by Koko Brown
Patrick stared at his reflection in the polished elevator doors. Why wasn’t he ready to punch someone? In the not so distant past, not closing the deal would’ve sent him into a tailspin. He’d always been crass. Losing out on a venture made him practically unbearable. Over the years, most had learned to swing a wide path of him. Unfortunately, Vanessa never had that luxury. All paths led to him, his churlishness and never-ending demands.
Bastard.
Of course, he didn’t need to waste any time wondering about the change in attitude nor the source. His head hadn’t been in the game. He’d given fifty percent when he usually accorded a hundred and ten. His usual resilience and tenacity had fallen by the waist side. So for fifty minutes and twenty-nine seconds, he’d simply flown on autopilot as he made a half-hearted case for investing in The Great Manscape.
Patrick admitted defeat. Shoshana Haufman was the source of his current shortcomings. She’d done a number on him. Monopolized too much of his free time--popping in his thoughts and dreams uninvited--now interfering with his livelihood.
Freakin’ idiot.
He’d blown his commission and stellar record over the fickleness of a woman. No woman had affected him so, coming between him and his money. A female who didn’t give two farts about him. Patrick balled his fists. He’d put hundreds of miles between him and his father, avoided him whenever possible—and all for naught. His father wore a smaller shoe size but his footsteps turned out to be an unexpectedly good fit.
The elevator doors dinged open, and he motioned for Vanessa to precede him. He might be a dick. He hadn’t forgotten his manners.
“If I had a half a million sitting around, I’d invest in The Great Manscape.” Vanessa’s high heels tapped angrily against the polished, wooden floors. “Guess I’m stuck.” She reached her desk and rounded it. “So what’s your next move?”
“I’m moving on. And so should you. See you in the morning” Like women, start-ups came a dime a dozen. He would simply regroup and find something else that made his dick hard.
Patrick pulled an aluminum straight-edge ruler from his desk drawer. He lined it up with a column of numbers, hoping the tactic would allow him to remain on target and not recalculating the same group of numbers for the gazillionth time.
“Christ!” he spat, thirty seconds later. For good measure, he flung the ruler across the room. The sound of it thudding against the wall provided a brief cathartic respite for his tortured soul.
Muttering a litany of curses, he slouched in his chair. It was no use. Today’s fitting had him turned inside out. Akin to Christmas Eve, the midday appointment proved to be an unsettling distraction. He couldn’t concentrate, so even the smallest tasks had become insurmountable. The only job he appeared to be qualified for was timekeeper. An exemplary employee he flipped his wrist. As expected--exactly five minutes later than the last time he’d checked.
His gaze jumped over the open folders, uncapped ball point pens and unread newspapers strewn across his desk. He’d touched every one of them in turn then abandoned them. Their usual application didn’t hold any appeal or usefulness. At this point, nothing was of interest with this woman haunting his thoughts.
Patrick raked his hand over his mouth. Ever since he’d reached puberty, and started sniffing around the opposite sex, he’d never lost himself. Women always wanted him to share, open up but he kept his head in the game and never made the mistake of involving his heart.
His father had been an excellent teacher. Watching Eamonn Kelly foolishly moon over his mother had made a lasting impression like a gift that kept on giving as he callously plowed his way through dozens if not hundreds of women without a single scratch.
Until now. And this wasn’t just a scratch. More like a head on collision scrambling his brain. Nothing less could explain this crazy compulsion to be near her or this gnawing need to have her want him as much as he wanted her.
He rolled his fingers into his temples. He didn’t get it. Why Shoshana Haufman? What separated her from the long list of others? She definitely topped his list of the sexiest women who’d ever crossed his path. Still, why’d she touch something inside him?
All this would end today. He’d go to that appointment and keep his lust in check and his cock in his pants.
Shoshana scribbled her John Hancock on the dotted line. One component of a two-person assembly line, she lifted her hand giving Tyson access to the employee paycheck. Pungent and slightly acidic, the new fountain pen’s indigo ink tickled her nose. Unable to resist, she brought the tip closer to sniff.
