by Landra Graf
Then the unbidden thought of Dev’s eyes, face, and his arms crossed at the elbows came forth, all wrapped up in the power suit he wore. He wouldn’t have looked at Betty with as much disdain. Thinking of him brought unwanted attraction-based thoughts, along with an urge to lick her lips. Anything besides a professional relationship would be completely wrong, and a man that good looking and educated had flaws. They all did. Regardless, she’d officially joined the fringe ranks of his lust club from limited association only. The thought made her stomach curdle.
“Wow, show me how you feel.”
She jerked her head back, blasting away all the inappropriate thoughts. “What?”
“You looked at me like I was one of those clean-carpet salesmen looking for a chance to sell you the latest product.”
“Sorry, long day and not the greatest news. Speaking of, what are you doing here?” Last time she’d checked, co-workers, even those within her circle of friends, didn’t make house calls in the middle of the day.
She grinned and held up Kat’s laptop charger. “Someone forgot her necessary wall plug and called to see if our boss could send someone. I’m the lucky winner and got to cut out of work early.”
“Lucky you, for sure. Come in then.” She stepped back, motioning for Betty to step inside. The house wasn’t its usual mess and disaster zone. No scrapbooking stuff lying everywhere and all that nonsense—not with contractors in and out. She dreaded the arrival of the next one, in another hour according to her cell phone.
“So...” Betty moved past her, and Kat closed the entrance to the outside world. “Here’s the charger. Now, give me the lowdown. Everyone is worried about you, especially since you called in and you never take a sick day. Ever.”
Kat took the outstretched computer cord and threw it on the couch, contemplating how much she should tell her friend. When it came to personal problems, she’d always fallen under the heading of listener. Sharing didn’t come naturally to her, not with anyone besides her gran.
“Ouch, is that how you treat all your stuff?”
“No, I have a care for the stuff I appreciate.” Like the boxes of family photos, clippings, and info she’d been organizing since before her gran had passed. A firm reminder that the one person she confessed her problems to could no longer listen. Maybe it was time to put a little faith in the friendships she’d cultivated, starting with the woman standing beside her.
“I’m in a little bit of a pickle, and I don’t know what the hell to do.”
Betty walked right by her and into the living room, taking up a seat on her tan sofa next to the discarded charger. “I’m all ears.”
“Remember when I told you about the lady wanting to buy my house?”
Her friend nodded before leaning forward to reach into the candy bowl on the coffee table. One of her gran’s traditions was keeping chocolate for visitors; like the house, it was something Kat wanted to live on forever, passing it down to her children, if she ever had any.
“Well, the Purple People Eater sicced the city’s code enforcement department on me, paired with building inspection. It appears my grandmother’s home is breaking multiple codes, including plumbing and electric. I don’t have carbon monoxide detectors, and my refrigerator has to be on its own circuit. Staying home was the only way I could make time for all the contractors to come over and give estimates on the work I need completed.”
Betty didn’t say anything right away. Nope, she chewed on the chocolate caramel in her mouth. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Tell who?”
“Any of us. You have friends, Kat. I can count us on one hand, but still, we’re your friends.”
Betty was right. Somehow over the years of being employed at Ying and Yang Marketing she’d become a group of five. Betty, Royce, Natalie, and Ana made up her inner circle, and they spent plenty of days after work tossing back a few cold ones at a local bar. Dragging them into her issues wouldn’t have done anything though.
“What can you do? None of you are rolling in the dough last time I checked. It’s silly to whine about my problems.”
“We may not be able to do anything physically about it, but emotional support never hurt anyone. You’re supposed to whine about your problems to us. Bottling stuff up doesn’t help you; take it from the girl with experience in such things.”
“I don’t want to burden you guys with this crap.” The last thing she wanted was for someone else to resent her presence, to want to put as many miles between her and them as possible.
Pushing herself to a standing position, Betty walked over and wrapped Kat up in a hug. Her friend wasn’t big on encroaching personal space and touching, which made this display of emotion a bit surprising.
When the embrace came to an end, Betty’s face was scrunched up as if she was in pain. “See, I even hugged you. Something friends do, even germ-a-phobic, anti-intimacy friends like me. Now, how bad is the damage?”
Kat frowned. The other problem was talking about her whole mess made her skin crawl and gave a real quality to her predicament. If she spoke about it out loud to someone close to her, it made the whole thing tangible, a nightmare no longer confined to the slim possibility of it being a hallucination.
“That look on your face tells me the news is not good.”
She held out the paper from earlier, now wrinkled thanks to her death grip. “Ten grand, that’s only electrical. I’m still waiting on the construction contractor. He’s supposed to deal with the foundation cracks. This shit makes my head spin, and the thing is, I asked my cousin, Mark, to help me out, but the situation turned out a bust.”
“How so?” Her question got muffled around the second dark chocolate caramel in her mouth.
“He agreed to give me the money but wanted a favor in return. I’m not good with favors.”
“Seems if it’s not sexually related or something illegal, then the favor is probably worth it. Almost anything is worth saving your security and safety. This home is your safety.”
If only it were that easy.
