Because Beards
Page 13
Huh.
What about “Your life does not get better by chance, it gets better by change,” is so hilarious?
Nate pokes me. “Carter?”
“Yeah.” I feel a distinct sense of unease as my eyes dart around the room. A colleague of my father, a stiff-lipped gentleman with white hair and an impeccable suit, a man who’s been hesitant to entrust his financial planning to me and Nate after dad died, scowls and tosses his fortune to his plate. When his wife reaches out, he puts his hand over hers and shakes his head.
“Dude, I think the cookies are poisoned or something.” Nate takes one from a nearby empty table and starts laughing. “Jesus, Carter.” He reads aloud. “For rectal use only?”
“What the fuck? Let me see that.” I grab it, sure he’s messing with me, but that’s exactly what it says, in bold, easy-to-read font.
I open another. “Fuck me if I’m wrong, but a steak is a vegetable, right?”
Oh, God. This is a nightmare. Are they all like this?
Nate’s in on the action. “Sit on my face and I’ll eat my way to your heart.”
“Never give up, unless defeat arouses the hot girl with the big tits in the red dress.”
“I’ll bet you 10$ my dick can’t fit into your mouth.”
I grab my phone and speed-dial Marconi. “I need you to get in here with all of the staff you can find. Remove every single fortune cookie from the room. Now.”
Trying not to look frantic, I take the basket and start tossing in unopened fortunes. “Nate, give me a hand,” I snap.
He’s laughing so hard that he can’t focus. “Dude, these are hilarious!”
“Yeah. Hilarious career killers. We need to get these disappeared.”
He recognizes my urgency, starts collecting cookies, and my unease lifts when Marconi and the staff pick the rest from the tables like vultures on a fancy carcass. Thank God. Okay, so some got opened. Maybe more than some. But we’ve got the majority of them covered.
But, oh shit, here comes Caroline Baker, and she does not look amused. She holds up a strip of paper and glares at me. “Carter Hudson. Your father would be ashamed.” She holds it out. “Read it aloud, young man.” She narrows her eyes and puts her hand on her hips, a challenge.
“Caroline,” I begin, “I apologize. There was apparently a mix-up at the bakery and they sent the wrong cookies.”
“Here’s a fortune for you,” she snaps. “Confucius says that wise men admit mistakes and don’t blame them on others. Read it.”
“I really don’t think that’s necessary –”
“Read it. I knew you when you were a pimply-faced teenager with an attitude problem, young man. Show me the respect I deserve.” Titters break out in her stafftourage.
I scan the paper and read. “Wanna do a 68? You go down on me, and then I’ll owe you one. I am so sorry. I apologize. Yes, it was my mistake. We’re removing them, and I’d love to talk to you about how our new algorithm for analyzing options –”
She breaks in. “And do you know what my colleague’s fortune said?”
It’s a lost cause. “What did it say?” I cross my arms and try to look apologetically confident.
She points her chin at him, and he hands me the paper. I read it. “There were nine planets in the Universe, but they agreed to take it down to eight because I’m going to destroy, ah, Uranus.”
She snorts. “And that one doesn’t even make sense. Pluto is not a planet anymore, but a planetoid, so there would only be eight to start, Carter. At least next time hire a perverted bakery that knows their astronomy.”
I’m not sure, but I think I hear one of her entourage mutter, “ASS-tronomy.” Muffled giggles and “shush” sounds happen.
I can’t believe this. I’ve planned for this night for so long, not just for the charity, but because I want to get Mrs. Baker into financial bed with my company. And now it’s all fucked to hell because of some idiot baker who gave me God knows whose shitty-ass fortunes.
Nate steps in, all unctuous placation, and takes her hand, acting like some patronizing elder statesman instead of a thirty-year-old. “Caroline. My brother may be no genius when it comes to fake fortunes, but he has a real gift for reading the futures of the stock market.”
She pulls her hand from his. “Mistakes like this don’t happen to people who execute flawlessly. I’ll stay and donate to the charity, but I’m going to give some hard thought as to whether I want to do business with you.” She sniffs and walks away, although I think I see her stifle a smile.
