by Graves, Jane
"Did she find the melon baller?" Kelsey asked.
"No, but the whole time she was looking for it, Paul was staring at her ass."
"So you think he still has a thing for her?"
"I don't know. She does have a pretty nice ass. Screwed up brain, but a nice ass."
"I thought he was afraid of her."
"He is. But I read an article on the Psychology Today website about fear. It said it can be a real catalyst for sexual excitement."
"In other words, the more afraid of her he is, the hotter he gets?"
"Yeah. The next time he comes over, I'm considering sharpening my kitchen knives and staring at him with a freaky gleam in my eye. Maybe then he'll look at my ass."
“Or call 911.”
“At least then I’ll know he’s paying attention.” Angi sighed. "Then before his ex-wife left, my cloak of invisibility must have lifted, because she pointed at me and told me I was crazy for hanging around with a man who would steal a melon baller. That if a man would take a melon baller from a woman, what other terrible things might he do? Then Paul watched her ass all the way out the door."
Kelsey shook her head. Brett was right about Paul. Angi could do better.
An hour passed. Then two. The bar was busy, with lots of commotion and hordes of people coming and going. Even after Angi left, Kelsey stayed. When she reached her two-drink maximum, she started sipping iced tea as she watched the game on the TV over the bar. Slowly the crowd thinned out, and then Brett spent most of his time after that chatting with her. When the game was over, she asked him for her check, but he suggested she hang around for a little while longer so they could walk home together. This time the thought of doing that actually made her happy.
What a difference a few weeks made.
As they left Gianelli’s, the night air felt cool and crisp, and a gentle breeze swirled around them. When they reached the road construction, Brett didn’t even hesitate before making a right turn down the street perpendicular to it.
“So we’re taking the detour?” she asked.
“Of course. We can’t walk through the construction zone. I’ve heard it’s dangerous.”
“I do believe you’re mocking me.”
“Not at all. I may have to admit that you’re right about that.”
She opened her mouth to tell him she’d done just the opposite on the way there, only to close it again. No sense rocking the boat when he’d come around to her point of view, right?
Funny thing, though. She’d also started coming around to his.
"Nice night," Brett said, gradually slowing his pace until it became a casual stroll. Normally Kelsey felt the urge to get from point A to point B with military efficiency, but something about the darkness and the autumn breeze and the man with her made an evening stroll a quiet, relaxing experience.
"So when do you take over as manager?" Kelsey asked.
"A week from today."
"Looking forward to it?"
"Yeah. Sure.” But the look on his face said he wasn’t exactly telling the truth. He let out a breath. “I guess I am little uptight about it.”
“Why?”
“There are a couple of employees who’ve been there longer than I have. Now they’re going to be working for me. Jerry called a meeting to tell everyone I was going to be running the place, and I got the impression some of them weren't happy. I'm pretty sure they resent the fact that Jerry gave me the job."
"So people are treating you differently?"
"It feels that way." He sighed. "Maybe I'm just paranoid."
"You'll be fine," she said. "You know the business, right?"
"Yeah. I’ve filled in for Jerry a lot, but being a temporary boss isn’t the same as being a permanent one.”
“And you're dependable."
“Uh-huh."
“I know you work hard. It wears me out just to watch you tend bar.”
"I work my ass off. My father taught me that. By the time I turned eighteen, I was surprised I had an ass left. Even if I don't end up buying into Gianelli's, eventually I want to own a restaurant of my own. That's why I went to school. Why I’ve worked so hard all these years."
"But now you're going to be the boss, and you don't like the thought of ever being the bad guy."
"Does anybody?"
"No, but sometimes you have to be when you're supervising. It’s like being a cop. I’m good to people, sometimes beyond the point where I feel like being respectful. But if I have to order somebody down on the ground and cuff them, I don’t hesitate to do it.”
Brett was silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I hear what you’re saying. But that doesn’t necessarily translate to the hospitality business. I mean, Jerry’s pretty easygoing. He never cracks the whip, but he’s successful enough that he’s opening a second restaurant.”
“Have you considered that he might be successful in spite of that, not because of it?”
“Maybe, but he’s always been the boss. People are comfortable with that. I’m being promoted, though, and that's going to make things harder. I’m pretty sure that people who were my friends before are already talking behind my back.”
“Well, you’re right about that.”
Brett froze. “I am?”
“Paul’s a little worried you’re going to turn into a…let’s see. How did he put it? A dictatorial asshole?”
Brett stopped short, looking horrified. "I'm not going to be a dictatorial asshole!"
"Of course you're not. If you do that, people won't like you."
"Exactly."
"And you want people to like you."
"Of course I do."
“Then you might as well be back in high school. You want to be one of the cool kids. But now you’re going to be more like the tough but fair principal the slackers hate.”
Brett sighed, then kept walking. “That’s a metaphor I could have done without.”
"Don’t worry,” Kelsey said, strolling alongside him. “It's only the slackers who may have a problem with you. The employees who do their jobs will like you just fine."
Brett gave her a reluctant nod, but she could tell he was still uptight. He had no reason to be, though, as long as he remembered that he was the boss and acted accordingly.
