Under Contract
Copyright © 2014 Jacquelyn Ayres
Cover Design: Wicked by Design
Editor: Jess Huckins
Formatting: Champagne Formats
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. 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 an information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0991249046
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Coming Soon
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For my “Julie Posse” (my version of the GEGS, in no particular order): Jennifer McCloskey, Holly Dirato, Nicole Gibson, Amanda LaVita, Bernadette Titterington, and Lorin Falana.
I love you.
You have inspired so many of my gut-busting laughs, epic, and heart-warming memories.
I cherish you.
No matter where life takes us or how many kids we produce that gobble up all of our time, I know you are just a phone call away (with screaming-child background music…ahh).
I Thank you.
Not for just believing in me, but, for reeling me back in whenever I feel lost.
Okay—bye!
(Go read the book now!)
Retrieving a compact out of my small clutch purse, I finally bring my eyes up for one last look in the mirror. I told myself—convinced myself, really—that I was just popping into the bathroom to check my appearance a final time. As I stare into my green eyes (my first qualification for this job), I realize I’m in here to have a conference call with my sanity. Clearly it went bankrupt and closed up shop, like most of the country, because there’s no answer. My sanity is gone ... replaced by desperation and a mother’s instinctive need to provide for her children.
I lay my palms on the cool marble countertop and take in a few cleansing yoga breaths like my friend Ava always recommends. Apparently, I freak out too much—so she says.
“Okay, Charley ... put your big-girl pants on. You can do this.” Sometimes you need to just act bravely so you convince yourself you are. Of course, I have to push away the thought of my big-girl pants being pulled off later. I sweep a few wisps of hair off my temple. Thank God Ava was able to do my hair. Must look sophisticated, yet approachable. One of many qualifications needed for this job. Ava had parted my long brown hair to the left, then crowned the sides with tight French braids ‘til every strand was pulled to the back. There, she created a mass production of neat pin curls at the top of my neck. It looks great for the office or a night out on the town. “Sophisticated, yet approachable.” Good job, Ava!
I step back for one more glance to make sure everything is in place. I’m wearing a black silk draped dress by alice + olivia. I never would’ve randomly spent this much on a designer dress, but luckily my Aunt Clara has more money than sense. She loves her some Saks Fifth Avenue! However, Aunt Clara shops blindly for people. I don’t know about my cousins, but my sisters and I always end up with a store credit of anywhere from three hundred to fifteen hundred dollars, depending on the occasion for the gift.
The last big “occasion” was my husband leaving me six months ago with three kids and no pot to piss in. Said he was “tired of society and government.” He didn’t want this—any of it. He was going to live off the land. I’ve since learned that in Europe, they call this “going on a walkabout.” To this day, I have no idea about where he’s been walking. Asshole!
Aunt Clara, out of the goodness of her heart, sent me an Armani silk jumpsuit for my hardship; only cost her $1,700. Problem solved! I finally had something special to wear to all my “special” appointments—you know, WIC, fuel assistance, food stamps, and other programs that assist the needy. What would I possibly do with $1,700 in my pocket? Pay the mortgage? More money than sense, that one!
Punctuality is a must! Shit! I look at my phone—phew! Two minutes to spare. One more deep breath before I walk out of the bathroom and head to the bar in the Ames Hotel. Funny—until a few days ago, I never even knew this hotel existed. Then again, I don’t usually have a reason to stay overnight in Boston’s financial district. “Please don’t be old and bald ... or creepy ... or ... eck ...” I chant to myself. “Please have kind eyes and a kind heart.” I lower the bar. Small steps.
As instructed, I head over to the table in the far left corner and take a seat. So much for “punctuality”—where the hell is he?
“Scotch on the rocks and a glass of your best Merlot,” I say, looking up from my phone. The bartender nods and goes about my order. I slide my phone into the inside pocket of my jacket and glance impatiently at my watch. She’d better be punctual! Biggest pet peeve—one minute late and I’m out of here! I grab my scotch before the bartender can place it down, swirl it around, and take a good swig.
“Waiting on a girl?” he asks.
“Aren’t we all?” I smirk.
“Pretty much.” He laughs. “Well this one must be special ... you seem nervous.”
“It’s complicated.”
“When isn’t it, dude?” He shakes his head, wiping the bar down.
“True.” I smile, partly because he has no idea about my type of complicated.
“Damn,” he says as he glances over my shoulder. I look up at him. His mouth hangs open, his eyes wide and wild-looking, seeping with desire that only another guy would catch. I follow his eyes and my breath hitches. Holy shit ... please be Charlotte, I think as I watch her make her way through the lounge. I feel the corners of my lips curve up with satisfaction when she seats herself exactly where I was hoping she would.
“That, my friend, would be my complication.” I turn back to him.
“I will gladly release you, sir, from such a burden. It’s all part of the great customer service I like to give around here.” He takes on a serious tone.