“Remind me why a refinance loan or home improvement loan is out of the question?” The third piece of chocolate disappeared from the bowl, the most sweets she’d ever seen Betty eat in one sitting, outside of watermelon daiquiris.
“Yes, a big fat rejection story there. The ex-boyfriend, douche-a-million racked up a credit card in my name, which I’m still trying to get written off as identity theft. In the meantime, the banks don’t want me, my car is too old for a title loan, and payday loans don’t come in increments of ten thousand.”
“This favor to your cousin is looking better and better. No help from Mom and Dad?”
Oh, not from them. They were useless when it came to anything involving money, family, or responsibilities in general. “I’ve no clue where they are or where to start searching for them. After Gran’s funeral, they mentioned backpacking through Asia, and they haven’t been in contact. Besides, at the reading of the will, my mother told me I should sell the house and use the money to go on an adventure, like them. She doesn’t give a shit about the home any more than my cousin does. You’d think there would be a familial bond there between mother and daughter, but no dice. I’ll have to take on Purple People Eater all by myself.”
Betty started laughing, which quickly turned into coughing. “Where—” More hacking ensued, and Kat stepped up, patting her on her back. When Betty had things under control, Kat dashed into the kitchen for a bottle of water.
Betty took a drink. “Thank you. Chocolate down the wrong pipe.”
“Yeah, glad you didn’t die. The last thing I need is an accidental death lawsuit.”
“I know and sorry. Those chocolates are delicious.”
“The devil’s own, but you can’t stop at just one.”
Betty lifted her water bottle, toasting the air. “Damn, straight. Where did you come up with that nickname for the house buyer?”
“The devil-woman had worn these ridiculous purple pumps when I first m
et her and the other day. Now the name keeps popping up without a second thought. I should stop saying it because it will get worse, but I can’t.” She failed to add that the only way to keep herself from breaking down involved making jokes any chance she got. Gran always said to make sure every day involved a reason to laugh. There’d been little to laugh about since she passed, and now with the house issues, laughter came at a premium.
“You’re awful sometimes, but that’s why we love you. I’ve got to get back, but I’ll cross my fingers that a solution will pop up. If anything, maybe re-think the favor. It can’t be that bad. Also, if you do decide you want someone to complain to, my phone is on, and my ears are ready to listen whenever.”
Letting an outside party play My Fair Lady with her life sounded pretty awful to her, especially if she had to analyze her personal feelings and shit. She walked Betty out, and once inside the living room again, her phone buzzed in her hand. A number she didn’t recognize popped up, most likely the construction contractor. “Hello, this is Kat.”
“Ms. Baum?” The familiar male voice, all low and smoky, sent a shiver through her.
Somehow she willed her vocal cords to produce the automated response. “This is she.”
“Devid Esposito. We met Wednesday at Bona Fide.” He paused, and she wasn’t sure if she needed to respond, but as she opened her mouth, he continued. “I wanted to apologize for my rudeness the other day. In fact, I think we both got off on the wrong foot.”
Surprise. “No feet involved, and I don’t regret what I said. You were extremely rude.” Fuck. Where the hell did her attitude come from? She’d been relieved to hear his voice, hope blooming for a second chance, and then her mouth went and ruined it.
“I admit, not my finest first impression, and your follow-ups were a product of my reactions.”
“Thanks for the apology? But what do you want now?” The hope, like a tulip bulb emerging from the ground, still grew inside her.
He sighed. She could picture his shoulders heaving in the process. “Against my better judgment, I’ve decided to help you.”
Fuck, if the regretful tone of his voice didn’t shrivel her tulip bulb in a blast of frigid cold. “I don’t want to put you out, Mr. Esposito.”
“If we’re going to work together, I think you need to call me Dev.” He acted like her last sentence, outside of his name, didn’t exist. “We’ll also need to discuss some parameters for the upcoming sessions.”
“Mr.—”
“Dev.”
She stuck her tongue out at her phone. “Dev, as I said before, I don’t want this to be something you’re doing out of pity for poor little me.”
“It’s far worse than that; I think I can help you.”
Dread pooled in her belly, low and spreading out like a slowly stretched slinky. She wanted to run, hide, anything to escape being transformed into some cookie cutter, materialistic, calorie-counting woman. “I don’t—”
“Right now, stop thinking I’m going to change your whole identity or make you into someone you’re not. The process doesn’t work that way.” How the hell did he know she’d been thinking that?
“I can’t help it, damn it. ‘Image makeover’ implies taking away the parts of me that are me.” She’d seen the shows, the movies, and skimmed through a few books. Changing your image meant getting rid of all the unwanted and undesirable bits to be replaced with palate pleasers. Natural instinct rallied her to fight against replacing her quirks for socially acceptable norms. She liked being the weird one at times because it forced her to be happy in her own skin. But you’re not happy.
Another heavy exhale sounded in her ear before Dev spoke. “I don’t operate that way. I discover your preferences and find new things you like but haven’t experienced before, and we bring the two together to create a classy and socially acceptable fashion—at least with clothing and shoes. Each consultation is unique, and you still emerge your own person, even more familiar with yourself. Now, how free are your Saturdays and Sundays?”
