“It’s okay,” Charlotte said, curbside outside the Delacroix lobby. She ducked her head and got into the back of the cab. “I get it. Duty calls. We’ll do dessert another time.”
“I had big plans, Cupcake.”
“We have to put in our time and work as hard as we can. Thanks for saving me from the dangerous eye mask.”
“You’re welcome.” I shut her door, scrawled my phone number on a hundred dollar bill, and handed it to the driver. “Text me when she’s safely home.”
“Will do.”
Charlotte rolled down the window. “Best. Omelet. Ever.”
I watched the cab pull away. “Fuck,” I said, racing after the car. “I don’t have your digits. Don’t know your last name!” But the driver had turned the corner on this chilly pre-Christmas night, and once again, I was sugared out of luck.
Chapter Six
Joe
Three years ago
That summer I had the world by the balls. I was finishing my MBA at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, and applying to law schools. By July I’d not only rocked my LSATs, I’d also nailed eighty percent of the hottest sorority girls: under-grad and post.
Instead of traveling back to Chicago and chilling for break, I decided to stay in Wisconsin and pad my ‘community activities’ section for law school applications. In June I served as junior activities director at a memory care senior center. In July I assisted at the Legal Aid Society in downtown Madison. August rolled around and I volunteered at a Camp Big Fish for special needs kids.
At first glance, the facility appeared basic as far as summer camps went. Forty acres of farmland ten miles outside the city on Lake Waubesa at the end of a skinny blacktopped lane that diverted off US Hwy 51. Fat oak trees filled with green leafy branches surrounded a wooden lodge and clusters of mini look-alike buildings built back in the 1940s. A small, refurbished red barn squatted in the distance surrounded by a fence with a few fat chickens scratching around in the adjoining yard. Picnic tables were to the right of the clubhouse and a regulation size swimming pool was surrounded by a sturdy fence to the left.
I’d signed up to be a general assistant at Camp Big Fish, which translated to I’d help wherever doing whatever help was needed—janitor, kitchen duty, gardener, chaperone, tour guide—but my specialty was activities. I loved assisting the kids in badminton, volleyball, crafting elaborate puzzles on large tables in the rec hall, fashioning sand castles on the skinny beach, and acting as lifeguard.
The late summer days were hot and humid with the occasional thunderstorm rolling in and clearing the heat from the air for a half hour or so. It had already rained this morning, but cumulous clouds still puffed across the late afternoon blue skies in that Midwestern summer weather, bipolar kind of way. I walked out of the camp’s clubhouse absorbed in my phone when the sun poked out, beamed down from the heavens, and obscured my vision.
“Hey tall guy, move it,” an irritated female voice commanded.
I glanced up and spotted a pretty blonde wearing jeans and a red sleeveless shirt. She was riding a beach cruiser bicycle and barreling toward me with a book in one hand. She jammed on the brakes with her free hand, but not quickly enough.
The collision was far from epic. The bike struck me square in the legs and I stumbled backwards, somehow managing to stay upright. She, on the other hand, toppled sideways with a thunk. He book flew out of her handed and landed a few yards away in a shallow puddle.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She shoved back a lick of cropped hair from her face and glared daggers at me with blue eyes that could pierce a man’s soul. “Yes, asshole. But that was my favorite book and you just ruined everything. Why didn’t you move?”
“It’s not like you gave me a shit ton of time.” I held out my hand to her and couldn’t help but check her out. “What do you mean, ‘I ruined everything?”
She ignored my hand and stood up. “You ruined the moment. You screwed it up. You wrecked the ‘happily-ever-after.’” She brushed off her jeans. She was skinny with sharp elbows and knees, offset by decent curves in other places.
I walked over and picked up her book. “A little wet but it’s not ruined. There’s a couple of ants…”
“Fuck the ants. Summer’s unwanted guests at any party.” She marched the few steps toward me.
“I’m sorry.” I brushed them off. “My name’s Joe. You are?”
