by Kacey Shea
“Come on already, Jill. This Merlot is singing to me softly.” Alicia whispers to her cup, “Don’t worry baby. Mama’s coming for ya.” Alicia’s raven black hair is cut shoulder length with long layers and one thick strand dyed a vibrant electric pink. This same lock changes with the season, or Alicia’s mood—her ever present act of rebellion against her family’s pristine image. Her chocolate eyes dance with laugher and her thin lips pull into a grin.
“Okay, okay. To Callie. For your promotion to Junior Design Associate at Superstition Graphix—may you have much success and many reliable paychecks. And this beautiful new home—we wish you lots of luck, happiness, and love here.”
“To Callie!” Alicia tips her cup.
“Thank you.” I drink, allowing the sweet liquid to permeate my taste buds.
“Oh! And to many firemen sightings!” Jill adds with a giggle.
“Yeah, great local by the way. Couldn’t miss that on the way in. Did you tell your realtor that was a requirement?” Alicia’s already refilling her cup.
“Of course I did. I said, ‘Don’t show me a house unless it’s within a one-mile radius.’”
“You did not!” Jill gasps. Alicia rolls her eyes.
“No. I didn’t. This was just good luck, I guess. A match made in real estate heaven.” Setting down my glass, I walk into the dining room and slide the box containing pots and pans toward the center of the kitchen floor. “Okay. Unpack. I’m running a tight ship, so if you can’t stay on task I’ll play prohibition.”
“You wouldn’t!” Alicia squats down and opens the box. Yep. I know how to motivate this one. She’ll do anything as long as I don’t take away the special sauce.
“So, where do you want these?” Jill pulls out a pot and pan.
“Well, don’t laugh,” I start, and they both snicker. Ignoring them, I open the remaining empty cabinets.
“You’re my hero,” Jill breathes in my ear. The sticky notes, all color coordinated to box labels, name exactly where my belongings will go.
“Is this a sign for help? You going cray cray on us or is this just evidence of your genius?” Alicia flicks one of the sticky tabs.
“Let’s go with brilliance.”
“How much time did this take you?” Jill starts to unpack, following my notes, while I pick up another box and hand it to Alicia.
“Not that much,” I lie. Organization calms me. Helps my mind deal with change. I’ve always been this way, even as a child. Give me a box of Lego blocks and I’d sort them by color and shape instead of building something like a normal child my age. Barbies? Mine had a closet of color coordinated outfits, organized by gowns, casual wear, and bathing suits. So, in the week leading up to my move I busied myself with creating order to best execute this major life change.
“You guys good in here? I’ll grab the rest of the boxes from my Jeep.” I swipe my keys off the kitchen counter. Alicia and Jill wave their agreement and I head toward the front of the house.
It’s midday and the humid July heat greets me when I open the door. My skin instantly begins to moisten in protest and I stop to pull my long curls back from my face, using the tie at my wrist to form a ponytail. In flip flops, tank top, and cutoff jean shorts, the heat is more oppressive than my fair complexion can tolerate. Without a single glance in the mirror I know it’s already blotched pink.
Shouts and deep laughter pull my attention from the neatly stacked boxes in my Jeep over to the open greenbelt kitty corner to my house.
Oh. My. God. My jaw drops and my heart knocks around inside my chest.
Thank you, Lord, sweet baby Jesus.
I just stare. And thank the powers of the entire universe and all its glory for the sight that meets my eyes. Six men—firemen—scramble around the greenbelt, tossing a football back and forth. Their rig is parked further down the street as not to block my view. And oh, what an amazing view.
Football. A game of shirtless football. It’s like every fantasy I’ve ever had come to life. There are half naked firemen running about my yard. Well, not my yard exactly, but close enough I’ll count it. The only way it’d get better is if—oh, shit!
I throw up my hands to shield my face as the ball spirals toward me.
“Heads up!” one of the firemen yells.
The sound that escapes my mouth is neither attractive nor sexy, but I manage, somehow by the grace of all things holy, to catch the ball instead of letting it hit me square in the face. I stare at the ball in wonder and awe. I’ve never caught a ball in my entire life. I raise it overhead and do a little dance while chanting, “Touchdown!”
