tat would typically happen when Jackie did something deliberate, like throwing a towel on the floor. Robert hated messiness of any kind, so if she was feeling passive-aggressive, Jackie had fun strutting around their bedroom in sexy lingerie, drying her wet hair with a towel and then letting it drop.

  Robert would never scold her directly, though. He would do things like pick up the towel and say, “We need to schedule maid service this week,” and Jackie would respond with a gleeful, “Already did it.”

  “Thanks, then,” Gabe conceded, hands up in the air. “I guess you beat me to it.”

  Jackie studied Gabe. He reminded her of a golden retriever, all hair and friendliness, but like Anthony, there was something vulnerable there. Her womanly instincts wanted to get to the bottom of that—whatever that was.

  Gabe’s boots echoed across the floor. Anthony’s back actually stiffened as Gabe slunk up to him. “Let me help you with something ,” he pressed, putting an arm on Anthony’s shoulder.

  Robert had also used touch to try to soften Jackie up. After one of their snippy little exchanges about buying new toothpaste—“squeeze from the bottom”—or remodeling the bathroom—“just put the toilet seat down!”—or taking a spa weekend with the girls—“I can’t stand you anymore, why don’t you just die,” Robert would sidle over and run both hands up the back of her arms. He’d bury his face in her hair, breathing in her sweet and spicy scent. “I love you, sweet angel. No more quarreling,” he’d say, just before spinning her around and crushing her mouth in his.

  Jackie touched her lips at the memory. She lowered the paper she was holding and shifted in her seat, trying to get a better view of the boys.

  “If you want to help, show up for rehearsal at the time I give you,” Anthony muttered, shaking Gabe’s arm off and stepping away.

  “What is your problem?” Gabe marveled. “What did I do?”

  Anthony whirled on Gabe. Jackie held her breath as the two men stared at each other,

  Anthony’s jaw set. After a long moment, some of the anger in the room seemed to dissipate and they both turned away.

  “You know what you did,” Anthony finally said, shoving his clipboard into the box and picking it up. “But don’t worry. It will never be a problem again.” He swished out of the main room into the stock room, slamming the door behind him.

  Jackie nodded. That was how most of their fights would end. She would endure a kiss from Robert, and then place her hands on his chest, gently pushing him away. “I need some fresh air,” she’d say, stalking out of the room and “accidentally” slamming the door behind her.

  When Gabe sank into a chair, mindlessly chewing on a nail, Jackie felt it was time to make her presence known. She yawned loudly, standing up. Gabe looked over at the office in surprise, so she made a big show of squinting into the dark restaurant and saying, “Who is that?”

  “Hi, Jackie,” he said, standing up and smiling. “It’s Gabe.”

  “I thought you were Anthony,” Jackie lied, walking out and giving him a peck on his beautiful cheek. “Doris looks amazing these days. Nice work.”

  “Can you believe I got her into contacts?” Gabe grinned. After a moment, he confessed, “Jackie, I think Anthony hates me.”

  Jackie’s blue eyes widened. “Tell me more.”

  Gabe went on to explain that he always hated confrontations. He liked to think of himself as a generally nice guy.

  “So what happened?” Jackie begged.

  “Anthony made a pass at me, and of course, I turned it down. I’m not like him,” Gabe said, deliberately letting his eyes wander over Jackie’s body. “But I wish there was a way he and I could still be friends. It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  At Gabe’s earnest expression, Jackie ached to smile. In spite of Gabe’s best intentions, his gorgeous body was not putting out even an iota of sexual chemistry. Gabe was exactly like Anthony, he just didn’t want to admit it.

  Jackie thought back to her close friendships with these types of men. Mathieu hadn’t been the only one Robert had been jealous of. At parties, the majority of her male friends would hang all over her until Robert snapped the stem of his martini glass in frustration, guiding her out to some balcony or another to “talk.”

  “You have let that guy hang on you all night,” Robert would complain, running his hand over a steamed brow. “Everyone’s noticing. Why would you do this to me?”

  “Darling, he’s gay,” Jackie laughed. “Everyone knows it. Are you out of your mind?”

  Robert had crumpled up a napkin from some appetizer and flicked it onto an ashtray. “Bullshit. The man has stared at your breasts all night.”

