by Koko Brown
Dejected, Shoshana placed her forehead on the table. “No hijinks, please.”
“But that’s my middle name.”
Shoshana swiveled her head to look at him. “Things aren’t quite the same.”
Tyson stopped thumbing through the company’s contact list. “What do you mean things aren’t the same?”
“The last time he was here he was inordinately polite.”
“Bending you over the table but not spanking your bum inordinately polite or kicking you to the curb inordinately polite?”
“Kicked to the curb,” she murmured, still smarting from Patrick’s indifference.
“Ouch,” he said, setting aside his cell. “Tell me what happened.”
With a theatrical sigh, she sat up. “He gave me what I wanted.”
“And what was that?”
“No strings attached.”
“And he didn’t go for that?” Tyson was all eyes.
“The strings couldn’t go beyond 9th and 35th.”
Tyson pressed his lips together but his shoulders shook like Jell-O. Quickly suffering from oxygen deprivation, his face turned an odd shade of pink.
“Spit it out,” she said, giving him permission to laugh at her.
With a loud hoot, he clapped his hands. “You treated him like an in-house booty call!”
Shoshana tugged on her ponytail. “Put like that it sounds deplorable.”
“When will you women learn that men operate on a different frequency?” he feverishly argued. “You tell us to do something we do it. Things are black and white. There are no shades of gray.” “But I give you fifty points for sticking it to him like a champ.”
Too bad she wasn’t taking it like a champ. A winner would never feel this miserable coming out on top.
Tyson moved his thumb over the cell pushing buttons. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Keep it professional,” she insisted.
“Always,” he drawled. He rolled his shoulders back and sat up straighter. “May I speak to Mr. Kelly?” Tyson’s usual charming voice remained sober.
“Ah yes, Mr. Kelly this is Tyson from Haufman’s Clothier…I’m doing well,” he said the last so tightly she could hear his teeth grind.
Shoshana smiled behind a well-placed fist. Her assistant could be a hot mess but at least he was loyal.
“I’m calling about the second commission. Your suit is ready and I need to schedule your first fitting—”
Tyson paused for a beat.
“Yes, it was a quick turnaround. That’s Haufman’s.” Playing his role to the hilt, he threw in a phony chuckle so fake and hollow it deserved an echo. “Miss Haufman has an opening on Thursday if you’re free…you are? Good,” he drawled. “I’ll put you down for one—”
Tyson’s brow wrinkled.
“You’d like her to meet you?”
Tyson placed his hand over the receiver. “He can meet with you on Thursday but he wants to know if you’d be willing to meet him.”
Shoshana nibbled on her bottom lip. The request wasn’t entirely unusual. From day one, Haufman’s offered delivery and house calls by appointment. Maybe meeting him at his office wasn’t a bad idea. Lord knows she couldn’t manage to keep her panties on in her own surroundings.
“Make the appointment but charge him the office call fee.”
Tyson booked the appointment and confirmed the additional fifty dollar fee.
“That was easy,” he quipped, setting his phone aside.
Shoshana hoped the appointment proved to be as effortless. It didn’t look good. The fitting might be three days away but her body was already percolating with anticipation.
Oy vey.
Armed with Patrick’s suit and office address, Shoshana took the D train to the Bronx. Sure it wasn’t a mistake she rechecked the address Patrick had given as a last minute location change. A newly minted business owner, he hadn’t set down roots yet. In the interim, he’d leased virtual space to meet potential investees.
The idea of flexible renting made sense, not the location. The majority of New York’s one percenters lived in lower Manhattan. And like most people with means, they rarely did anything outside of their safe zone. Meaning they slept, ate, played and did business all within walking distance. Nowhere near Patrick’s tax bracket, even she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to the Bronx.
With millions of visitors escaping the city or just passing through, she’d taken the D train for expediency. With each northbound stop, the train picked up more passengers, particularly of the New York Yankee and Mets variety.
Simply a means to get from point A to Point B, the subway was a normally a silent affair. And if one were lucky, a contact-free experience as well. Mix in a few sports fans, the dynamic changed greatly. Add in a hundred more, and the train became Cheers without the beer or hard liquor.
Despite their pack mentality and overt obnoxiousness, she envied them. She yearned to step off the train, forget her obligations and take in an afternoon game. No worrying about orders or missed deadlines and maybe, if she tried really hard, she might not dwell on her father’s deteriorating mental state.
The train click-clacked along the elevated track, the monotonous elegy provided a perfect backdrop to talk herself out of taking the day off. She did such a number on herself she allotted only forty-five minutes to Patrick’s appointment.
“Your destination will be on your right,” her cell app clamored, wrenching her from her thoughts but not the guilt twisting her gut. Anxious to get this over with, she edged toward the exit. She didn’t get very far as she ran up against a wall of orange and blue and Yankee pinstripes. Curious, she pulled up her phone’s map and zoomed in. Enlarged, the gray abstract shape took the form of a baseball diamond.
Befuddled, she allowed herself to be swept up in the tide and onto the station platform. Somehow she managed to keep up with foot traffic descending the stairs without being trampled or tripping.