The same intern whispers, “She said HARD,” and giggles with his counterpart before they scamper after her.
FUCK.
I’m seething.
Nate and I make the rounds, and it’s not as bad as all that: Although a few people walked out, other guests who read the dirty fortunes loved them. Thank God that many of our clients are pervs with a good sense of humor. In fact, and this is an unexpected relief – I get so many requests for business cards that I have to text Marconi to bring me another batch from my backup stash.
Someone tells me that I really know how to appeal to the younger investors. Another person tells me that I have an edgy, bold flair that sets me apart from the competition. One guy asks if he can get the basket of unopened ones for his weekly poker night, and when I say no, he says, “At least tell me where you got them.”
And that raises an excellent question. Who, indeed, is responsible for this fortune almost-fiasco?
While the guests are eating and a guest speaker is extolling the virtues of donating to childhood foundations, I text Marconi. Look up the name of the baker who fucked me tonight.
It’s not even twenty seconds before his reply comes across the screen, practically making my phone vibrate in sympathy. Mr. Hudson I am so incredibly sorry I was not on top of this please give me a chance to make this right. It’s Caked With Love, and the owner is Arie Blair.
He shoots me the website, and I ignore the cute frolicking lacey logo and go right to the “Arie’s Bio” to see the idiot herself. It’s like when a person cuts me off in traffic, weaving and driving like a drunken douche squirrel, I have to pass – but it’s imperative that I look over to get a good look at the asshole in person. Just passing? That’s not nearly as satisfying.
But when I pull up the page and see her picture, it’s like a punch to the gut. Arie Blair is the girl from this morning, the one who sassed me about the bike and gave me napkins to clean my fingers. I can’t believe this. How in the fucking world?
She’s gorgeous in the picture, almost as pretty as in real life. Her long red-blond curls are loose on her shoulders, and her blue eyes look like the sky, even on my phone screen. I stare at her luscious kissable lips that I immediately imagine wrapped around my dick.
Marconi texts again. Do you want me to call her right now or tomorrow to complain? Or I’ll go in person tomorrow when they open.
Nate thinks I need to have fun? To liven things up? I can do that. And there’s no way in hell I’m passing up a chance to meet Arie Blair again. If fortune is offering this to me, I’m taking.
A smile spreads across my face. I bite my lip and put one foot up on my opposite knee while I type back. I’ll take care of this one myself.
Arie
The bistro tables and metal chairs with curled floral edgings are filled with my breakfast crew. Since I started serving coffee and croissants, morning business has boomed.
“I feel good,” I tell Myler. “I think we’ve turned the corner into supreme profits. I can feel it. A good recommendation from the Carter Hudson team on Yelp could totally level us up.” I wave to a few customers who leave, and add, “I need to call them this morning and see how it went.”
“I love that you do a personal follow up.” Myler pulls a tray out of the glassy display, and deftly arranges a four by six display of Cherry Surprise cupcakes from her rolling cart.
“I think it sets us apart. We’re in the business of building good customer relationsh
ips.” I crouch down to help, loading a fresh batch of Birthday Cake Sprinkle Joys from her cart onto another tray. “Personalized service makes a difference.”
“Oh, is that what you call it?” A deep voice startles me and I bump my head on Myler’s tray as I stand.
“Ouch! Ow. No, I’m fine.” I rub my temple. “Hello, can I help…you.” My voice trails off because it’s him. The guy from the supermarket.
He’s even sexier today, if possible, in blue jeans and a black sweater that clings to his muscular arms and chest. I know I’m staring, but I honestly can’t stop. He’s drool worthy. He runs a hand over his stubbly beard as he regards me.
I’m entranced by his eyes. “It’s you. Bike Guy. From the store. I gave you napkins.” I hesitate. “You remember me from the store?” I blush.
“Yes, that’s right.” His mouth twitches into a grin. “I definitely remember you.” His eyes study mine. “I even offered to tutor you. And I guess,” he glances at the samples of fortune cookies, “you must be Fortune Cookie Girl.”
