by Robyn Kelly
There’s a can of anti-static spray sitting next to a manila envelope at reception (and no one has offered it to Pippa). Jackson hands me the envelope. “Here’s what we have on the party.”
The envelope is pretty thin so I doubt this is much of a birthday celebration. “If I have any questions, how can I reach you?”
“Email me with any critical questions, but I expect you to protect me from the minutia. And one more thing…”
His hands grab my arms. Those beautiful hands. He’s so close and his grip is so tight. “Ohhh.” I make that noise again. I’m being held by the sexiest man in the world, and I sound like Homer Simpson.
Jackson smiles that annoying, smug smile, and I want the earth to swallow me up. He leans into my ear. “I want you to wear this dress at the party. Consider it the uniform for the night.” His voice is so low only I can hear, but despite the lack of volume, there is no doubt he expects to be obeyed.
I think the dress orgasms again.
CHAPTER FOUR
* * *
The first thing I do when I get home is get out of the dress and tights, and then call Robert. I tell him we have one more job. I’m relieved to find he’s available, and I think he’s relieved to know that I can afford to keep him on another week or two.
Then I tell him who the event is for. I had filled him in on some of the details of my excursion last night. Now I can give him the name that goes with the face—and hands.
“You want to do business with that man?”
“It may have been a peace offering.” That’s the story I’ve decided to tell myself. It’s not based on any reality, but it’s not healthy to have an adversarial relationship with a client. And I’ll only be lying to myself for one week. “He specifically said he wanted to be involved as little as possible.”
“Still, can you trust him?”
“I’m holding a deposit check for $150,000.”
The phone is silent. Then I hear the click of his keyboard. “He is hot. He’s at the top of the most eligible bachelor list in San Francisco.”
And based on his personality, he will probably be a bachelor for a very long time.
“He’s a billionaire. He’s hot and he’s a billionaire. Life is so unfair.”
I try to soften the blow. “Money doesn’t buy happiness.”
“That’s a lesson I’d like to learn the hard way.” His voice suddenly goes from playful to concerned. “Oh Jillian, you need to read this.”
“Robert, stop. If it’s personal, I don’t want to know. If it’s financial, I already have his check. I only want to know if he has a history of suing event planners. Anything else you can tell me after the event. That is a hard limit.” I don’t need to know anything personal. This isn’t his birthday party. And he’s got a girlfriend.
“Yes, sir.” I can tell by Robert’s playful tease that I’ve gone a little Dominant. We started using phrases from Christian Grey’s contract in front of our clients a few years ago, to their delight (though I’m still not clear about the difference between a hard limit and a soft limit). At some point, we started using the phrases even when the client wasn’t around. Maybe that’s why people think we’re a couple.
I open the manila envelope with the event details, and we start discussing a strategy. The guest list is fairly small—only twenty people or so. I can tell this was planned by his corporate team. Their notes make it sound more like a business dinner than a birthday party. I’m certainly not going to be able to bill $150,000 for a party like this. I can’t even plan a theme if I don’t know anything about the birthday boy.
Robert is thinking the same. “I’ll start making calls tomorrow morning to see what’s available Friday, but we can’t make a decision until we know what we’re doing. You need to do some of your world-class snooping on the brother.”
“I prefer to call it research. We can bill for research.”
We end the call and I go to work. Facebook has thirteen Bryan Hunters, but only one looks twenty-four years old. Even better, according to his page, he is in Italy and bored out of his mind.
You wouldn’t know he’s Jackson’s brother by looking at him. Where Jackson is controlled energy in a business suit, Bryan is rocking the hipster look with his Buddy Holly glasses and skinny jeans. His hair and beard are both artfully disarranged. If Jackson is a top dog, then Bryan is definitely a puppy dog.
There are a bunch of selfies with a pretty blonde named Monica. A few at Ocean Beach, the Marin Headlands, and Golden Gate Park. But the majority of their pictures together are in clubs and restaurants.
Checking the guest list, I don’t see anyone named Monica. I need to contact Bryan and get some details. If I’m doing the math right, it should be about four in the morning in Italy. I send my friend request and am surprised when it’s instantly accepted. I send a private message that I’m planning his birthday party and need some info. He shoots back his Skype username and within a minute we connect.
I can’t tell whether his hair is styled or he has bed-head. He’s checking me out, too. “Have we met before? You don’t look familiar.”
“I’m an outside planner. Your brother asked me to help.”
“At the Il Fratello Fortunati? He doesn’t think I’d be sick of Italian food after two weeks of touring every broke-down vineyard that grows his precious nebbiolo grapes?”
I hear something that sounds like a car horn in the background. It seems to make Bryan even edgier than his clothing. “Did you hear that? That was a rooster. It’s four o’clock in the morning, and they have roosters on Viagra here.”
Boy, this is a high-strung family. “Actually, your brother has decided to move your party.” It’s not technically a lie. “That’s why I’m calling. I’m trying to figure out what you’d like.”
“Jackson wants to know what I’d like?”
So it’s not just me. He treats everyone the same. “Well, it is your birthday. I was going over the guest list, and I didn’t see Monica on it.”