  Jackie had no desire to explain the psychology of a gay man to her husband. “Relax,” she said. “He just likes pretty things. If it really concerns you, I’ll tell him to stop.”

  Once back inside the party, Jackie would have to roll her eyes and gesture her thumb at Robert. Whatever friend it was would pout for a moment and then almost instantly find another beautiful woman to attach to his side.

  “See,” Robert would say in triumph, “He’ll take anything he can get.”

  Now, Jackie looked at Gabe affectionately. She reached out and ran her fingertips over his sculpted face. “You’re so handsome, mon ami,” she said. “One day you and Anthony will be good friends. I promise.”

  “You think so?” Gabe asked, nervous.

  “I know so,” she said, nodding. Taking his hand, she led him to the bar. “It’s evening in Paris. Let’s get ourselves a drink.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  ANDY’S GREEN EYES STUDIED CHERYL WITH CONCERN. IT WAS late in the evening and they had just finished a pizza and were finishing off a bottle of red wine. The ’98 Barbaresco had been an anniversary present for her and Sean, something they’d been saving for a special occasion. Sean had forgotten all about it and Cheryl only felt a slight twinge of guilt as she slid out the cork.

  The wine was rich and potent, quickly loosening Cheryl’s tongue. It had only taken one glass to inspire her to tell Andy about The Whole Package. At the reveal, Andy’s eyes had widened. Without saying a word, he listened to her description of their marketing materials, the menu, and the hilarious process they went through to hire the waiters.

  “I have to interrupt,” Andy finally said, as Cheryl attempted to describe the waiter uniforms: sexy little bottoms made out of spandex. “Did you girls do market research on this idea?”

  “Market research is for assholes,” Cheryl said. At his look, she grinned. “Of course we did. We went to a male strip club.”

  Andy shook his head. “Cheryl, this type of thing has never worked before.” The tone Andy was using was one he had used during client presentations at TurnKey. Back when Andy was a sexual fantasy, his tone was a pleasant distraction. Now, it was only succeeding in pissing her off.

  “First of all,” she said, setting down the glass of wine with a crash, “we are not in the boardroom. We are in my kitchen, so you can lose the tone.” Her home was not a place for her to be questioned. “Second, it’s not critical to perform market research for every little thing you do. Th
e Whole Package is a no-brainer. Everyone goes to Hooters—with clients, I might add—and if you haven’t noticed, Hooters is a hotbed of cash. What’s the big, scary difference? Women should have an option, too. Are you scared they’ll lose control and start raping every man in sight?”

  “There are demographics to consider,” Andy insisted. “I’m sorry if you think they’re lame but . . .” Andy started rattling off additional concerns, and Cheryl tuned out, pointedly sipping her wine and staring out the window. “This is making you mad,” he finally noticed. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just being honest with you. Women aren’t going to take their clients to a place called The Whole Package. It’s not gonna happen.”

  “Women have sexual fantasies, too,” Cheryl said. “If you are too big of a Puritan to understand that, then I may have to review your prowess.”

  Andy grinned. “I will be more than happy to accept that challenge. But listen, I just want to say one more thing. This type of restaurant will work for a girls’ night. No question.” He reached for her hand. Cheryl hesitated. Letting him take it, she squeezed him just a little too hard. “Ow,” Andy said, pulling away. “But they’ll only go once. It’s a novelty. Dudes might bring their friends to Hooters all the time, but that’s because they’re going to watch the game or grab some wings . . .”

  “Or grab some tits.”

  “That’s not true,” Andy said. “Please tell me you’re offering more than . . .”

  “Service with a schlong?” Cheryl sang. “Look, I think we all know a big hard dick is nothing to be afraid of. So, just stop.”

  Even though Cheryl was sassy and gloating on the outside, Andy’s concerns were making her nervous. He wasn’t the first person who had insisted they were off-base. Not one of her brothers had thought it was a good idea. But those were men, Cheryl argued with herself. They don’t want to be objectified any more than we do. Women, on the other hand, loved the idea—Betsy, case in point. Shaking her head, Cheryl thought back to Doris’s performance at the strip club. That night out had helped Doris. It gave her the freedom to transform from a mundane housewife to a wild vixen twirling a sweater over her head—minus the incident with the vomit, of course.