“Stop getting high and let’s finish the task at hand.” Tyson tapped the stack of weekly payroll checks.
“When I’m done, promise to make me a Caffé Americano?”
“Don’t I always reward you for being a good girl?”
Not bothering to wait on the remaining drafts to be signed, he stood.
“Nothing like a well-dressed man.”
“You know it,” he said, straightening his black bow tie, which matched his French satin suspenders and gabardine trousers.
Finished with the final check long before the water reached the proper temperature, Shoshana took a break. She needed a breather before diving into the next inch-thick pile of purchase orders also needing her signature. Plus, she enjoyed watching Tyson do his thing with the espresso machine. White shirtsleeves rolled to his elbow, his hands danced over the machine’s shiny buttons and handles with a mesmerizing flourish. He tossed two demitasse cups in the air. He caught them right side up, clicked the lips together before placing them beneath the dual spout portafilter.
Two loud, wet sighs buffeted the room, a pregnant pause. Trickling coffee splashed in both cups like fingers striking piano keys. The smell of burnt coffee permeated the air, instigating a deeply drawn breath.
“Milk and sugar?”
Shoshana pretended to clutch a strand of pearls. “And risk losing my street cred? No, sir.”
Snickering, Tyson sauntered back to the table, cups in hand. “Want to go over today’s schedule or dive into the purchase orders?”
Shoshana accepted the cup from him. She wrapped her hands around the warm porcelain and inhaled again. “Got Americano, I can handle anything.”
He picked up his cell. “In that case, let’s tackle today’s schedule.”
“Whoo hoo!” Shoshana bleated. Two sips of the black elixir already hitting her system. “A two espresso day or four?”
“I better start the next cup.” Tyson set down the phone and stood.
“That bad?” She peered at the open calendar. Noting five back-to-back appointments before lunch, she almost choked on the very beverage giving her life. “Why the morning pile up?”
“To give you more time for your afternoon fittings,” he flung over his shoulder.
Shoshana checked out her afternoon. “But there are only two appointments.”
“And you’ll need the extra time to properly take of him.”
Him? Curious, she touched the screen, opening up the last appointment.
Patrick Kelly Wed, September 7, 2:45 pm – 4:45 pm
With a trembling hand, she set her cup aside. Simply reading Patrick’s name ignited her libido like a seven-alarm fire.
“I thought we had a deal.”
Tyson turned around slowly. “We doooo,” he stressed, “I just assumed Mr. Kelly would probably need more attention since this is his first fitting. Cover all the bases now. Save yourself some grief.”
His argument made complete sense. The first fitting tended to stoke the fires of anxiety. Instead of visualizing the final product, most clients got hung up on a suit still in progress.
Stumped but not letting him off the hook, she said, “I’m going to need you there the entire time.”
“I rarely stay,” he balked.
Hiding a conspiratorial smile behind her cup, she took a sip while he angrily pushed buttons and jerked on handles. She meant to learn how to work that contraption, yet deep down she knew
she never would. Like acquiring a pedicure and manicure or having one’s hair washed, allowing someone else to do it turned out so much better.
“I know what you’re doing.”
“I could say the same,” she countered. “Plus with you there, I can finish early. When my day is done, yours will be too. It’s a win-win.”
“Not getting laid isn’t a win.” Sucking his teeth, he placed her second Americano between them then sat down. “Getting laid by an extremely hot silver fox, I might add.”
“It isn’t a win when having sex complicates my already complicated life. And sex with an extremely hot silver fox will be complicated. I’m just not emotionally there right now.”
“Why do you have to be?”
“Excuse me?”
“Get some while the getting is good then move on when the job’s done.”
Shoshana quickly put his nonsense together, “Are you saying have sex with him until his suit is complete then dump him?”
“Men like Patrick Kelly are a dollar a dozen in Manhattan. Don’t completely dump him. I suggest a slow fade. That way they’ll be no hard feelings when he seeks another commission.”