His deep laughter stops me dead in my tracks. My jaw drops.
“No. Please, continue. I’m enjoying the show. Nice call adding the moonwalk.” I lower the ball and squint against the glare of the sun. He’s tall, well over six foot and at five-four I have to lift my chin to meet his gaze.
Screwed. I am so screwed. He’s beautiful. In that way only some men can be. Dark tan, even darker eyes and lashes, and a ball cap with the word “FIRE” covers his head. His full lips pull into a smirk.
“Sorry, just excited! For catching a fireball. I mean—fireman ball—I love ball—er . . .” Oh, God, please let the Earth swallow me whole. I’m so much cooler in my head. Not so much in real life. He just laughs.
“I love ball. Is that like another form of I love lamp?” He smiles and I hand over the offending sport equipment.
“Something like that. Sorry. I’m going to blame that on moving day chaos.”
“Moving in or out?”
“In.”
“Shouldn’t your boyfriend be helping you with all these heavy boxes?” he says with a smirk and leans one strong arm against the side of my vehicle. I take the opportunity to stare. Broad chest. Defined pecs. Sweet Jesus. Sweat drips down his ribcage and trails the defined ridges of his abs. My tongue may be hanging out of my mouth in marvel. His belly button. The faint dust of hair that travels lower. Is he flexing? Crap. He asked me a question.
“No boyfriend. Just me.”
He nods and looks back over his shoulder. His lips purse together to make one of those really loud whistles. I’m impressed. Even his whistling skills are bar none. I can’t even regular whistle. He turns his attention back to me and sticks out his hand. “I’m Chase.”
“Callie.” I place mine inside his grip and the rough calluses of his fingers send a shiver up my spine. He continues to hold both my gaze and hand prisoner as his colleagues invade my driveway.
“What’s up, boss?”
“Miss Callie just moved into the neighborhood.” He finally drops my hand and pops the back gate to my Jeep open. “I thought we’d give her a hand.”
One by one my perfectly organized stacks of boxes disappear with the men and make their way toward my front door.
“You don’t have do that,” I apologize lamely. “Really, I have help.” At that moment Alicia and Jill step outside onto my little front porch. Both women glow and giggle as they lean over the metal railing. Their laughter carries down the drive and I swear I hear Alicia congratulate one of the guys on his buns of steel. Sauced. They’ve been hitting the wine hard and fast.
“We don’t mind, do we guys?” Chase says as he pulls out the final box. It’s clearly marked underwear and with a lift of his finger the top flap opens to reveal all that’s packed inside. Thank God I put the sexy stuff on top. Only because it’s hardly worn and eventually makes it way to the back of the drawer did I pack it last. Chase’s lips lift at one side of his mouth along with one eyebrow and he nods at the array of lace and satin. “Very nice, Callie.”
I slam the box shut and pout my lips in an attempt to act put off, when really my skin tingles with the thought of wearing lingerie for this man.
“Thank you for your help, Chase, but I think I can handle it from here.” I snatch the box, hold it to my side, and balance it on my hip.
His grin grows wider. “Anything I can do to help a patron in need. Welcome to the
neighborhood. I’m sure I’ll see you around.” He turns and struts, with laze and ease, back toward the sidewalk. The rest of the crew exits my house and catches up to his side. I try not to watch his backside retreat. Really, it’s not polite to gape in the open like this, but I can’t help but admire his strong back and shoulders, and the tattoos that cover one side and dip low into his pants. Even his ass is nice, round and firm through his shorts.
“Callie.” Alicia’s voice startles me from my visual exploration. I didn’t hear her walk down the drive. “You have a damn fine neighborhood.”
“Mmm hmm,” is all I can muster. Yeah. I think I’m going to like living here.
Chapter 2
I hate mornings.
I especially hate mornings when I’ve had too much to drink the night before. My mouth is rough as sandpaper and I have to open and shut it several times to work the saliva through. My lips are on the verge of cracking, they’re so dry. I untangle my limbs from the soft, downy comforter and roll to my stomach.