“Thank you, eh, Jim ... I appreciate your thoughtfulness. But, alas, this is a burden I must carry alone. Try not to feel sorry for me.” I lift my glass to him and nod before heading over to her.
“I can’t—I’m too busy feeling sorry for myself,” he mutters.
“Charlotte?” I ask softly. She turns her head and looks up at me.
“Mitch?” She smiles.
“Mitchell.” I correct her.
She nods. “Mitchell. Hi.”
“Merlot?” I place her wine in front of her before taking my seat.
“Oh ... thank you.” She picks it up to take a sip.
“Very punctual—that’s good,” I say as I take in the sight of her. I was very specific in my ad about the type of woman I wanted to “employ.” So far, she’s a vision more perfect than my imagination could conjure up.
“I try to be. I’m not always successful,
I must admit.” I watch as her smile hits her eyes with ease as she speaks. “Mitch? Everything all right?” She leans her head to the side.
“Yes. Why?” I sit up straighter and take another sip of my scotch.
“You were just staring at me ... for a while.” She breaks eye contact and plays with the charm on the stem of her glass.
“Sorry. You’re just ... you’re a very beautiful woman.” I swirl the cubes around and take my last swig.
“Um, thank you,” she says hesitantly as she plays with a napkin. I place my hand on top of hers to stop the fidgeting. Her eyes fly up quickly to meet mine. Shit—did she just feel that, too? No. What am I thinking? She’s a professional. Then again, I’m not quite sure why I felt a flutter of electricity—this isn’t my first time around, either.
“Please call me Mitchell, Charlotte.” I pull my hand away.
“Isn’t that what I called you?”
“You called me Mitch a moment ago; only close friends and family call me that.”
I sigh, half expecting her to roll her eyes at me.
“Well, I’m a little less formal. You can call me Charley.” She smiles. There’s something playful about her smile, as if she’s teasing me.
“Charlotte is such a beautiful name. Why do you go by Charley?” I sit back, studying her again.
“Oh, that’s my dad’s doing.” She takes another sip of her wine and leans back in her chair. “I’m the youngest of five girls. My dad, like most men, really wanted a son. My mom told him she was done. No more after me. So he asked if he could name me Charlotte. Of course, she didn’t know it was so he could call me Charley. But it stuck. Everyone calls me Charley.”
She takes another sip.
“Did he ever get over not having a son?”
“Oh yeah. Turns out, he named me perfectly. I was quite the tomboy, and his constant sidekick.” She shakes her head, laughing at herself.
“Is he still alive?” I set down my empty glass.
“Oh yeah. Healthy as a horse, that guy! I think he’ll outlive me!” I watch her face light up as she talks about him. I wonder if “dear old Dad’s” health would be as good if he knew what his precious sidekick did for a living.
“The waitress is right over there. Do you want me to wave her down for another drink?” she asks just before opening her purse. “Excuse me,” she says, then quickly texts. “Sorry.” She puts the phone back.
“Turn it off.”
She looks up. “Sorry?”
“No phone when you’re with me,” I say calmly.
“Okay, well, I, uh ... put it on vibrate. I will not turn it off, but I can assure you that we won’t be interrupted again unless there’s an emergency. I only answered to let my friend know that I arrived safely.” She seems perturbed. “Why are you smiling like that?” Now she’s just plain irritated. I think my smug smile just got a little bigger.
“Finish your wine, Charlotte. I want to go upstairs and go over my contract with you.” I push her glass forward.
“Contract? What sort of contract?” Her eyes go wide. I can’t help but laugh.
“Don’t worry; it’s not that sort of contract.” I open my eyes wide enough to match hers, and she laughs again.
“I don’t have to call you ‘sir’?” she asks playfully.
“Hmm ... nope. No.” I shake my head.
“Do I need a safeword?”
“Nope.” Jesus, she’s cute. She’s perfect. Just what I wanted. I hope she’ll agree to my terms.
“Any chains, whips, floggers, canes, or paddles involved?” She pushes back on a finger for each thing she rattles off.
“Jesus—I may need a safeword!” I give her a playfully horrified look. She laughs again and I think it’s the loveliest sound I’ve heard in a long time. Charlotte takes the last sip of her wine. I stand up and hold my hand out to her. She smiles and takes my offer. I pull her to me. Her nervousness catches me a little off guard. Is she always like this with clients, or is it me? I tilt my head as I lean in and sweep her lips with a kiss. Mmm ... soft. “Let’s go.” I nudge her nose with mine.
Mitch hits the button for the ninth floor as I try to collect my wits about me. Mitchell ... that’s going to be hard for me. He looks like a Mitch, but not a Mitchell, if that makes any sense.