“Slow fade? Do I even want to know what that is?”
Tyson leaned toward her, “Slowly fading away is just that. When he calls you take them. Just keep it short and sweet, and never ever commit to anything outside these four walls.”
Shoshana made a face. “I don’t see how this isn’t complicated.”
“You never actually go on a date. It’s not real so no one gets their feelings hurt. You have a little fun and keep a valuable customer at the same time.”
“Sounds like you want me to make him my customer with benefits.”
Tyson leaned back in his chair. “Why didn’t I think of that? A customer with benefits. That’s perfect.”
Shoshana sniffed. “More like tomfoolery that’ll see me bankrupt and you in the unemployment line.”
“I’m not telling you to sleep with all your clients,” he paused to take a sip of coffee, “just Patrick Kelly.”
“Hundreds of men have walked through that door, and he’s the only one you stripped before you asked him to.”
Reminded of how she salivated over Patrick’s broad shoulders and firm ass, Shoshana slid her thumbnail between her teeth and bit down.
“That obvious?” she mumbled.
“Like a meter maid on a starvation diet, left alone to protect a box of doughnuts.”
“Wouldn’t that be a relief? Ha…ha!” Afraid he might see her expression didn’t quite match her words, she left her seat. With nowhere to go—the showroom didn’t open for an hour and the third shift was on their way out the door—she ambled over to one of the room’s permanent mannequins. “Can you see that this one gets the new Saxon shirt? I’d like to see if we can increase the order numbers.”
“I’ll grab one from the showroom. Don’t forget to sign these.” He patted the purchase orders. “Save Joe from nagging me to the ends of the Earth for them.”
Sufficiently recovered, Shoshana walked back to the table. Tyson headed for the door.
He paused with his hand on the handle. “Sorry for going around the bush about your silver fox. After you’ve treated him, he probably isn’t interested anymore.”
The possibility of losing Patrick Kelly’s regard should’ve filled her with relief. So why did the prospect tie her insides into fretful knots?
“Did you forget the car’s downstairs?”
Patrick tore his gaze from the Manhattan skyline. “I was just finishing up on a last minute detail, regarding the McLarty & Co. account.”
Vanessa’s gaze swung to his desk then back to him. “Need any help?” She opened the door wider as if to come in.
Patrick held his hand up. “No. I’m actually on my way out the door.”
“Should I expect you back?”
Reminded of his promise, Patrick stiffened. He secretly hoped he’d be too tired after his fitting and call it a day but he personally swore to toe the line this afternoon. He’d suffered enough personal shame to go there again.
“I’ll be back before the market closes.”
Knowing full well she’d be back to check on him, he decided to save her any more grief. Plus, he’d stalled long enough. Not wanting to seem too eager for their long overdue reunion he’d purposely dragged his feet.
He headed out with a wave then took the elevator down to the first floor. Feeling the eyes of the building’s security detail on him, he glanced over and saluted. Piped in music dogged his footsteps. The relative quiet a stark contrast to the pandemonium buzzing on the other side of the picture windows.
The moment he swept through the revolving door, a familiar rush washed over him. Teeming with life and frenetic energy, Manhattan always called to him. The smell of bus exhaust collided with grilled onions and roasting beef from a Sabrette hotdog cart. The frenzied shouts of street hawkers competed with the perpetual clash of honking car horns and police sirens.
He cruised through pedestrian traffic to the black Cadillac waiting at the curb. He knocked on the back passenger window, gaining the driver’s attention. A second later, the door unlocked.
“Where are we heading?”
Patrick met the other man’s eyes in the review mirror. “Garment District.”
Confused, the driver’s thick eyebrows dipped. “Any particular address?”
“Haufman Clothiers on the corner of 9th and 35th.”
“This business or pleasure?”
“Why?”
“Depends on if I should take a shortcut or not.”
“This appointment is neither. Still, take your time. I don’t need to arrive early.”
“You won’t be on time either,” the driver tapped the car’s radio. “There was
A bad fender bender on 8th avenue. I saw it on my way up.”