As they kept walking, the sounds of the city surrounded them—people talking, the occasional shout, the soft whoosh of tires, horns honking. Once Kelsey stopped to gaze through the window of an upscale women’s clothing store, but only because she couldn’t believe the mannequins were six feet tall and had waists that were approximately sixteen inches. Brett told her they were part of a genetically modified race of synthetic women who survived on vitamin water and lettuce leaves. Then he stopped in front of a toy store and told her a story about one Christmas when he was three, and Santa Claus brought him the most tricked-out tricycle that had ever been created.
They walked on a little farther, passing by a frozen yogurt shop, then a flower store. "Okay, now," Brett said, stopping in front of a plate-glass window. "This is my kind of shop."
Kelsey groaned. The number one problem with taking the long way home was that she had to pass this icky lingerie shop. Its window was full of anorexic mannequins like the ones they'd seen a few shops back, only every one of them was wearing something that would put a hooker to shame.
"I like that one," Brett said.
Kelsey glanced at the garment he pointed to, and her face crinkled with loathing. It was a one-piece thing made of silk, with tiny buttons from the cleavage to the navel and a flounce of ruffles along the top of the thighs, all of it in an iridescent pink so bright it burned her retinas.
"So what do you think?" he asked.
"What do you mean, what do I think?"
"I'd love to see you in that. Say the word, and I’ll buy it for you the moment the store opens in the morning."
She looked at him with utter disbelief. "You have got to be joking."
"I never joke about sleazy undergarments."
"No, Brett. Just…no."
"Would begging help?"
Kelsey sighed. "As much as I appreciate the thought, let me explain something. There is no force in the universe strong enough to get me to wear something like that."
"I don't know. Gravity and centrifugal force keep the planets circling the sun. I bet if they got together, they could get you to wear it.”
She gave him a deadpan stare.
"Fine," he said. "Hurt my feelings. I offer to buy you a nice gift, and you reject it."
"Maybe I'll want it later. And by later, I mean never. Now, come on."
She started walking again, and he caught up to her. "I like taking this way home," he said. "There's so much more to see."
"Uh-huh. Mannequins with zero self-respect wearing horrific lingerie."
Brett chuckled softly and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close for a moment as they walked. Then he eased away, slid his hand down her arm, and enveloped her hand in his. She imagined Angi would say that fell into the category of kissing in public. Maybe she was right. Strangely enough, something about simply holding hands as they walked felt almost as intimate as sex.
As they went up the elevator in their building, Brett said, “Why don’t you come to my apartment for a little while?”
“No. I should probably call it a night. I have to get up early in the morning.”
“For just a few minutes. I have something to show you.”
She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "You have that look on your face."
"What look?"
"The one that says you're up to no good. Are you going to squirt me with something?"
"No."
"Make me put on a plaid skirt and knee socks? You Headmaster, me naughty school girl?"
"No."
"Let Boomer lick me?"
"Oh, for God's sake! Will you just come in?"
Kelsey rolled her eyes and followed him into his apartment. The moment she stepped inside, she stopped short, her mouth falling open with disbelief.
Every surface was free of junk. Stuff was picked up off the carpet. Dishes were put away. There wasn't a potato chip sack in sight. Somebody could sit on the sofa without shoving dirty laundry aside. And it looked as if he'd actually…dusted?
"You cleaned your apartment?" she said, her eyes wide with amazement.
"Did it this morning. What do you think?”
She gazed around, unable to believe it. It would never appear in the pages of House Beautiful, but it wouldn't show up on an episode of Hoarders, either. Boomer sat in the middle of the room, looking a little lost. With actual space around him, he didn’t look quite so much like Godzilla thundering toward Tokyo.
"I think it’s great,” she said. “Finally I know for sure you're not hiding any dead bodies."
"You know what? I found out tidiness has its advantages. Remember that pile of stuff that used to be in that corner? I found last year’s tax refund check underneath it. Two hundred and twenty-four bucks." He gestured toward a set of bookshelves. "And I found my TV remote over there. I swear I looked for that thing for twenty minutes last month before I finally bought a new one. And look at that," he said, pointing to the floor. "Who would have thought my floors were that color?"
Kelsey’s gaze circled around the room, unable to believe it.
"I even alphabetized my album collection," he said.
She drew back. “No way.”
“Check it out.”
She walked over and flipped through the decades-old albums. Yep. ABBA was up first. She didn't know whether to congratulate him on his organizational skills or barf at his taste in music. Then there was Boston. Cat Stevens. Creedence Clearwater Revival. A couple of Ds she didn’t recognize. The Doors. Earth, Wind and Fire. Some guy named John Fahey. Foreigner.
Unbelievable.
"I'm officially Goodwill's new favorite person," Brett said. "It's a wonder I didn't lose Boomer in here."
"Why did you decide to become Mr. Clean?"
"The devil made me do it."
"Nope. This was definitely heaven-sent. So what’s the real reason?”
He took a few steps toward her, his hands stuck in his jeans pockets. "Truthfully? I thought you'd eventually get tired of coming here and wading through all my crap. Since I don't want you to go, my crap had to."