He’s a handsome man. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but definitely handsome. I’d peg him to be in his early forties and just under six feet tall. He has dark, dirty-blond hair. His eyes are hazel, and kind-looking. His smile hits them, and like magic, I can see him as a little boy. I have to keep reminding myself that this isn’t a regular first date. Though if I were my friend Julie, the end result would be a regular first date. And, he’s taking me upstairs to sign a contract, amongst other things. What did his ad say? “If upon initial interview I feel you are right for the position, you will fill out all necessary paperwork and begin immediately. Length of employment, as well as salary, will be discussed at that time.” So, I’m guaranteed a phone call after our first “date.” Definitely a step up from Julie’s regular first dates. That, coupled with the fact that I instinctively like him, makes me feel a smidge better.
“What’s going on in there?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts as his index finger softly taps my right temple.
“I was trying to find that out myself, but ...” I trail off.
“But what?” Smiling eyes. Not a regular date, Charley—stop it!
“I was rudely interrupted by someone knocking and asking me ‘What’s going on in there?’ before I could even find out.” I state in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Rudely, huh?” He bites back his smile.
“Hmm ... yes. Probably not the last rude thing you will do to me tonight.” I sigh playfully and watch as the numbers light up in the elevator. It stops, but it’s only the seventh floor.
“You think I’m going to do rude things to you tonight?”
His voice is full of mirth. I open my mouth to say something, but the door opening distracts me. Mitch yanks my hand, pulling me to the back of the elevator as two older couples get on and the door closes.
“Frank! This is going up!” One lady hits her husband’s arm as her irritation pierces his eardrums, I’m sure.
He shrugs. “So what?”
“Charlotte,” Mitch says, nipping at my right ear, “you didn’t answer my question.”
“That’s because Frank got on the wrong elevator,” I whisper, holding an accusatory hand out in the direction of poor Frank.
Mitch raises an eyebrow. “Charlotte.”
“Charley,” I correct him. He places his hands on my hips.
“Charlotte,” he insists, squeezing my hips and pulling me back against him aggressively. I gasp—Christ, I’m such a girl! Frank’s wife shoots me a look—Christ, she’s such a bitch!
“Do you think I’m going to do rude things to you?” he asks again in a whisper.
“Well, I guess it depends,” I say.
“Depends on what?” He crooks his neck to look at me. I gaze up at him.
“If our definition of what’s rude is the same.” I smirk.
“Christ ... I think I’m going to enjoy the hell out of finding out!” he says at his regular volume. Everyone turns to look at us. Luckily, we don’t have to endure their stares. “Excuse us, please.” Mitch leads the way through the older couples, holding my hand. “Good luck, Frank!” he says loudly as we head down the hall. We hear Frank’s friend laughing.
“Mitch!” I smack his arm. “He’s going to get holy hell for that!” I say with exasperation. Mitch ignores me and opens the door to the room. No sooner do I step in than he slams the door shut and pushes me against it.
“This is the last time I’m telling you—Mitchell!” he says through his teeth with a mixture of anger and irritation.
“Oh, honey, you must’ve had a little too much to drink. I’m Charlotte.” I place my hand on my chest. “You’re Mitchell.” I move my hand to his chest. Mitch looks down and shakes his head, t
hen backs away from me.
“Forget it. This isn’t going to work. I’ll pay you for tonight, but you can leave.”
He pulls out his wallet. I’m trying to decide which action offends me more: his dismissal, or the reaching for the wallet? Of course, getting pissed about either and walking (storming, really) out of here is not going to put food in front of my kids and a roof over their heads. And ... I like him. Yeah, he seems to have some quirks—we all do. But I like him. I feel okay with him. okay with what I’m going to do with him. Was going to do. Unless I rectify this situation.
“Whoa ... wait.” I reach out and touch his arm. “I’m sorry.” I take a step or two closer. He stares down at me intently. “You made me nervous. I joke when I get nervous. I can’t help it.” He tosses his wallet on the table, then puts his hands on my hips and pulls me toward him.
“I made you nervous?” he asks before planting a light kiss on my nose.
“Well, yeah. You slammed me up against the door and yelled in my face.” I pull my head back as he advances. “Third rude thing you’ve done to me in the hour I’ve known you, by the way.”
“Third?” he questions with a smile.
“Yes.”
“When was the second time?”
He leans in to kiss me.
“You made me gasp in the elevator ... in front of other people.” I pull my head back again.
“The horror!” His eyes widen. “Well,” he starts before he touches my cheek, “I can do better than that.” He leans down and kisses me. My knees weaken as I part my lips, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Holy shit—this guy can kiss! I hear a slow waltz playing in my head. Our mouths remain in perfect hold while our tongues dance skillfully as if this was their millionth waltz, not their first.
Mitch pulls away abruptly. He stares down into my eyes again, his left thumb strumming across my bottom lip.
“What?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.
“You’re different,” he finally says after a few more moments of awkward silence.
“What do you mean?”
Under Contract (The GEG Series) Page 1
