by Donna Hill
“Sure, baby. Strictly business.”
“I mean it, Trey. If you can’t abide by my wishes . . . then don’t come down.”
Trey hung up without answering.
Choice looked at the phone before she tossed it aside and continued laying out the pattern of the one-shoulder, form-fitting evening gown that she knew would see a red carpet within the next year. It’s better that he doesn’t come down here, she thought, trying to appease the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach at the thought of not seeing Trey. I need to stay focused.
Forty-five minutes later, the downstairs doorbell sounded. “It’s about time,” Choice muttered, as she stomped down the hall to let in the assistant complaining of food poisoning. But why didn’t he use his key? Choice looked through the peephole. Her heartbeat raced as she beheld the vision of beauty on the other side. She opened the door. “You came?”
“Sure I did,” Trey said casually, brushing past Choice and taking the steps two at a time. “You think you can scare me with that funky attitude?”
“No, you didn’t,” Choice indignantly responded.
“Yes, I did. A fluffy cheese omelet and your choice of bagel: cinnamon raisin or blueberry.” He smiled as he faced her, having purposely misunderstood her previous statement. “You can thank me with a kiss.” He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. Choice thought he looked perfectly devilish and delectable, all at once.
She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks. I’m starved.”
She unpacked the sack that also contained a bowl of fruit salad and two containers of orange juice. After washing her hands, she joined Trey at the break room table. “You know you’re not supposed to be here. It’s not cool to jeopardize your six-figure job for a modeling gig that at best will get you a free pair of pants.”
“Oh, I squashed all that. Everything’s cool. You can marry me now.”
Choice’s eyes widened. “Marry you?”
“Dang, girl, don’t look so scared. I’m just teasing. But I did handle that rumor and the mistaken-identity situation. You know that information I e-mailed over to you, proving I’m Trey Edmond and not Tre’ Eugene? I gave a printed version to your dad as proof against what Remington had told him about me.”
“How do you know Remington had anything to do with it?”
“Please. Who else could it have been?” Trey took a bite of his food. “It doesn’t matter. In fact, I’m glad it happened. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been aware that the problem still existed. Now everybody knows what’s going on, and there will be no surprises at a crucial moment to potentially screw up a deal.
“But enough about me and McKinley Black. I’ve been dealing with that all week. What’s going on in the world of fashion?”
Choice was silently amazed. Trey and Remington couldn’t be more different. Where she couldn’t remember the last time Remington initiated a conversation about her work, if ever, Trey seemed genuinely interested in her world. Her heart swelled with love for him, and her kitty meowed with wanting.
“It’s crazy,” she began, and spent the next fifteen minutes giving him the brief version of what had happened the past week. “So I’m actually glad you called,” she finished, gathering up their empty wrappers and placing them in the trash. “I can fit you, and then at least get started on the toile for the first suit.”
“What’s a toile?”
“It’s like a dummy design, so I can test out the pattern before cutting the more expensive cloth.”
“Oh.”
They walked back to the main area of the shop, where Choice instructed Trey to strip down to his undies. This time she practiced restraint, resisted the urge to sculpt him with her hands, and quickly took his measurements. “Okay, we’re all done.”
“Cool.” Trey dressed and leaned against the cutting table. “What can I do now?”
“What do you mean, what can you do?”
“I’ve got a few hours before my match with Josh. You said you’re running behind. How can I help?”
“Trey, that’s so sweet. No one I’ve ever da . . . I mean, you’re the first person to ask me that.”
“You can say it, baby. We’re dating.”
“I don’t know, Trey. Granted, I am very attracted to you. It’s almost scary. But we’re both at crucial times in our careers. Do you really think we have the time to commit to a relationship?”
“We’ll take the time.”
Choice turned back to the table and began cutting around the pattern placed there. “It sounds easy. But relationships have a way of turning complicated.”
“That’s because you were dating the wrong dude!”
“Ha! Oh, that’s it.”
“Umm, it sure is.” Trey slid behind Choice, ground himself into her butt, and nibbled her ear.
“Trey. Don’t. Start.”
“Just one kiss, baby.”
“No! I mean it. I’m going to count to three, and if you haven’t stopped, I’m going to have to ask you to leave!”
Trey squeezed her butt cheek. “Can you put about a minute between the one and the two?”
“Trey!”
“All right,” Trey said, laughing. He stepped away from Choice’s plump onion, even though he wanted nothing more than to take a bite. “If you’re not going to give me any loving, then put me to work.”
He had no background in design, but Trey did manage to trace the outlines of four paperboard patterns onto muslin, and using a chart that Choice had designed, matched various accessories—buttons, piping, lace, etc.—with the corresponding fabric swatches for that garment. During this time, Trey and Choice chatted like old friends who’d known each other for years, and Choice shared more about her fashion goals than she’d ever shared with anyone else. Remington called again. She let it go to voice mail. In spending time with Trey, Choice discovered that while she appreciated hearing about and supporting others’ dreams, she also relished talking about her own with someone who seemed genuinely interested. For the past ten years, her dream had been to be a force to be reckoned with in the world of fashion. Now she had another dream . . . to spend the rest of her life with the man who’d simply asked, “How can I help?”