“Otherwise known as Arie Blair.” I whip off my plastic glove, wipe my hand on my jeans, and stick it over the counter. “And you are?”
“Someone who’d like to talk to you about a large, important order of fortune cookies.” He takes my hand and I feel the sparks, just like the other day. I try not to gasp. His hand is warm and firm and he holds it just a second longer than necessary before he lets go.
“Oh! Yes. Okay.” I swallow. Part of me hoped he tracked me down because he liked me, not because he wanted to order baked goods. But it’s fine. “I’d love to talk to you right now, and get an idea of what you’re looking for. And then, I’ll get my laptop and show you samples and prices. Unless – you’d prefer to talk later?”
“Let’s talk right now.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Unless you’re busy preparing for a bachelor party or something.”
“Now is fine. Myler will watch the counter, right?” I grab my client notebook from the lower back cabinet.
She nods, so I come out from the half-door and gesture to a table. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“No.” He sits down, leans back, and crosses his arms again. “Tell me about your quality control.” A little smiles plays on his lips. If he’d said anything else, I’d swear he was undressing me with his eyes. His thighs look powerful in the denim, and between them there’s a good-sized – I flush, not wanting to be obvious about checking out his body.
“My quality control?” I daydreamed about him, and now he’s here, but he’s not asking me for a date, he’s grilling me about – I don’t know. Is he going to hire me?
“Sure.” He raises an eyebrow. “Let’s say I ordered, oh, one thousand three hundred twenty five custom fortune cookies for an important financial event, and asked for phrases and saying about success and hard work. How would you assure me that I wouldn’t somehow get something, let’s see, like this.”
He pulls a wad of little strips from his pocket and dumps them onto the table between us, where they start to curl outward slowly, drowsy snakes unfurling.
He clears his throat and reads. “If I’m a pain in your ass…we can add more lube.”
A horrible feeling lurches through my gut. Oh my fucking god. Oh, no way. No, no way.
My eyes must widen because he puts up a hand. “No, no, just let me read you a few more. Oh, this one’s really special. Imagine if a very conservative client found this little delight. I’m no weatherman, but you can expect a few inches tonight. Or my personal favorite, I must say, Every exit is an entrance for new experiences. For example, the anus.” He smiles. “I’m Carter Hudson. You sent some really filthy fortune cookies to my important donation banquet last night.”
I clap a hand to my mouth and gaze around the restaurant in dismay, but no help is forthcoming. I look back at him. “Those are for next week! We saved them in the back, in a box. It was labeled, Matt’s Bachelor Party. There’s no way.”
“Apparently, miracles do happen, because these were they very fortunes that ended up at my fundraiser gala last night. And lost me a very important client, I might add.”
“But we sent you all of the good ones! The regular ones.” I half stand up, craning my neck to look at the entrance to the kitchen. I’m positive that box of inappropriate fortunes is right where I left it.
“Oh, you did. After the event, my friends and I opened a lot of them, and found that most of them were the ones I’d ordered. It was obvious, though, that special ones had been mixed in with the good ones.” He does air quotes on “special” and raises one eyebrow.
“I’m so sorry.” I don’t even know what to say. “I can,” and this makes me die a little inside, but it’s unavoidable, “refund your money. Give you a discount. I’m so sorry.”
Giving his money back will be a blow to my finances, but how can I not offer? My voice is frantic. “I don’t even understand how it happened. I had that box separate, with a huge label. I was so careful.”
Then I remember helping Jitters load boxes, how I was stressed and still thinking about the fuse and the flour, the guy with the bike. I distinctly remember taking that box anyway. I was going to put it aside. Then I must have handed it to Jitters, like a stupid weird robot on drugs. Gah! I’m an idiot. Myler is right. It’s clearly well past the time to hire another assistant. If I’d done that earlier, I could have avoided this mess.
He looks around the bakery, and I wonder what he sees. Standing up, I put my hands flat on the table. “I’ll do a PayPal refund today. Please accept my apologies. This is the first time this has ever happened, and I take full responsibility. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.” I swallow hard, imagining ways to recover.