“My social life isn’t very active at the moment.” She wouldn’t mention Nick, the ex-boyfriend-who-deserved-to-be-castrated. No sense in wasting her breath. With the need for money to pay for all the work on the house, any other fancy, fun adventures—even ordering pizza—were on hold.
“All right then, we’ll meet for our first session this Saturday morning at eight a.m. Wear running attire and meet me at Compton Park.” He said everything matter-of-factly like there wouldn’t be any objection. “The number I called you from is my personal cell number. If something comes up or you’re running late, feel free to text. If you don’t know if you have appropriate running clothes, snap a photo and send it to me. I’ll text a reminder of the appointment time and location.”
“I don’t run.” As a general rule, Kat didn’t exercise at all. There were other things to be done— scrapbooking, household chores, or television to catch up on. She was a sucker for any foodie reality show, which could be why she’d gained five pounds in the last six months. Not like she counted the weight, but there were a few pairs of pants she’d found a little tighter around the middle.
“We won’t be running. We’ll be jogging and walking alternately. Part of improving your image involves improving your health. If this doesn’t work for you, we’ll find something else, but since this whole consultation is on my time and completely pro bono, then I’ll need you to be flexible with my schedule.”
“Asshole.” Kat coughed, pulling the phone an inch away from her face.
“Excuse me?”
“See you there.” Those three words sounded nothing like the one she’d originally delivered, but too late to take back the lie now.
She put her finger to the end call button and barely heard his, “Saturday at eight.”
“Yep.” A quick reply, but an attempt to stay polite, even with the doorbell ringing in the background. She tucked the phone into her jeans pocket and couldn’t stop the smile, nor the fear bug burrowing in her belly. As long as the next contractor didn’t go over twenty thousand, she’d be in business. The only hiccup? Attraction and business didn’t mix. So those wild, wandering thoughts about Dev’s voice, his body, and even the way she liked how he gave as much as he took, needed to take a hike. He’d help her get a leg up and her money from Mark, but physical legs would stay firmly on the ground and closed.
5
Kat got out of the car, longing for her bed and a couple more hours of sleep. Last night had been a title bout of tossing and turning, involving thousands of scenarios on how to convince Dev to go all in on the makeover. His previous commitment echoed in her mind like one of those too-good-to-be-true infomercials her Gran called “devil’s traps.” The best solution in her sleep-deprived mind involved telling him about her ex and the issues leading to her move to Arkansas in the first place. The latter being a last-resort case only, but a good possibility for a sympathy wager.
As she trudged across the parking lot and onto the trail entrance, the crisp September air hit her nostrils. The sensation triggered favorite fall memories—football, apple cider, pumpkin pie—not exercise. The Compton Garden Conference Center loomed in front of her. Once a house, it had been remodeled in honor of the doctor who’d lived there as a meeting center. Another historical piece of downtown Bentonville transformed for public use. If Pru got her hands on Kat’s house, a similar fate would occur. The idea congealed the soda pop in her stomach. Reminded of her purpose, the Herculean task she needed to undertake to save her future, she marched forward with a bit more resolve.
And the man she needed to convince to help her stood on the sidewalk in front of the building, bent over touching his toes. She stopped and watched, mesmerized, as he stretched and moved. Compared to Nick, who’d been all lanky, gangly limbs with little tone, her image consultant had enough muscle to spare. Shame Dev hid his body inside a suit all day.
He finished his last stretch, released the foot in his hand, and turned to face her. “Good morning.�
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“That could be left up to interpretation.” Her response garnered a raised eyebrow. She came to a stop next to him. He appeared awake and alert, and yes, she believed eight o’clock on Saturdays was too damn early for greeting the weekend. “I’m more for stumbling out of bed around ten for brunch.”
“Is this how you usually respond to people who offer you greetings?” Dev’s grumpy tone sounded as sexy as any other tonality he’d used with her.
Get a hold of yourself. “You’re not an early riser either, are you?”
He crossed his arms and entered full glowering stance. “I am an early riser, and notice how I was polite enough to answer your question, whereas you didn’t answer mine.”
“No, I don’t usually greet people like that, but my mouth tends to get the best of me sometimes.” Her statements at their first meeting were no lie. She kept the lid on most of the smart stuff in the office, but outside those hallowed walls was a whole different story of sarcastic remarks to servers and thoughts blurted out in the heat of the moment.
“You need to warm up before we get started.” He treated her statement as if it was a logical explanation instead of an excuse. Then he looked at her legs, covered in the stretchy spandex-blend capris. She’d bought them last year with every intention of working out but never did it. His perusal made all her woman parts tingle, and her nipples tightened. Even if he was looking at her for a reason completely non-sexual, her body wanted the opposite. Deprived libidos were a bitch.
“Stretch, sure.” She bent over, half-heartedly reaching for her toes. The awkward position sent signals of discomfort through her legs, up her back, and to her middle. “Is it supposed to hurt?”
This time, he ignored her question. “Your form is all wrong, and you’re going to sprain something that way. You need to bring your feet in line with your shoulders.”