I pat around in the dark until I hit my bedside table, then slap around until I find my phone to silence the blaring guitars. The artist croons about not being able to feel his face. I can feel my face, and without a mirror I know for certain it isn’t pretty. With the music off, my fingers roam some more and claim my tube of lip balm. I roll to my back and crack my eyes open. The morning light hits my eyes as I smooth the beeswax concoction over my lips and sigh in relief. I pull the phone from the charger cord. The backlighting of the screen blinds and I have to squint to read the time. Crap! I’m gonna be late!
I rush through my morning routine. Shower. Underwear. Makeup. Hair. Clothes. And throw my essential items—phone, wallet, keys, lunch—inside my laptop bag on my way out the door. I don’t have time to brew coffee, which has my tolerance for rush hour traffic at a lower than normal acceptance level. And all the assholes in Richmond have collaborated to be on the road today.
My stomach rumbles, pissed at the lack of sustenance. I dig around the side pockets of my bag and unearth a protein bar that’s most certainly passed its expiration date. Fuck it. I’m starving, and without my morning caffeine fix I need something in my belly. The chocolate mint flavor makes a poor attempt at fooling my taste buds that it’s the real thing, but at least my stomach settles.
I’ve been working at Superstition Graphix for eleven months now, first as an intern and only full time since graduating in May. My recent promotion gave me the salary and confidence I needed to purchase my first home. It’s a small design firm and new to the industry, but both owners came from larger companies.
Pat and Michael joined forces two years ago, leaving their established careers to open their own company. They bring solid experience and have created a good working environment. I like my job and it pays well. Two things I’m extremely thankful for after watching so many of my classmates move home to work retail post-college.
Pulling into the small parking lot, I hustle inside the building and take the stairs as fast as my dress shoes allow. It’s just nine o’clock when I wave to Lisa, our receptionist. I give myself props for beating the odds and making it in on time. I find my cubicle and drop my belongings under the desk, plug in my laptop, and stride to the kitchen. The succulent smell of roasted coffee attracts with a force that can’t be stopped.
“Hey, Callie.” Jim, one of the senior designers, greets me from where he stands at the counter pouring his mug full of the precious liquid my body craves. He assesses me with a knowing eye and pulls another mug off the shelf. “You look like you need this more than I do.” He slides his mug within reach and then fills another for himself.
“Thanks, Jim.” I don’t bother with sweetener or cream. The bold roast hits my taste buds and works its way down my throat. So fucking good. I quite possibly moan out loud. The liquid magic awakens the parts of my brain that were foggy and I’m ready to take on the day.
“Good weekend?” Jim asks.
“Yeah. Great, actually. I moved into my first house. I’m all settled and unpacked, too.”
We chat a few more minutes about my home, the neighborhood, and property values before I excuse myself. I like Jim. He’s not my direct manager on projects but we’ve been on the same team a few times and I spent a week with him during my internship. He’s friendly enough and really knowledgeable in design.
I spend the morning deep in my latest project, a signage revamp for a mom and pop chain of Italian restaurants. I’m ready to break for lunch when my boss calls my workstation and asks me to step in his office.
“Callie, please have a seat.” Jared’s gaze is somber and my gut starts to tighten with nerves, though I have no reason for them. I step around the chair across from his desk and sit.
“What’s up, Jared?”
“You may have heard the rumors . . .” He tightens his lips in a thin line, crosses his long arms over his chest, and leans back in his chair. Waiting. As if I should know what he’s referring to. Rumors? Shit. This is why you’re supposed to have friends at work. Or hang out by the breakroom. I’m such a loner here. I mostly eat lunch at my desk while everyone else goes out. Work is work. I do my job and leave.
Totally not working in my favor at the moment.
“About the possible acquisition,” he finally finishes. I nod. “Pat and Michael will be in meetings all week. You’ll see a few new faces around the office. Don’t be alarmed. They’ll be here to observe and see how we work. Just go about your usual business.” Jared pins me with a stare.
