About times, music, colors, about how he wanted to be clued in on every single minute detail from the brand names of the liquor to the entire staff hired to work the event.
That day alone, we fought for two hours over names for the featured cocktail.
Apparently, Fresh Starts and New Beginnings were 'cheesy' and 'outdated.' And he 'expected more from me.'
We eventually settled on a Midnight Martini. Which I would swear he only chose because it was black. Like his heart.
I left his office feeling heated, frustrated, but relieved that one small thing was ticked off my list.
Because that list? Yeah, it was about three college ruled notebook pages - fronts and backs - full of things that still needed to be done. On short notice. With a man in charge who was, apparently, the biggest micromanager ever to have held a CEO position. Wasn't he supposed to be wintering or buying a new yacht or peeling off bikinis on some tropical island? Maybe with his teeth? Then pouring an ice cold piña colada on my stomach only to lick...
Wait.
No.
Not my stomach.
Not his tongue.
"Girl, why are you fanning yourself like my Aunt Erica in church?" Evan asked, shocking me out of my weird, winding thoughts.
"Why does your Aunt Erica fan herself in church?"
"'Cause hell is baking her ass for sleeping with half the congregation. Even the married ones." I snorted at that, shaking my head. I should have known that Ev was not the kind of person to just let things go. "You're flushed too. And since it is cold in here because someone refuses to turn the heat up despite the fact that we finally have more than enough money not to have to worry about the electric bill... I know it isn't the heat."
"We don't have the money yet," I reminded him.
"And you have never been sick a day in your life, so that isn't it. And you're avoiding eye-contact," he said, walking back and forth across the small space like some stereotypical detective in some cop drama when he was trying to break the case. "So, the only conclusion must be that you are literally all hot and bothered about Mr. Boss Man."
"What? Don't be ridiculous."
It wasn't a lie.
The idea was ridiculous.
The man was impossible, unyielding, holier-than-thou.
I, a generally even-tempered person - save from my tendency toward anxiety - , had gotten so mad at him the day before that I had slammed my fists down on a table in a coffee shop. Making a scene. A public scene. Over song selections.
Because while Grant Calgary might have been stuck in the all-boys-club of the Rat Pack era, the rest of the world had turned on a radio in the last decade or two. And it was all but impossible to get your dance on to freaking "My Way."
"Because he's an asshole?" Evan asked, raising a brow that was so perfectly tweezed that I felt a bit of guilt for never paying mine enough attention.
"Well, yeah," I said, rolling my eyes.
"So what?"
"So, I don't like him."
"You don't have to like someone to have a good sweaty time with them."
"Not in my experience."
It was Evan's turn to snort. "Sagey, honey, that is because you date the most boring men known to mankind. I mean, your exes could make a room full of chess champion, encyclopedia-reading geeks seem like a lively bunch."
"That's..." Fair. It was fair.
"True. It's true. And your sheltered self gets to finally meet a man. A grown ass man who knows what he wants and fights for it. And your poor, unsatisfied lady bits are waking up from their long slumber and yelling 'Gimme gimme.' It doesn't matter that he's an ass. He's an alpha. And you are genetically predisposed to being attracted to that. It's biology."
"It's nothing," I insisted, moving to reach for my notebook that now had neat, bold print in the margins thanks to Grant who stole it when I went to the bathroom to cool down after discussing something as mundane as plastic or ceramic plates for the food I was dreading talking about.
Dreading.
More than my annual pap-smear.
More than a lecture from my parents about my wasted potential.
More than more of those lean times when all I had to eat was ramen and questionable dollar store bread.
"It's something, Miss Shivers McMyVagNeedsSomeLoveEnstein."
"Oh my God, stop," I whimpered, hanging my head as my cheeks warmed for an entirely different reason.
"Look. I get that he's the boss man with the fat checkbook and all. But I'm just saying... once he signs that line and hands it over and it is nestled safely in your wallet, climb that man like a tree," he told me, thrusting his arms into his fancy olive green peacoat, swirling a scarf around his neck with the perfect efficiency I always found myself envious of, then making his way to the door. "It would be a true win-win. Talk to you later. I have to go sling some adult sippies. Love you!"
I took a deep breath, tipping my face up so my head rested back against the wall, firm, cool, oddly reassuring.
"I thought the adults needed their sippies," I said, enjoying the blackness behind my lids, the momentary silence in my head.
"I'm not even going to ask what nonsense that is about," a voice that was decidedly not Evan's said, making my entire body jolt, sending my chair wobbling ominously, making me need to throw out my arms, grabbing whatever was close for balance. Which happened to be a box full of paperwork that went flying, pages scattering across the entire room.
"Yep," I mumbled to myself, dropping off the chair to shuffle the bulk of them together. "That seems about right," I added with a head shake, annoyed with myself for being so jumpy, so easily readable around the man I wanted most to close myself off to.
"If you're done scrambling around on the floor, I need to have a word with you," Grant's voice called from above me, making my jaw set tight, my teeth aching they were ground together so hard.
