Kids Is A 4-Letter Word

by Stephanie Bond

  “Hi,” Jo said, sticking her head in her aunt’s office.

  “Hi, yourself,” Hattie said, her smile beaming beneath the brim of her fruit-bearing straw hat. “Another emergency with the Sterling family, I presume?” she sang.

  “Don’t start, Hattie.”

  “What was it this time?”

  “Jamie almost set fire to the Pattersons’ model day-care center.”

  “Oh my,” Hattie said, wincing. “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, but I think it might influence the Pattersons’ decision today.”

  “You’re afraid they’ll drop you because your presumed stepson has caused them so much trouble?”

  “No,” Jo said, sighing. “I’m afraid they’ll sign me because they’re afraid of a lawsuit.”

  “Oh my,” Hattie repeated.

  Jo frowned. “How do I get myself into these messes?”

  “No one need be the wiser,” her aunt offered.

  “But I know the truth,” Jo insisted, exasperated.

  “Well, if it bothers you that much, just tell the Pattersons it was all a misunderstanding.”

  Right, Jo thought, and risk losing all we’ve both worked for. Of course, she could call Alan, and he’d have her delinquent loan payment—or the entire loan—taken care of with a simple transfer of funds.

  The doorbell chimed, announcing the arrival of the Pattersons. Jo’s stomach twisted.

  “Hello,” Mrs. Patterson said as she entered, her hair and clothing impeccably neat and stiff. As Jo shook her hand, she noted that Melissa Patterson could be a very daunting woman if she deemed it necessary. Mr. Patterson was his cordial self.

  “I trust you found your children in good hands at the day care?” Mrs. Patterson asked, her eyebrows raised hopefully.

  “Oh, yes,” Jo said, her stomach queasy.

  “I hope Mr. Sterling wasn’t too upset,” she continued, her tone probing.

  “Just relieved the children were okay,” Jo said quickly. She nodded toward the meeting room. “Shall we begin?”

  Avoiding Hattie’s eyes, Jo followed the couple into the room and switched on the powerful workstation in which the design software resided. She chitchatted while tweaking the presentation screen and preparing the machine for the data she’d developed. Hattie slipped in with mugs of flavored coffee, then left again.

  Jo reached for her briefcase to withdraw the computer diskette containing her work for the Patterson account. She frowned when the brass latches refused to budge, then smiled nervously at the attentive couple. “New briefcase,” she explained, then pressed the buttons again with all her might, to no avail. Double-checking the line of shiny digits that made up the combination, she smiled in relief, seeing the numbers were no longer aligned. She remembered finding Jamie playing with it—he must have turned the brass wheels to different numbers. She adjusted them back to her combination, then tried once again to open the latches. Nothing.

  She lifted her head and smiled again at the Pattersons. “I’ll be right back,” she said, exiting the room with her briefcase in hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Hattie said when she saw Jo’s face.

  Closing the door to Hattie’s office, Jo fought her panic. “My presentation is in this briefcase—the diskette, the written proposal, graphs, contracts, everything—and I can’t get it open.”

  “I noticed you’d finally traded in my old bag,” Hattie said.

  “I didn’t,” Jo said in exasperation. “Alan bought this for me while he was in Atlanta.”

  “Hmmph, figures—it’s pretentious as hell.”

  “I can’t get it open. I think Jamie must have jammed it somehow.”

  Hattie grunted in her effort to move the latches, then gave up. “Did you make a backup of the files on the machine’s hard drive?”

  Jo shook her head miserably. “Dumb, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  Groaning, Jo said. “This is an omen. What am I going to do?”

  Hattie sighed. “We’ll just have to break inside.”

  “How? Alan said it’s virtually indestructible.”

  “Except in the hands of a six-year-old.”

  “Good point.”

  “Let’s gather our tools and see what we’ve got.”

  Five minutes later they surveyed their options. A metal ruler, a pair of pliers, a hammer, a flathead screwdriver and a nail file.