“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” she muttered when she managed to reach street level. Not because she’d accomplished it in one piece but because of the modern day coliseum rising from the concrete. A façade of limestone, granite, and cast stone, with high, narrow arched openings and entry portals reminded her of a cathedral, not a ball field. In a way, the description was apt since some fans treated baseball like a religion. Talking bad about one’s team was blasphemous. Missing a game required atonement. And if your team reached the World Series, only with your loyal support, you’d received your ultimate reward.
There had to be a mistake.
“Do you know where I am, Tyson?”
“Yankee Stadium.”
Shoshana’s eyes widened. “You knew about this?”
Tyson chuck rumbled through the phone. “I wouldn’t be a good assistant if I sent you into a dangerous situation.”
“Why didn’t you give me a heads up?”
“I provided the skybox number and where to pick up your ticket.”
Shoshana glared at his written instructions. All this time she’d wrongly assumedsuite #27andwill call were extraneous doodles. It wasn’t out of the ordinary to find his grocery list on the back of a telephone message or a hookup's number scribbled on an invoice.
“I’ll deal with you later.”
“Enjoy the game,” he said syrupy sweet.
Shoshana retrieved her ticket from will call, and then with a little help from a park attendant, she found the correct skybox. Too bad she hadn’t been given a heads up regarding her final destination or she would’ve worn appropriate footwear for the hike. Encased in four-inch heels, her dogs were howling. And she’d kill for an ice-cold beer.
She almost cheered when the skybox room attendant stepped forward to greet her. “Glad you could make the game, Miss Haufman,” she said her tone warm and welcoming. “My name is Alysa and I’ll be your attendant for the evening.”
“I won’t be staying long,” Shoshana corrected, setting her straight. She needed a little r
eminding as well lest she got too comfortable and forgot how much danger she was in.
She followed Alyssa into the suite. Even though Yankee stadium stretched before her, she only had eyes for him. He stood with his profile to her. Dressed down in a heather gray t-shirt and dark jeans, he chugged on a much-needed beer while taking in pre-game analysis on a flat screen TV.
Whether in a suit or casually dressed, Patrick Kelly had the uncanny ability to quick start her libido. The man was sex on a stick. And every time she saw him, it felt like getting the wind knocked out of her.
As if he sensed her panting over him, he turned his head and their eyes locked.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Hey you,” he spoke in a voice so smooth and intimate it sent a tremor through her.
“Hey yourself,” she scratched out, throat dry as sandpaper.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked holding up his beer bottle.
“I’d love an orange lager.”
Behind her glasses clinked, and she glanced over her shoulder catching Alysa filling a pilsner glass.
“Is this the next masterpiece?”
He’d moved closer. So close his cologne—black cedar wood and juniper—teased her senses and made her think of cool bedsheets, long afternoons and sweaty bodies.
“I…I,” she paused to collect her tangled tongue He only had to be near her to turn her into a throbbing, brainless hormone. “I…I wouldn’t say all that but it is your suit.”
As if aware of his effect on her, the corners of his mouth slowly curled into a smile and their eyes locked for a moment. The air around them seemed to shift like the gathering of electricity before a thunderstorm. And she stiffened as her mind raced back to their last tryst and how he had her bottoms up, draped over a lounge chair.
Pull it together! She wasn’t a recent college graduate trying to make her way in the world. Her intern days had long passed. She was a grown woman with a great career and her priorities in order. In an act of self-preservation, she shoved his suit toward him.
“You should go try this on.” She glanced at Alysa. “This place have a private restroom?”
“Sure does. It’s right around the corner.”
Problem solved, Shoshana swept her arm in that direction.
His smile stretched into a full on grin. “If you insist.”
“The sooner we do this,” she stressed, “the quicker I can get out of here. Don’t you want me out of your hair when your investee arrives?”
He lifted a shoulder and she inwardly groaned. The shirt’s thin cotton material emphasized every carved indent and hollow.
“They canceled but I already paid for the suite. Stay and watch the game with me.”
Low blow! Why’d he have to tempt her with the Subway Series? Even worse why did his ass have to look so damn good in those jeans?
“I really should get back to the factory,” she threw out and then inwardly cringed. She wanted to stay so bad, she couldn’t even offer up a flimsy excuse.
He leaned in close, “Think about it.”
His voice resonated through her, making her ache all over. Shaken, heartbeat not quite steady, she watched him disappear around the corner.
“Here’s your lager, miss.”
Shoshana accepted the beer with gratitude. Praying the cool refreshment cooled her libido, she took a healthy swig.
“For a minute there I thought you were a couple.”
Pulse percolating, Shoshana leaned on the bar. “Really? Why?”
Alysa picked up a towel and began wiping the bar. Her brisk movements caused her messy topknot to wobble. “The way he was lookin’ at you. You know like you were his.”
Despite her better judgment, Shoshana pondered the idea of belonging to him, he belonging to her, them being together. With each passing the second, the side of her that wanted him and everything he had to give, grew in intensity.
Thirsty for more than just a drink, she downed the rest of her beer. She set the glass on the bar at the same time she heard the discernible click of the bathroom door. Feeling marginally better with a little bit of alcohol in her veins, she turned to face what was quickly becoming her biggest weakness.