"Gee, sorry, some of us don't have a staff ready to rush to clean up the messes in the office. How lowly of me to have to do it myself," I shot at him, refusing to get off the floor until every last paper was in the pile, then shuffled them together with a pointed tap on the floor before finally getting back to my feet, setting them safely back into their box. "What did you need to discuss?"
Since we had settled the plastic vs. ceramic debate. Going with the idiotic choice of real ceramic despite the fact that it would be in the hands of drunken men and women all night, there was no new topic I was aware of yet.
His eyes did another once-over, something he did every time we met, taking in my clothes, likely cataloging how cheap they were to throw in my face at some later date. Though, to be fair, he hadn't said anything about my plastic shoes again. Mostly because I replaced them with a good pair. And he either didn't notice that I wore the same pair each time he saw me, or he didn't think it was worth commenting on. But I couldn't help but feel like I was constantly being judged and found wanting.
When those dark depths found their way back to my face, there was a curious tilt to his brows, something unreadable because, well, everything about this man was impossible to read.
"The menu."
"And since we are supposed to discuss the options tomorrow, I am at a loss as to why you are here today."
"I took it upon myself to have a few available chefs create some options to sample."
Oh, he did, did he?
My hackles rose, my teeth grinding harder. At this rate, I was going to shell out a couple hundred at the dentist for a custom mouth guard.
"Really, Mr. Calgary, what was the purpose of hiring a party planner when you continually take it upon yourself to do my job?"
He opened his mouth. Likely to snap back. Because he was good at it. Admittedly, better than I was. Likely having had a lot more practice. Seeing as he was a certifiable asshole and all.
But, to my utter shock, he closed it again, looked off to the side, out the door, watching a couple move past, the perfect poster for some Hallmark Christmas movie in their oversized scar
ves and matching hats, her head resting a bit on his shoulder for a second as they waited to cross the street.
It was almost a full thirty seconds before he turned back, his face a little more relaxed. When his mouth opened, it was almost... pleading. "I'm not trying to make it seem like you aren't capable of doing your job. I simply have connections that you likely don't have. Yet. I exploited them. But I could only get them together tonight. So, here I am... a day before our planned meeting."
Okay.
Maybe I attacked him before I gave him the chance to explain.
It was becoming a habit.
But I felt justified since his behavior generally called for it.
It just so happened that this once, he was being reasonable.
And he was right; I didn't have his connections. And, what's more, I appreciated that he had said 'yet.' I liked his vote of confidence, even if he just said it to avoid yet another argument.
"Oh, alright. So, what is the plan here?" I asked, unsure why he was in my office.
"I figured you would want to..." He trailed off, running a hand across the back of his neck. Was he being... unsure of himself? It seemed like it. He usually spoke so decidedly, so certainly. He never trailed off and stopped to think things through. "I assumed you would want to sample the choices as well. Otherwise, I would imagine all we would do about me overstepping would be arguing."
"You're not wrong," I admitted with a small smile, shaking my head at our dynamic now that it seemed possible we could be in the company of each other for more than five minutes without someone getting ticked off about something or another. "Are we visiting restaurants? Just give me the names, I can meet... no?" I asked when he shook his head while I reached for my notebook.
"They will be coming to my apartment."
"Wait. You got several top chefs to agree to come to your apartment and cook for you at the same time?"
"Not the same time, no. They each have half an hour in-between. It made more sense," he added, almost as if he was somehow embarrassed that he could have important people at his beck and call. Which didn't seem characteristic either. He never struck me as a man who was insecure about his wealth. "They all have busy restaurants. It would have been difficult to get them to work a custom menu for me on such short notice in their own kitchens."
"Yeah, it... makes sense," I agreed.
"So I will see you there at seven," he told me, walking toward the door. "I'll text you the address."
His hand yanked the door open, his body disappearing within seconds. Like he was in a rush to get out of there.
Again, odd.
Not two minutes later, I had a text on my phone.
And that was when something odd happened.
Nerves started overtaking my system.
About what? Being in his apartment? Seeing him as someone more human? Realizing that if I found him more human, it might be harder to deny that all these hours spent with him didn't affect me the way I had been trying to act like they didn't.
I mean, not that anything would come of it or anything.
At least that was what I was telling myself.
FOUR
- Mingling
I had been in a deep text conversation with Evan for three hours. Mostly because he had a fifteen or twenty minute return time thanks to slinging adult sippies all night.
Most of it was about my wardrobe.
Me, insisting that what I wore to work was fine since, well, it was work.
Him, telling me to stop being so stuffy and repressed, and put something that wasn't boxy and unflattering on.
Feeling insecurity surge through my system, I marched into my bedroom to the giant mirror leaning against the wall - last year's Christmas present from none other than the reflection-obsessed Ev - analyzing how my outfit fit me.
Maybe it was a bit boxy. But it was a blazer. It wasn't supposed to fit like a cocktail dress.
And even if I were to change, what could I possibly put on that would be appropriate to wear to something work-related, but also not look like I was trying too hard to fit into his world or impress him or whatever other undesirable things that could be gleaned from a woman's wardrobe.