Usual business. I can do that. But the way he keeps staring at me, I’m starting to guess this is a bigger deal than he’s letting on. I may have to break for coffee more often this week to get a lead on the gossip.
“Okay. Great. So, is that all you needed to see me about or is there something else?” I’m uncertain how we end this conversation since he won’t break eye contact and I don’t want to appear intimidated or flippant about his news.
He leans his elbows on the desk and steeples his fingers under his chin. Wow. This is intense. I’m back in third grade all over again having a staring contest with Andrew Perkins, neither of us willing to blink first.
“Keep up the good work, Callie. You’ll do just fine here.” He finally stands and glances at the door over my shoulder. I scramble from the chair and mutter my thanks. I’m not able to get back to my workstation quickly enough.
That was strange. I pull my peanut butter sandwich from my bag and pretend to check Facebook while I sneak covert glances at my colleagues. Everyone seems to be more on task today. More than usual for a Monday. I have to wonder if that has anything to do with this possible acquisition. I’ll have to Google our company when I get home tonight. In the meantime, I do what I do best. I dig back into my project.
One thing I know to be true. I will outwork every single one of these staff designers. I may be green, but in this field seniority means nothing. It’s ever changing and dynamic and the people willing to learn and work the hardest will prevail. It’s sure to be a long week but I take some satisfaction in knowing that my own little home is organized, clean, and waiting for me at the end of the day.
Chapter 3
I love Saturday mornings.
The start to the weekend. It holds so much promise, possibility, and most importantly, it begins two full days away from work.
This week kicked my ass. The good intention to get up and run before work every morning was lost somewhere around Wednesday. I lie, it was Monday. Monday’s slight hangover killed all intents to exercise. And on top of that, work was crazy busy. Rumors were flying wild about the future of the company. Unlike my co-workers who wasted hours gossiping about possible job layoffs, I put in fourteen-hour days and busted my butt to outperform those with seniority.
I can’t afford to be out of work, so I’ll prove my worth and ensure it doesn’t happen. The long days completely knocked my usual routine and organization out the window. The need to create order pulses through my veins and I awoke this
morning with a plan. This week I’m getting back on track.
I’m up early, dressed, showered, with full makeup, and wandering the aisles of my neighborhood market checking item after item off my grocery list. Okay, admittedly, the makeup and cute outfit are for my planned walk by the fire station after meal prepping for the week. But the list is for my seven-day paleo eat clean diet.
Except this list is taking longer than I’d like. I’m currently stuck on nut butter. Nuts can be butter? I scan the refrigerated wall and suck my bottom lip between my teeth. Margarine. Soft spread. Sticks. Made with canola oil. Made with olive oil. Natural butter. Unbelievably not butter. Where the fuck is nut butter?
“Just pick one. They won’t bite.” I lift my chin and bite my lip hard . . . to hold in the moan that threatens to escape. Melted chocolate. His eyes. I have a weakness for chocolate. Fireman’s eyes. Not quite chocolate because they have specks of gold that catch the light. Almost as though they’re dancing. Laughing. He’s laughing at me.
“Cat got your tongue, Callie?” He reaches out and pushes a strand of my hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear. I shiver when his rough fingertips graze my skin. Smooth. Way to go, Callie.
“Nuts,” I croak.
“What?” Chase smiles. His eyes crinkle with humor.
“How the fuck do nuts make butter?”
He laughs, a booming sound, and I glance around, self-conscious of drawing attention from strangers. I puff out an exhale and relax, relieved the store is practically empty at this early hour.
“Nut butter is over by the jams, jellies . . . peanut butter.” Ah! Realization and embarrassment wash over me. That kind of butter. He must think I’m an idiot.
“Er—right. That makes better sense. Thank God you came to my rescue! I could’ve been here all day. Probably would have caught a cold even!” Shut up, Callie. I can’t seem to stop rambling once I start. Nervous habit, and this man has every cell in my body aflutter and amiss. Chase’s fingertips on my arm halt the sounds tumbling from my lips.