Okay, so everybody had to clean up sometime or the health department would eventually step in. But knowing he did it for her gave her that tingly feeling again, the one that made her feel like whistling some dumb little ditty that would make Disney bluebirds soar out of the treetops to sit on her finger. If she ever did that, she’d know for a fact that she’d gone completely off the deep end.
"You almost had an orgasm when you saw my clean apartment, didn’t you?” Brett asked.
She circled her gaze around the room again. “Almost. I have to admit it’s a pretty big turn-on.”
He inched toward her, taking her in his arms. “What cleanliness can’t do, I can.”
She smiled. “Maybe it’s not as late as I thought.”
As he led her to his bedroom, she told herself to be careful. His sudden bout of housecleaning was nice, but it was going against his nature. They were still total opposites. Maybe opposites did attract, but for how long?
Yeah, Brett was a little smarter than she’d given him credit for. Okay, a lot smarter. But that didn’t mean they had the first thing in common. He had a big, sloppy dog the size of a Hummer, and she had a goldfish. He'd wanted her to wear that god-awful thing in the shop window, and she'd puked and kept walking. He had a smile for everyone, and she practically had to perform a voodoo ceremony to summon one. Her glass was half empty, moving toward bone dry, and his was so full it overflowed. Was there anything they had in common? Even one thing?
Sooner or later their differences had to be their downfall. After the great sex slipped to the background and everyday life took over, what would they have left?
12
A few days later, Brett woke with a knot in his stomach the size of a watermelon. This was it. The day he took over as general manager of Gianelli's. And there was nothing on earth he was looking forward to less. Jerry was going to be there on and off for a week longer to ease him into the transition, but then he'd be uptown with Carlos nearly every day, getting the new restaurant ready for its grand opening.
Brett arrived at two o'clock to go over the financials and the alcohol delivery schedule with Jerry. It was one thing to manage the restaurant when customers were there, but managing the business side of things was a whole new ballgame. Bars operated on a very tight margin, and he needed to be certain he stayed on top of things. Gianelli’s was primarily a drinking establishment that served food mostly to offset the alcohol and feed customers’ munchie attacks, so its menu was more limited than a restaurant’s. Thank God. If Brett had been expected to deal with a full-blown restaurant kitchen, he was sure his brain would explode.
Around four o’clock, the kitchen staff showed up, and shortly after that, the wait staff and bartenders arrived for their shifts. Andrea showed up, then Dan. Jerry had hired a new bartender named Greg, and he was already at his place behind the bar. But when Brett opened the door at five, Paul hadn’t shown up. Brett was in the kitchen when he finally arrived twenty minutes late.
"Hey, Mr. Manager," he said, holding his hand up to Brett for a high‑five. "Ready to run the show?"
Brett slapped his hand and said he was, when what he really wanted to say was, Why are you late? But twenty minutes wasn't worth hard feelings, particularly on day one, so he let it go. Paul put on an apron and headed into the dining room, where he charmed a table full of ladies who hung on every word he said. He was a good waiter when he put his mind to it, sucking up tips like a vacuum cleaner. Brett just wished he’d put his mind to it more often. Jerry had always let Paul's bad behavior go, and Brett figured it was because good waiters were hard to come by.
Balance. That was the key. Brett knew he had to make sure things
didn't get out of hand, but a few minutes here, a few minutes there…did that really matter?
* * *
“There's a problem,” Brett said a few days later, as he and Kelsey lay in bed.
Kelsey’s heart skipped. “What's that?”
“All we do is have sex.”
Her heart sank. So there it was. He’d zeroed in on the problem, just as she had. Of course they didn’t belong together, because even Brett had to admit that after a while, no matter how good the sex was, it just wasn’t enough. For a long-term relationship, of course there had to be something more. But what? If they had nothing in common, which they didn’t, then sooner or later—
“How about a date?” Brett asked.
“Huh?”
“A date, Kelsey. D-A-T-E. I know I asked you out once and you told me to go to hell, but—"
"I did not tell you to go to hell."
"Yeah, you kinda did."
"Well, okay. But I thought you were messing with me."
"Forget that. We're starting over. Let's go out."
She frowned. “You mean, like dinner and a movie?”
Brett laughed. “My God. You should see your face.”
“I can't help it. Reflex action. You have no idea some of the horrible dates I’ve been on.”
“No. It’ll be great. Just leave it to me.”
“No way. What kind of a fool would I have to be to—“
“Kelsey.”
“What?”
“I’m not asking you to swim the East River with me.”
“No. Forget dates. No dates. What would we say to each other?”
He grinned. “Did you just hear yourself?”
Kelsey sighed. Brett was right. Her aversion to dating bordered on the pathological. Maybe—just maybe—it was time she broke the cycle.
"Okay, fine," she muttered. "We'll go on a date."
"Don't worry. If you don’t like it, we’ll go back to just having sex. See? Either way, you win.”
* * *
Kelsey knew that if Brett had been like any other man, he would have taken her to a movie theater, where they would watch whatever male-oriented blockbuster was out that week, and then they'd go to a restaurant of some kind to exchange mundane conversation over a meal before returning to their apartment building that they never should have left in the first place.