On a sigh, I threw myself into the shower, getting out after standing under the spray, turning the handle hotter and hotter as my tolerance grew until my skin was red all over, deciding that if I left my hair down and maybe put on a simple sweater instead of a blazer and maybe flats instead of heels, I would look passably professional, but also comfortable enough.
After sending snapshots of my jewelry choices, I had simple golden fancy earwires at my lobes and a delicate tennis bracelet on my wrist - possibly the only real piece of jewelry I owned - courtesy of my parents on my eighteenth birthday.
I spritzed on a tiny spray of perfume, but grabbed my oversized purse that could - and did - house my handy notebook full of, well, everything important for the previous three parties as well as the New Year's Eve one.
With that, and only ten minutes to grab a cab to get there on time, I left my place, trying to psych myself up for what could, possibly, be an incredibly tense night. Not just because we might argue over the food selections. But because, once all the chefs were gone, we'd be alone. Alone alone. With no diners nearby, no Evan in the backseat, no secretaries a holler away. Just us. Alone in his apartment. Where maybe things would get heated. In one way. Then turn heated. In another way altogether.
But there was nothing to be done about that.
I expected extravagance.
From a man who wore suits each day that cost more than my monthly rent. Who owned a car that cost more than my dream yearly salary.
I wasn't disappointed in that front.
Grant Calgary lived in a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side where the doorman helped me out of the car, had been expecting me, knew me by name, led me to the elevator, all but pushed the button for me.
As I rode the elevator up, a weird fluttering of nerves coursed across my belly; tension coiled itself around my neck and shoulders.
The ride was just long enough to work me into the perfect amount of knots to make me actually jump when the door dinged open.
Right into the apartment.
Windows.
That was the first thing you noticed about the expansive, open space. There were floor-to-ceiling windows on three of the walls, something that likely blanketed the space in light and warmth in the daytime hours, even in the chilly December weather. Now, though, the sky inky dark, all you saw were the bright lights of the city. Whites and yellows and reds and blues. Some steady, others flashing around.
I thought - a bit unkindly, I will admit - that maybe he liked the place because he liked to look down on the rest of the city, that he liked feeling higher up than everyone else.
I pushed the thought away, though, seeing it for the bitterness that it clearly was, deciding instead to look at everything else I could from where I stood since I hadn't, technically, been invited in, and the owner of said home was not in sight.
There were two seating spaces, one with two straight-backed beige armchairs facing each other with a small table between. A book and an old coffee mug sat there. I found myself oddly wondering what the title might be since it was face down, a slip of paper that almost looked like a check wedged between the pages.
It was odd to see his home, to see personal details about him. It made him more human in a way.
The other seating area was a few feet away - a couch and two chairs of the same style and color around a white-topped, metal-legged table strewn with newspapers and magazines.
Tidy, it seemed, was only something Mr. Grant Calgary was in his office.
I found myself liking that information, tucking it away to make myself feel better about the pile of towels and discarded clothing in my bathroom that had overflowed the laundry bin and settled on the floor.
Across from the living area on the only non-window-filled wall was the kitchen with the biggest island
I had ever seen cutting it off from the rest of the space. White. Everything was white. Save for the stainless steel appliances and the collection of pots and pans that had been set up on the counter beside the sink for easy grabbing when the chefs arrived.
To the right of the kitchen was the dining space. It was smaller than I had expected, maybe simply because the man who lived here wasn't the sort to host lavish parties in which he might need a dozen chairs at his - again - all white table. Instead, there were only four seats. Small, intimate.
And just on that thought, Grant Calgary emerged from somewhere down the side of the kitchen, a hall or something that must have led to the master suite since he was walking out of it not fully dressed, his hands reaching for the lowest button on his crisp white shirt.
I didn't want to look.
Okay, fine.
I wanted to look.
I didn't want to want to look.
But look I did.
As you might expect of some multi-millionaire, most eligible bachelor with the cockiest attitude I had ever encountered, he was fit. And cut enough that it was sexy without making you grimace at the idea of him at the gym grunting while trying to lift those giant barbells in some grotesque display of somewhat fragile masculinity.
The muscles of his abdomen were defined, but not overly deep, the skin taught, with a smattering of hair across the chest and, well, a small trail leading down.
I tried not to think of down.
But that was exactly what I happened to be thinking of - and possibly looking at - when he finally noticed my intrusion in his personal space.
"Oh," he said, stopping short, his hands dropping to his sides before rising again to finish his buttons at a faster pace, leaving the top two open. No suit jacket. But shoes on. Casual, but not. A lot like me, I guess. I felt a bit better about my wardrobe change knowing that he'd had one too. "I didn't hear the elevator," he told me, shrugging. "Have you been there long."
"Just came up."
"And it sounds like we have company," he told me, waving me to the side, making me aware of the whirring of the elevator behind me. "Chef Alexander Nichols is first," he told me quickly. "From NicoNichole," he added just before the bell chimed.
N.Y.E. Page 4