“Just get me there in one piece,” Patrick muttered.
With each vanishing block, Patrick felt his cock slowly stirring to life. Unbidden images of her beautiful face and curvaceous figure danced in his head with tortuous clarity. Thank goodness, his mind couldn’t quite grasp her sexual aura or he’d end up sporting full on wood when he arrived.
“Get a grip.” Gaze zeroed in on his crotch, he willed the swelling to go down. No use. Shoshana’s allure just proved too strong.
Unable to admit defeat, he reached into his suit pocket to retrieve his cell. He thumbed through his contacts and found the one person who could kill his mood.
“Pat! To wut do I owe this pleashah?”
Patrick gritted his teeth. His father always sounded like he’d nursed a bottle of cough syrup for breakfast. He did come in handy. By the third syllable, his cock deflated faster than the British pound the day after Brexit.
“I must have butt dialed you.” He slid his thumb toward the end button but for some reason he hesitated.
“I’m…I’m suhprised you got my numbah.”
“Liam put it in my phone Labor Day weekend.”
“You didn’t beat him up too bad did ya?”
“Said he couldn’t sit down for a week.”
His father’s chuckle, bordering on a wheeze, rumbled through the receiver. Patrick leaned over and blew condensation on the window. He took a manicured fingernail and traced a smiley face. Despite his better judgment he asked, “Have you been taking good care of yourself? Eating right?”
“Nevah,” Eamonn hooted. “Liam makes sure I eat proper. From time to time, he comes by and cooks for me. Sometimes we even watch the game. He’s a good boy. I guess I did alwight raising him.”
The cell casing bit into Patrick’s hand. Liam’s considerate nature and the overall character of all his siblings had been molded by him. Not the man on the other end of the line.
His father didn’t notice the pregnant pause hanging between them. “Any girl would be lucky to have him. He’s seeing someone but I figure she must be giving him the runaround. I told him to—”
&nb
sp; “You’re giving advice about women?” Patrick interjected.
“I was married to your mother for fifteen years.”
“You haven’t seen her in twenty but she still owns your balls. Have you signed the divorce papers?”
“I-I never had any happiness,” his father spat. “You…you think I’ll allow her to have—”
He cut off him off again “I have to go. I’m about to step into a meeting.”
“Hey, Pat. If you evah find yourself in Boston, swing by—”
Click
He betrayed the agitation pulsing through his veins by snatching the door handle. Absent any tension, the lever flapped in his hand, thwarting his petition for freedom.
“Damn children’s safety locks,” he muttered angrily, then louder, “Stop the car!”
The driver eyed him in the rearview mirror. “You have four more blocks.”
He peeled a couple of twenties from his money clip then tossed them over the seat. The locks popped, he jumped out. Set free from the sedan’s constricting confines, he headed west.
He had no one else to blame for his foul mood. He’d called on his father to cool his ardor and wound up wanting to punch someone’s ticket. His current disposition afforded him one positive benefit—leverage. His anger could be used to counter Shoshana Haufman’s curious effect on him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Shoshana tried to maintain focus. Listen to Sukey’s remarks, catalog her suggestions. Instead, her gaze kept drifting to the wall clock. T-minus twelve freakin’ long minutes until her two forty-five appointment.
Only four-foot-eleven and barely a buck, her Head of Notions lumbered in front of an enormous wooden cabinet aimlessly talking crap while opening and closing supply drawers. With a penchant for speaking her mind and sharing her unsolicited opinion—she blamed it on being detained three years in a Japanese American internment camp--Sukey could be a firecracker. So Shoshana found it more than a little disconcerting her most veteran employee couldn’t hold her attention.
“Drayton’s buttons are pure garbage,” she griped. With each syllable, her head wiggled, threatening the security of her snow-white topknot. “We should look into a different company.” She reached into a cabinet and pulled out a zip-locked bag. “I still mourn the real thing.” Sukey held up a faux tortoise shell fastener. “They had such warmth and luster.”