One time, I saw this meme on Facebook. It was a picture of a chalkboard menu sign outside a café: Try the sub sandwich that one Yelp reviewer called the worst thing he’s ever eaten! The guy’s humor actually gained him new fans and business. Could that work here?
“Sit back down,” he orders, then, at my expression, tempers it with a “please” and a half-smile, his hands up, so I do. This time I cross my arm and tap my foot. How is it possible that even now, I’m entranced with his lips?
“It’s not the end of the world,” he says thoughtfully. “I lost the big client I wanted, but the dirty fortunes actually appealed to some people and I gained some clients.”
“So do you want the refund, or don’t you?” I almost don’t care anymore about the refund, as long as I get to look at his face, listen to his voice.
“Well, I don’t feel it would be fair to penalize you for the full amount.” He grins. “I’d accept a forty percent refund, because the clients I lost didn’t quite make up for the ones I gained.”
I open my mouth to agree, but he adds, “And you’ll meet me for dinner.” He leans in across the table and his cologne wafts over to me, a tantalizing aroma, sexy and spicy. “Okay?” His eyes are clear. Those lashes.
“I’ll do what?” I feel a slow burn start in my stomach and spread lower. Oh, God. I look at his lips and imagine them on mine, his hands stroking my bare skin. Maybe he likes me after all.
“As my baker. I’m trying one last effort to win back my biggest lost client. I’ll need the real fortunes.” He raises an eyebrow. “I’d like you to hand-deliver them yourself. A batch of ten. No mistakes.”
“Oh. I see! I can do that.” I flush hard. He wasn’t asking me to dinner, dinner. Duh. I take a deep breath to steady myself. Easy.
“And if I get her back, I’ll refund you the refund.”
“Uh…okay.” Now I’m a little confused. “So when is this event?”
“She’s available tomorrow night. We’re meeting at Chez Joel. Be there at eight pm with the cookies. And wear something nice.” He looks me up and down, at my jeans and T, and smirks.
I stick up my chin. “And you assume I’m available just because you say so?”
“Well, are you?” His voice is lower, intimate.
I flush. I
don’t know what he’s asking. From the look on his face, I’m not sure he does, either. My hands are on the table in front of me, and his are on the table too. I stare at his fingers, willing them closer. I want to touch him.
And like magic, he leans in and puts both of his hands on mine. The impact is instantaneous. I gasp, and he doesn’t smile. His face is serious as he watches me. “Are you available?” he asks, and I feel like he wants to know more than about a dinner date.
“Maybe,” I say softly. My heartbeat is staccato, a hummingbird. I can’t think. His skin is soft, warm. He brushes my thumb with his. “Are you?” I ask.
“Maybe,” he repeats my words, and smiles. “I’d really like to see you. For you to come. Tomorrow. Will you?” His eyes are intense.
“Okay.” I breathe out, soft. “I’ll bring the cookies to your dinner tomorrow.”
Carter
While I wait for Caroline, I sip a glass of whiskey and scan my phone for urgent texts from clients. Then I check the door, but it’s not Caroline I hope to see. I want Arie. Since I talked to her in the bakery, she’s all I can think about. Maybe it’s insane, but I’m already into this girl, even though I don’t know her. I shouldn’t have teased her that way, maybe, but hell, it was fun seeing her blush. I want to give her attitude, and then I want her to give me attitude, like with the bike. Then I want to fuck it out of her. Then I want to do it all over again.
God, I hope she comes tonight.
“Carter.” Caroline takes my hand in her wrinkled one. Her face is lined but her eyes are shrewd and bright, light.
“Caroline. Thank you for meeting me.” I gesture at the table. “I appreciate the second chance.”
“Yes.” Her voice is dry. She raises a hand, nearly imperceptible, but the nod of her head has the waiter at her side. “We’ll take a bottle of the Mount Eden Vineyards Chardonnay.” She looks at me. “When your father and I used to have lunch, this is the wine we’d order.”