Chapter 17
Choice hummed a nonsensical tune as she browsed the aisle of her local market. She didn’t cook much, but Trey’s suggestion for them to spend a cozy night indoors on this rainy day had brought out the domestic side of her. So here she stood, in the produce aisle, getting fixings for a salad to go with the meatball sandwiches and chips that would round out their meal.
Once home Choice was reminded why she loved her brownstone in the Prospect Heights section of Brooklyn. Lots of windows allowed in plenty of sunlight, which bounced off her polished oak floors and the walls, which were painted a soft minty green. Live plants abounded in the combined living and dining room area, and colorful artwork and framed fabric swatches graced the walls. A mannequin in the corner gave further nod to her profession, while an ottoman was home to dozens of fashion magazines. Anyone walking into her place immediately felt right at home.
After a quick shower, Choice walked into the kitchen, and within minutes, the smell of sautéing onions danced deliciously with the sounds of Vivian Green. Choice prepared the meatballs, placed them in a tangy sauce, and then turned the burner to simmer so that they could cook low and slow. She put together the salad, poured the dressing from its store-bought container into a server, and then buttered the kaiser rolls that would be toasted later. Satisfied that all was ready, she poured herself a glass of wine, walked to her couch, and planned to relax.
The ringing doorbell awakened her. Startled, Choice looked at her watch and realized she’d been asleep for only ten minutes. He’s right on time, she thought, dancing to the doorway. She placed her hand on the knob, peered through her peephole . . . and froze. Remington? No!
Choice leaned against the door, pondering what to do. She thought about not answering the door, but knew that with the sound of music
clearly audible, a determined Remington would not leave until he’d seen her. Praying that Trey was running late, she took a deep breath and opened the door . . . barely.
“Remington,” she said through the tiny crack. “What are you doing here?”
“Coming to see you,” he said, holding out a bottle of wine. “I figured that with your crazy schedule you could use a little R & R. I’m glad to have found you at home.” Choice remained silent. She knew that her lips should be moving, but honestly, she couldn’t think of what to say. “Well . . . aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“I wish you’d called, Rem. I’m expecting company.”
Remington squared his shoulders. “Oh, really?”
“Look, don’t give me that patronizing tone. You are not my father. You are a man who I used to date and I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Wow,” Remington mused, as if to himself. “She’s reduced thirty years’ worth of friendship to ‘a man she used to date.’”
Choice opened the door wider. “I’m sorry, Remington. You know I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I will always love you, but it’s just not going to work for us. I’m . . .” Sorry died on her lips as Trey came into view, looking up at the numbers as he walked. He didn’t have to find Choice’s address. Seeing Remington standing there told him that he was in the right place.
Trey walked up the stairs as if he lived there, a bouquet of exotic flowers in one hand, a bag of goodies in the other. “Hey, man,” he said to Remington, as if he were greeting a delivery guy. Remington turned but did not move away from the door.
Trey stood toe-to-toe with Remington. “Excuse me.”
“I thought I told you that Choice was off-limits.”
“Yeah, well, I figured that decision was left up to Choice.”
Remington turned to Choice. “Has he told you everything you need to know? Like the fact that he’s a criminal who’s done time in the pen?”
“Yes, Remington, he’s told me everything. Trey, come on in.”
“Oh, I’m standing on the sidewalk like a stranger, but he gets to come on in?”
Trey walked around Remington and adopted a protective stance, placing Choice slightly behind him. “That’s what happens when you’re invited to someone’s home as opposed to just showing up.”
“Man, you’d better watch your mouth. I’m just about two seconds from jacking you up!”
“Dog, you don’t scare me.”
Choice forced herself between them. “Guys, please! I deal with enough drama at my work. I don’t need it showing up at my front door.” She took a deep breath. “Remington, I appreciate your thinking about me, but I invited Trey over. Could you please leave? Peacefully?”
If looks were fire, both Choice and Trey would have been burned to a crisp.
“I hope you’ve got a good nest egg in your savings account,” Remington said through clenched teeth. “Because your days are numbered at McKinley Black.”
Trey watched Remington get into his car before closing the door. “I’m sorry that happened, baby,” he said, pulling a rattled Choice into his arms. “Let’s put it out of our minds, okay?”
“How can I, Trey? Remington doesn’t issue veiled threats, and he’s the son of the company’s co-owner. You’re going to get fired, and it’s all my fault.”
“Shh. You let me worry about that, huh? Right now I’m smelling some good home cooking, I’ve got my girl in my arms and some movie classics in the bag. The worst of the evening just happened, love. The rest of the night belongs to us, and it’s going to be magic.”
Chapter 18
“Dad, I’m telling you. It’s either him or me.” Two days had passed, but a still livid Remington paced the office where Jeffrey Black and Charles McKinley sat.
“Remington, this isn’t like you.” Jeffrey eyed his son as he continued to wear holes in the carpet. “You need to calm down.”