“Wow.” Alysa whistled. “You look like a million bucks.”
He acknowledged the attendant’s compliment with a softly-worded thank you, but his eyes met and locked with hers. She could feel his anticipation as he waited for her opinion. And for some odd reason, his eagerness touched something inside her.
“It’s stunning,” she said with absolutely no embellishing as was customary in her line of business. The suit was as beautiful as the man filling it.
Pleased with her answer, he brought forth that knee-weakening smile of his. Vibrating with lust, and needing to channel her energies elsewhere, Shoshana slung her messenger bag onto the bar.
“Assume the position?” he asked while she rummaged for her pin cushion.
His humor eased her mounting angst and made her smile. It felt good to smile. It felt good to be around him. To him, she was neither caregiver nor boss. She was simply a woman. A woman still very much attracted to him. Trapped between a hottie and her uncontrollable desire, she eyed her empty beer glass.
Oy vey! She could use another.
“Feels good,” he said, pulling her from thoughts of getting tore up from the floor up. Resigned, she turned and found him with his hands planted on his head. He dropped his arms then stiffly pivoted on his heels, resembling a professionally styled mannequin.
His playfulness made him more human and less sex god. Oddly enough compartmentalizing him into a mortal and not some supernatural force with the innate ability to make her panties wet, dulled her uncontrollable desire into a bearable ache. Recovered, she switched into business mode.
“I think the cuffs need to be taken in just a tad,” she said, pulling on the hemmed sleeve. She glanced up for his approval and found herself struck by the clear blueness of his eyes. The intensity of his gaze seared her straight to the marrow. And like flipping a light switch, that now-familiar electricity crackled to life inside her, the pull even more fierce due to proximity.
He sensed her dilemma or maybe felt her yearning because he went very still. And the way he looked at her…made her pulse leap. With a shaky inhalation, she tugged on his jacket. “Would you like me to take in the hem?”
“It’s your call.” The intimate rasp of his voice hit her like a rush of adrenaline. For a brief moment, she contemplated throwing caution to the wind and wrapping her arms around his beautiful neck and pulling him into a kiss but of course, her common sense put her shitty foot down. Brain lurching back into action, she stabbed into the material.
“How’s business?” she asked, looking for neutral ground. Getting a man to talk about himself and his interests was a time-tested model in distraction.
“A few prospects.”
Smiling smugly, she tacked one sleeve then moved to the next.
“Anything promising?” She circled around him, proudly eyeing the fall of his jacket, where it hit at his hips. She might not have had a hand in the creation of his suit, but the end result was damn near perfect.
“Promising for them. They’re not the ones putting up the money.” Before she could write him off as a self-serving douche, he continued, “I’m a gambler at heart but at the end of the day, I still want them to succeed. I want them to make their dreams come true.”
She could tell by the passion and conviction in his tone he wasn’t just being flippant or simply trying to impress her. He actually acknowledged the people behind his investments.
Damn it. Why did he have to be both gorgeous and principled? At least if he’d turned out to be an asshat, she could’ve written him off as a great lay and nothing more since it would’ve never worked between them.
Stepping back, Shoshana eyeballed him. The suit was as sexy and elegant as its owner. Like him, there wasn’t much to improve. She’d take in the sleeves a bit but other than that
she didn’t see anything else worth altering.
“I believe we’re done,” she announced with forced exuberance. Forced because her time with him had drawn to a close and she secretly wished she could have more of it.
Annoyed by her train of thought, Shoshana tugged at her ponytail. He was turning her world upside down. Just moments ago, she couldn’t wait to wrap up the fitting and be on her way. Now she yearned for a reason to linger.
Why did he have this freakin’ effect on me? And when was she going to become immune? Of course, no immediate answer came to mind. All she could focus on was this sudden and acute craving for more.
More time with him.
More of his kisses.
More of his hands all over her body.
More of him deep inside of her.
“Are you a baseball fan?”
Tongue sliding along her bottom lip, Shoshana blinked up at him.
“Are…you…a….baseball…fan?” he said as if speaking to someone hard of hearing.
“Huge. My father was a season ticket holder, so I practically grew up in Shea Stadium.”
“That settles it,” he said shrugging out the suit jacket. The power of his leanly muscular body was unmistakable beneath his t-shirt.
“Settles what?”
“You’re going to watch the game with me.”
“I-I didn’t say that.”
“But you want to.”
She wanted to do a lot of things, including him, but that didn’t mean they were necessarily good for her. He stepped closer and a jolt of awareness shot through her.
“Stay and I’ll order the house.” He wiggled his fingers at Alysa, who pulled pad and pen from her apron. “What do you want?”
You, naked, on clean white sheets? “Umm…I’d like one of those stadium pretzels with spicy mustard,” she mumbled, secretly hating herself for giving in so easily.
“And what else?”
“Nathan’s foot long with sauerkraut and mustard.” Behind her, Alysa scrawled away.
“And?”
“I love roasted cinnamon pecans.”
The corners of his mouth curled. “I love those as well.” To Alysa, he said, “We’ll have four of everything.”