“Zoey.” She reached for the paperback and I felt a bit warm, like that brilliant ray of sun was burning a hole through me. I clenched the book, unwilling to let it go. Unwilling to let this feeling go. Unwilling to let her go. But she tugged the book from my hands.
“I was lost in the story,” she said. “The spell is broken.”
“I’ll buy you another book, Cinderella.”
“I’m not Cinderella. I have a decent family. No one’s evil except for my Uncle Bob, and we all just ignore him when he drinks too much and yells political shit at the dinner table on Sundays.”
“Every family has an Uncle Bob.”
“You’re right.” Zoey laughed. She righted her bike and walked it away from me. “Nice running into you, Tall Guy. Got places to go and people to see.”
But I wasn’t ready for her to leave. There was something different about her. Something free and less confined than the girls I was used to. “I work here. Can I help you with something? Come on, give me a second chance.” I stepped into place alongside her and her mint-green Schwinn speckled with rust.
She shook her head. “I know where I’m going. My brother attends Camp Big Fish. I told him I’d hang out with him on my lunch break. Peter Clark. The adorable nine-year-old in the shallow end of the pool. Do you know him?”
I glanced over at the pool situated a dozen or so yards from the rec center. “I know Peter. The dude in the super hero bathing suit dude with the ‘Watch me do this’ attitude.”
“That’s him.”
Peter spotted her and broke into a gap-toothed smile. He whipped his hands up and down, splashing the water.
Her eyes lit up, a grin broke out on her sun-kissed face, and she strode toward him. “Peter Peter pumpkin eater! I want to see you swim!” She leaned the bike against the fence, unlatched the protective gate and kicked off her shoes. She made her way barefoot across the tinted concrete, bent down at the water’s edge and held out her hand to him.
I followed her, took a seat at her side and watched her interact with her brother.
“Joseph Delacroix,” a camp director hollered at me from across the pool.
I stood up. “Yes, Ma'am!”
“You’re needed on barn duty. Feed the chickens and the goat.”
“A goat? I didn’t know we had a goat.”
“She’s new, a bit ornery, but I have a feeling she’ll take to you, just like all the other girls do.”
Zoey eyed me.
“I’m fucked,” I said, smiling down at her. “The only thing I know about chickens is marinating them in sauce before slapping them on the grill. This goat thing has me quaking in my boots.”
She glanced down at my size twelves and then squinted up, shading her eyes. “You’re wearing runners.”
“I’m quaking in those too.”
“Dork,” she said. “Get to work. Move it.”
“Only if you promise to rescue me.”
“From the chickens?”
“I can handle the feathery bastards. The goat.”
“Fuck the goat. If she touches you I will make shish-kebobs out of her.”
“You’re giving me a second chance?”
“Yes, asshole.” She reached out a hand. “Shake on it.”
I shook Zoey’s hand and my womanizing ways were history. My heart was taken. Stolen in an accidental moment, confirmed with a second chance, sealed with her hand clasped firmly in mine.
Chapter Seven
Charlotte
It might be fun to fantasize about what Joe and I would do with desserts, which area of my b
ody he’d lick them off when we were both naked and playing dirty with our food. But my naughty daydreams were not going to pay the rent or feed Benedict’s fickle addiction to pricey gourmet cat food.
I double downed on my hard work at White Glove Agency. Oh sure, matchmaking appeared fun and glamorous on Instagram when one posted pics from the occasional party or expensed lunch. But the sad reality was that the job combined an armchair talent for psychological analysis with white-collar grunt work.
I’d made progress and identified three potential hunky matches for Violet Accardi, sportswear designer, and rumored Mafioso princess. Bachelor number one was a sexy litigator who was making a name for himself in environmental law. The second contestant was a professional hockey player who was sick and tired of dating bimbos and wanted to settle down. The third guy had invented a popular social media app that had blown up when it went public last year, skyrocketing his income into the stratosphere. All were cute, all were smart, and none, per my promise, were Catholic.
“Go forth and date,” I texted Violet late Monday afternoon.
“What if I hate them?” she texted back.
“Then I’ll find you three more. But if you hate all of them I need to know why.”