“Who’s on the guest list?”
I read him off the names as quickly as I can. A Hunter woman (his mom, I find out), and the rest of the names are employees of Hunter Enterprises, which sets him off more than the rooster.
“This is a company party? He is making my birthday a company party? When was someone going to ask me who I wanted to invite?”
I think of Felicity the intern. “Oh dear, I’m afraid that’s my fault. I was supposed to do that, but I dropped the ball. Please don’t tell your brother. We both know how he can be.” I know when I start manipulating people I’m headed for trouble. But if I can pull this party off, I’ll have a nest egg and one non-kinky event I can use as a reference.
We chat for half an hour, and I realize that he wants a big blow-out party for a hundred and fifty of his closest friends—none of whom are on the guest list Jackson gave me. Jackson is expecting a quiet, boring business dinner. Can I make them both happy? I offer Bryan a compromise. If he’ll endure the company dinner, with Monica by his side, I’ll give him the birthday he wants.
I worry I might not be able to afford two parties, so we start negotiating. He wants a full bar, so we cut his food budget to just a cake, and I can remove the dessert from Jackson’s dinner. Bryan wants the party built around the dance floor, and makes some great suggestions on how to do it. He’s been going to clubs in the city long enough to know what works and what doesn’t, and he gives me the names of his favorite DJs.
“And Jackson is okay with this?” he asks.
It might be 4:30 in the morning in Italy, but Bryan doesn’t miss much. “He told me he didn’t want to be bothered with the minutia.”
“I’m not sure he would consider this minutia,” Bryan warns.
“Bryan, I know it’s your birthday, but can we make this a surprise to your brother?”
“He doesn’t like surprises.”
“He doesn’t like a lot of things.”
Bryan stares into his screen. In that moment, I see the
family resemblance. I remember that same expression on Jackson’s face in the elevator. I start to wonder whether this is a bad idea just as Bryan breaks into a smile.
“A surprise party. This is going to be good!”
Bryan puts me in touch with Monica, who promises to compile a list of friends to invite. I tell her we should email out an STD today, and then have to quickly explain that it’s an acronym for Save The Date—not Sexually Transmitted Disease.
Once I know we need a space with both a dance floor and large dining area (and as much space between them as possible), I let Robert do his magic. At this late date, no restaurant or event venue has availability. We’re going to have to find a raw space, and bring everything in.
With Robert’s connections, we find a church for sale in the Dogpatch neighborhood. It’s perfect. The church itself is empty, and there is a parsonage next door with a large kitchen and reception room. What’s more, there’s a private courtyard that connects the two buildings. We contact the realtor, and by the end of the day, we have arranged to rent it for the week.
Robert and I spend Sunday coming up with a timeline and a vendor list. Monica has received a hundred RSVPs already, and Robert tries to push me over the $150,000 budget. He’s very persuasive, but I just keep hearing Bryan’s voice in my head. He doesn’t like surprises.
Monday we hit the ground running, and the week flies by. I have an inspector verify the building is up to code, I contact our insurance company to give us a quote, I schedule a walk-through with the fire marshal, and hire a cleaning crew for before and after the event. Robert handles the caterer, the DJ, and the lighting company. We meet with our décor vendor on how to turn the parsonage into an elegant dining hall and the church into a techno palace. Bryan has been in rural Italy for two weeks. He needs some sensory overload for his birthday.
And, of course, I had the little black dress dry-cleaned.
Thursday morning, the milk curdles in my coffee. Considering I just bought it, I check the refrigerator and find that everything is warm. I call the building super and within an hour he confirms what I already know—it’s dead. He promises to get a repairman out today. These things always happen when I don’t have the time to deal with them.
Thursday night, there’s a sticky note on my fridge. “Cheaper to replace than repair—ordering new one.” Looks like I’ll be eating takeout for a few more days. I hope I can still fit in that dress tomorrow night.
When Friday arrives, I’m at the church at nine in the morning. I had hoped to grab breakfast on the way in, but the line at the local coffee shop was too long. Robert is working with the lighting guys, so I take the lead on the décor crew load-in. There is some drama when the forklift gets stuck in the up position, but I leave that to Robert to handle while I run back to the parsonage.
Inside, I find a hysterical Hispanic woman. She starts speaking to me in Spanish. Very rapid Spanish. At that moment, my phone rings. It’s not a number I recognize, so I let it go to voicemail. This woman’s outburst seems more pressing.
My phone rings again from the same number. I give her my best “Uno momento” and take the call. I recognize the voice immediately. Or rather, the tone.
“For what I am paying you, I expect you to pick up the phone and not send me to voicemail.”
“How’s your Spanish?”
“What?”
“Can you speak Spanish?” I’ve thrown Jackson off his stride. He says he does, so I order, “Translate” and hand the phone to the woman. They have a short conversation, and then she hands the phone back to me.
He’s calmer now. “It seems there are pigeons in your kitchen. Is everything all right?”
That is not the thing you want a client to know. “Oh, she must mean that they’ve delivered the quail.”
“I’m sure that’s exactly what she means. So, I should expect quail for dinner?”