“Charles, I told you what he was doing. Told you he was making a play for Choice. You think he loves her after knowing her for just three weeks? And already coming over to the house with wine and flowers? He was setting the stage for seduction, pure and simple. With someone using your daughter like that, I’m surprised that you’re so calm.”
“And I’m surprised that you’re letting a personal beef impact a professional decision. This isn’t about Trey’s work as business development director. It isn’t about his education, experience, or skills. This is about you being angry because Choice chose to go out with him instead of you. I’m her father, and even I say that who Choice goes out with is her own business.”
“Oh, really? You weren’t saying that last week when you thought he was a felon.”
Charles fixed Remington with a look, his voice controlled. “I’m saying it now.”
Jeffrey tried to be the voice of reason. “This is crazy, son. It’s not how we do business. If Trey messes up, gets out of line in anyway regarding MB, then he’s gone. But to just up and fire him . . .”
“Then put together a severance package. I’ll contribute to paying him off myself. I mean it when I tell you that I don’t want him around here.” It wasn’t often that the confident, debonair Remington Black acted like a spoiled, pampered, petulant child. But now was one of those times.
“Let me and Charles talk it over,” Jeffrey finally said. “We’ll come up with something by the end of the week.”
The days flew, and by Friday, Charles and Jeffrey had made the difficult decision to release Trey. Remington had convinced them that he could snag the Ground Zero project without him, that he’d work around the clock to ensure that McKinley Black got the bid. No one was happy with the position that Remington had put them in, even Remington. Because deep down he knew that even with Trey gone, Trey would still have Choice.
While the partners had been busy preparing Trey’s departure, Trey had been equally busy ensuring that he’d stay around. He’d worked his network, met with Solomon Meyers & Company, and now had a proposal that McKinley Black would be crazy to refuse. But if they did, he would go to a firm that would appreciate his hard work.
Just as Trey was organizing the last of his papers in a folder, his phone rang. “Hey, Denise.”
“Hi, Trey. Charles would like to see you . . . now.”
“Cool, because I was just getting ready to call and request a quick meeting. I’m on my way.”
Trey walked into Charles’s office looking like a million bucks. He’d purposely dressed to impress in a tailored black suit, stark white shirt, and designer tie. His hair was freshly cut and his skin carried the glow of someone who’d recently visited an esthetician. Anyone looking at him would understand why Choice wanted him walking the runway in her clothes.
He entered Charles’ office and was only mildly surprised to see that Jeffrey was there as well. “Denise said you wanted to see me?”
Charles nodded, his face grim. “Have a seat.” Once Trey joined them in the sitting area, Charles got right down to business. “There’s no easy way for me to say this, Trey. Your work here has been very good, and personally, I’ve enjoyed having you on our team. But one of the major players—”
“Remington,” Trey interjected.
“Yes, Remington, doesn’t feel that you’re working out. As Jeffrey’s son and a junior partner in this firm, his word carries weight. We’ve prepared a generous severance package and will write glowing recommendations for your future job search, but . . . we’re going to have to let you go.” Charles reached for a folder lying on the table and handed it to Trey.
“That’s too bad,” Trey replied calmly, putting down the folder that Charles had just handed him and opening his own. “Because I came to deliver some very good news.” He handed a single sheet of paper to Charles and one to Jeffrey, and then he sat back while they read.
It was so quiet in the ensuing moments that one could hear a mosquito flap its wings. Trey was the epitome of calm. He was in a win-win situation. If McKinley Black was stupid enough to can him tod
ay, Friday, he’d have another job by Monday afternoon. He looked out of the window, beheld the beautiful blue sky and a plane in the distance flying toward JFK Airport, and thought about how his corner office would have a similar view.
“What is this?” Charles asked, even as he read the obvious for the third time.
“Just what it says,” Trey replied. “This project moves forward only with me as project manager, either with McKinley Black . . . or another firm.”
“This is illegal,” Jeffrey snapped. “The bid has to go to a firm, a corporation, not a person.”
“Correct, but there can be stipulations placed on said bid, and that’s what this letter outlines. That whichever firm gets this particular project must have me heading it up.” Trey leaned forward slightly. “Gentlemen, this victory didn’t happen overnight. I cultivated these contacts for years, some since college. I’ve done my homework. This document is airtight. And since I have no desire to stay where I’m not wanted, I’ll accept your severance package. Please consider this my two-week notice, unless you’d like for me to clean out my desk right now.” Trey reached for the folder Charles had initially offered him and stood to leave.
“Now, wait,” Jeffrey sputtered. “Let’s not be too hasty.”
“Obviously this development . . . sheds new light on our decision,” Charles added.
“I’m not sure it changes mine,” Trey said. “Because while I’m shedding light, Mr. McKinley, there’s something else you should know. I’m in love with your daughter and have no plans to stop seeing her. I understand that there’s a rule that men who work here can’t date her—that is, except for Remington. So while you gentlemen discuss your opinion on my fate, know this. That when it comes to deciding between this job and the woman I love . . . that’s an easy . . . choice.” Trey looked at Jeffrey, and then at Charles, nodded curtly, and left the room.
Chapter 19
“Baby, put on something sexy and meet me in Midtown.”