Finding a match for Tyler Gentry on the other hand, wasn’t so easy. Sure, I could, with a few clicks, locate a hundred girls and guys who would have been happy to fuck him, suck him, or Three buck Chuck-him, but the undertones of his emotional and mental checklist were more complex than I expected. After further conversations with Tyler I’d discovered that as much as he liked to flaunt his bad boy persona, he had a kind heart and a sharp brain. So why was he dating losers and bimbos? Why was he so scared to commit? I was researching his social media feeds for clues at 9 p.m. on Tuesday night when White Glove’s big boss walked past my cubicle on his way out of the building.
“Mr. Black?” I glanced up from my computer screen. “Can I ask you a question?”
He sighed. “I have a date with fleecy slippers, a British spy thriller, and a neat glass of bourbon in half an hour.”
“Right. Super quick. Taking into account that I’m relatively new to this matchmaking gig, my recent client seems like a cocky piece of work. But underneath his bravado there seems to be a sweetness. A beating heart. I feel like I’m missing a piece of the puzzle.”
“You’re talking about Luke Faulkner?”
“No.”
“Adam Bachman?”
“No.”
“William Fitzsimmons?”
“Nope.”
He scratched his head. “Which cocky piece of work did we assign you?”
“Tyler Gentry.”
“Aha. The pretty one all the young girls run after but he’s like Teflon.”
I nodded. “Why is his mom so determined it’s time that he settle down?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
I smacked my forehead. “I can do that?”
“Yes. Don’t re-invent the wheel, Charlotte. Just put your foot on the gas and drive the car. And remember to brake every once in a while.”
I met Tyler’s mom for lunch at a café in a converted loft in River North to discuss the dilemma. Wendy Gentry was in her sixties. A curvy woman, she wore a tailored designer suit, her hair styled in an expensive Champagne-colored bob. Originally from the Chicago suburbs, she’d moved back to the city three years ago from Texas after her husband had passed.
“Tyler’s a total catch,” I said over lunch. “Why does he need a matchmaker?”
She rolled her eyes and sipped her dirty martini. “That boy could charm the cotton briefs off a convent of singing nuns. I want him to meet someone substantial. He won’t be happy with Tits-on-a Stick no matter how deep her mouth is.”
I coughed, and covered mine with a napkin.
She signaled a waiter. “Check, please.” She pulled a compact and lipstick from her Chanel bag and touched up her lips. “Lunch is on me.”
“Thank you,” I said, reaching for my iced tea.
“You probably wonder why I’m putting the pressure on. Why not give Tyler another decade to fool around? Knock up a girl or two. Provide child support for twenty-one years or forever.”
“No judgment.” I said.
“Tyler’s father passed away a few years ago and left him a third of his estate. The dollar amount is substantial. I’ve had control of the purse strings this whole time but he comes into his inheritance on his next birthday. After he turns twenty-eight all his financial mistakes are on him.”
“You’ve got a ticking clock on your hands.”
“A very naughty, adorable ticking clock. I bought a cute condo in Paris overlooking the Champs Elysees. I signed up for cooking classes and historic tours of the city. After sixty plus years, Mother Gentry gets to live her own life again. I love my son, Miss Bauer.” She drained the last of her martini. “I want to give him one last push, a little extra help to find a mate with a kind heart and good intentions. But when his birthday hits, and two hundred million transfers into Tyler’s name—I’m done. Mama’s pushing baby bird out of the nest.”
“I will do everything in my power to help.”
“I appreciate it.”
The hot water rushed as it filled my tub in the bathroom a few yards away from my kitchen. I sat on a stool next to the counter eating a dinner salad as Benedict stared dejectedly at three dishes of fresh cat food on the floor in front of him.
“Number one is canned tuna,” I said, stabbing my fork into a hunk of Romaine lettuce and a tomato with Caesar salad on top, and chomping on it. “Number two: Fluffy Farms organic turkey gelee with sweet potatoes. Three: Chicken broth with shreds of chicken and carrots that I stewed in the crock-pot yesterday. Surely, one must be to your liking?”