“Appetizer.” What tangled webs we weave. “Did you have any other questions?”
“I was just checking that everything’s on schedule.”
“And that I haven’t absconded with your money?” Oh, I’m getting testy. “No, everything is going very well. I look forward to seeing you tonight at six.”
“Then I’ll let you get back to your quail.”
“Thank you. You’re very understanding.”
“Yes, I am.” Jackson makes that phrase sound practically threatening.
Now, who can I call to deal with these quail?
. . .
By six o’clock, we have transformed the parsonage into a refined dining room (lots of fabric and up lighting), and turned the courtyard into a garden oasis (and dealt with the pigeon infestation). Crews are still working in the church to get it ready for later. I hired a string quartet from the Conservatory of Music. Having worked my way through college, I know how good it feels to have a little extra money for the weekend. I just don’t remember looking so young when I went to college. In their tuxedos and gowns, they look more as if they’re going to the junior prom, but they play beautifully, and the music will help drown out any sounds from next door. Robert has strict orders to keep the crew in stealth mode.
I slip into the ladies’ room and put on the little black dress. It isn’t a good work uniform. It doesn’t have any pockets, so there’s no place to stash my phone. I’ve had to add a belt with a ditty bag, and that just makes the dress even shorter. I brush my hair, dab a little perfume on, and freshen my lipstick. I’m more nervous than usual, and I know why. It’s not the event that scares me—it’s the client.
When I return to the room, I notice the photographer is setting up. She’s pretty, she’s a brunette, and she has long, straight hair. I wonder whether Jackson has slept with her. I won’t tell her about the after-party, in case she’s a mole.
By the time I’ve lit all the table candles, the first of the guests arrive. Almost everyone is an employee of Jackson’s, so the dress is business attire. I guess Hunter Enterprises doesn’t have casual Friday. I make sure that there is someone at the bar, and I alert the chef to start the first wave of passed hors d’oeuvres.
Bryan and Monica arrive together. He’s as tall as Jackson, but leaner. He has more of a runner’s build compared to Jackson’s solid, imposing body. And then there’s the puppy dog energy. I hope Bryan’s impatience doesn’t make Jackson suspicious.
“We only have to be here until seven-thirty, right?” His tone tells me he thinks that’s an eternity.
“That’s for your guests. This will probably go until eight.”
He looks crestfallen. “That’s two hours.”
“I know. It will fly by, believe me. And remember, it’s a secret.”
I look to Monica, imploringly. Monica is even prettier than her pictures, and standing next to Bryan, you can see what a cute couple they make. She has a solid, dependable vibe about her. Monica will make sure they get where they are supposed to be, and Bryan will make sure they have fun when they get there. Hopefully, she can keep him distracted.
She places her hand on his arm. “You haven’t told me about Italy. I’ve always wanted to go.”
“Really?” His tone clearly communicates he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to visit. I sigh. I bet the Hunter men don’t have one romantic bone between the two of them.
Suddenly a silence descends on the room. My back is to the door—not that I need to turn around. “Jackson must have arrived.”
Bryan tilts his head as he looks at me. Now I truly see the resemblance to a puppy dog. When Bryan does it, I want to smile. When Jackson does it, I want to hide.
I turn and see Jackson standing next to an older woman. She is petite and pretty, and as uncomfortable as I am. She must be his mother. As I look at her, and then look at Jackson towering over her, my first thought is I hope she didn’t have natural childbirth.
Jackson watches me approach, and there is a dark, brooding look in his eyes. Did I do something wrong? If he doesn’t like this, he’s going to hate the party late
r. His hand goes to the small of my back as he introduces me. His mother’s name is Margaret, but she insists I call her Marge. Jackson’s fingers lightly press and dance against the back of my dress. It’s distracting and confusing—and I enjoy it a little too much.
My policy has always been to act like the help and not like a guest. I welcome them and offer to take their coats. The sooner I can get away from this man, the better. As I attempt to exit gracefully, Bryan and Monica approach and block my path. There are kisses and hugs all around—all around Jackson, because he doesn’t join in. Marge clearly knows Monica. Bryan introduces her to Jackson.
This is my chance to escape. I wheel my way around Bryan, and come face-to-face with Kyle. I almost didn’t recognize him with his clothes on. He presses his tray of appetizers toward the group, cutting off my escape route.
Bryan looks at the selection. “What are these?”
I asked the caterer if they could add a quail appetizer at the last minute. I knew it was hopeless, but I had to try. I picked an appetizer I thought had the best potential to pass for quail and told the chef to lie. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
Kyle’s eyes lock on me. His expression clearly communicates that he hasn’t forgiven me for whatever happened between him and Lois last week. “Quail, I’ve been told.”
Jackson notices the look on Kyle’s face and takes the first one. He bites into it, chewing ever so slowly. “Quail, huh?”
“Mmmm.” That’s a nice, non-committal sound. It’s not a yes, and it’s not a no. It’s just an Mmmm.
I can tell Jackson isn’t fooled. “It tastes like chicken.”
I put on my best smile. “That’s what I’ve always heard. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on dinner.” Exit, stage right.