He stared up at me, blinked, then turned and stalked away, tail twitching.
“You might be super cute, Benedict. But I’m still the official and only dispenser of cat food at Chez Bauer.” I put the salad bowl in the sink and made my way to the bathroom. “And that’s not changing anytime soon.”
There was something about warm water that soothed me. I sprinkled lavender salts into the bath and selected the ‘Chill’ playlist from my phone. I lit a candle on the porcelain sink with the same reverence I used to light a votive on an altar in St. Bernadette’s Church that I attended with my mom years ago in Oconomowoc. I killed the bathroom lights, stepped into the tub waters and laid back. I closed my eyes.
And thought about Joe.
Oh yes, I’d Googled the shit out of ‘Delacroix Hotel staff’. I might have spotted a photo of him years ago but it was so dated it was hard to tell if it was him. I thought about returning to the hotel and wandering back into the kitchen, but that made me feel like a desperate stalker chick. And that felt creepy.
I’d doubled down on my efforts and searched again using his name combined with the keywords actor, tall, handsome, waiter. That was a fun plot bunny to chase after for a few hours. On a productive note, I’d added a few handsome working thespians to my database to contact for potential client matches.
But I could find no solid leads as to the identity of the gorgeous man who’d wiped slime off my face, cooked for me, and nearly kissed me. Which pained me, because I so very badly wanted Joe to be here.
I wanted him to peel off his clothes while I watched him. First the shirt. What would his chest look like? Hard? Man-scaped? Or would the black hair be a bit longer and curlier like the beautiful hair on his head? Hmm.
His abs would be an eight pack that I’d run my hands down until I reached the zipper, tugging it down over his hard cock that would already be bulging through his pants.
He’d step out of his pants, into the bathtub, stirring the waters. He was so tall, big, and muscular, I wasn’t sure we’d both fit. But hey, I was more than willing to give it the old college try. I wanted him to say my name in that husky voice, lean in and kiss me. His mouth would be firm against mine. He’d taste like peppermint and scotch, and I’d get a c
ontact high from his kiss. I’d gaze into his hazel eyes, lift my hand from the warm bath water, and run my wet fingers through his thick hair. Then I’d trail my fingers down the cords of his neck, smoothing them over his defined shoulders, feeling every cut, admiring every swell of his muscles as my internal temperature began heating up.
Michelangelo would be so jealous.
Joe would pour soap onto his hands and glide them down my neck to my breasts. He’d cup them, press them, and then pinch my nipples, sending rushes of electricity down my spine. My need would build, tingling in my stomach, dropping even lower, and I’d grow warm from blood rushing to my cheeks and lips. I’d take his hand, pull it down my stomach, and then lower. I’d open my knees, gaze into his hazel, black-lash rimmed eyes and say, “Touch me.”
The sounds of “Slave to Love” from my playlist brought me back to the present. The music was hot, sexy, and the throbbing between my legs intensified. ‘Bent, not broken, Charlotte,’ my brain whispered. ‘Take care of yourself.’ I closed my eyes, slid into the music, and fell deeper into my fantasy. I slid a hand over my breast. Would he touch me like this?
Maybe—at first. But then I think he’d be a bit rougher. He’d cup my breast, pulling it into his mouth, grazing my nipple with his teeth. ‘Oh, Charlotte,’ he’d murmur in that husky voice as he slid one large hand down between my legs and swirled his fingers across my folds. ‘Do you want me yet, Charlotte?”
I sighed, moving a hand down my body, between my legs, drawing my fingers back and forth across my already sensitive clit.
“Say, ‘Yes, Joe,’” he’d insist. “I want to hear you say it.”
“Yes, Joe.” I drew circles around my sex with two fingers, brushing over the most delicious spot until I squirmed, the ache between my legs building to a crescendo. I lifted one foot and propped it on the edge of the bathtub. I caressed my breast with one hand, my nipple pebbling. I used my other hand, flicking the sensitive spot between my legs. This is how Joe would touch me: sliding a finger inside my pussy, then two.
The Client: A Playing Dirty Novel Page 5