  “Okay,” Hattie said, “so we’re not Bob Vila. Let’s try the nail file.”

  Jo slid the pointed tip under one of the latches and tried to pry it loose. Nothing. One by one, they exhausted the tools. After ten minutes, the briefcase remained intact, but Jo had one smashed thumb, three broken nails and a gash across her palm.

  “That blood will never come out,” Hattie said mournfully, fingering Jo’s crimson-spotted crepe jacket.

  “Hattie!” Jo exclaimed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. “Help me think of something.”

  “Do you care about ruining the briefcase?”

  “No,” Jo admitted. “I’ll think of something to tell Alan.”

  “Well, it’s a risk,” Hattie said.

  “What?”

  A few minutes later, Jo sat behind the wheel of her car, shaking her head. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Okay, Jo,” Hattie yelled. “Back up!”

  Jo put the car in reverse, then cringed when she bumped up and over the briefcase. She stopped and waited while Hattie bent to inspect it. “No, try again.”

  Swallowing hard, she pulled up, then backed over it again.

  After the seventh time, Hattie squinted and nodded. “I think it’s giving a little. Do you have a crowbar in the trunk?”

  Jo nodded, sick to her stomach. When Hattie lifted the briefcase, she nearly choked. The beautiful, nearly seamless lizard hide was tire-crossed and scarred. Numb, she pulled herself from the car and opened the trunk.

  “Ms. Montgomery?” Monroe Patterson yelled from the door of the building. “Is everything all right?”

  Jo hid the briefcase behind the trunk lid and smiled. “I’ll be right there, Mr. Patterson.”

  He nodded and disappeared inside.

  Hattie jammed the crowbar into the tiny opening between the two halves of the battered briefcase and twisted hard. The latches groaned, then popped under the strain, the lid bouncing up with a sickening tear. A familiar hardened ball of orange modeling clay rolled out and onto the pavement.

  “Wha-lah!” Hattie exclaimed, gasping for breath.

  “Wha-lah,” Jo mumbled, grabbing the diskette and the papers she needed, then dashing back inside. “Here we are,” she said cheerily, dimming the lights before the Pattersons noticed her dirty, streaked and spotted suit.

  At least the presentation went smoothly—a little too smoothly, Jo thought. Halfway through, Mrs. Patterson announced they had seen enough and asked to see the contract. Five minutes later, they shook on the deal, the Pattersons signed a hefty check for the advance, then walked toward the door.

  “Once again,” Mr. Patterson said solemnly, “please tell your husband how much we regret today’s accident, and how pleased we are to be doing business with you.”

  After they left, Jo sat slumped in her desk chair staring at the check, riddled with guilt. The advance was more than enough to cover her late loan payment.

  She sighed, leaning her head back. Facts were facts—she’d won the coveted account based on a series of lies. She’d saved her business but, in the process, had flushed her integrity down the toilet. How could she face John on Wednesday?

  8

  “DID YOU GET the Patterson account?” John asked.

  Jo stood in the doorway of her office. “Y-yes,” she stammered, her pulse racing. Thanks to you and your kids.

  “Good,” he said, flashing her a white smile. “Then we’ll have something to celebrate Friday night.”

  Her stomach dived at the thought of the double date, then she waved him toward the meeting room to show him the results of her design i
deas for his home. He walked so close to her, she could hear the crisp swish of his jeans as he moved. He looked earthy and handsome in a snug ribbed white henley shirt tucked into his loose waistband, no belt. Jo stumbled on a carpet fiber and he grabbed her arm, unnerving her further when he maintained his hold on her until they entered the meeting room.

  “Nice,” he murmured, scoping the room. He pulled a seat close to where she’d be sitting in front of the computer.

  “Um, the view is better in the back,” she murmured, pointing to the wall screen only a few feet in front of them. “This is a little close.”

  “This is fine.” He inched his seat even closer.

  She dimmed the lights with a handheld switch, and with a deep breath launched the presentation.

  He emitted a low “Wow” as the rooms in his home came alive on the big screen, the walls painted and papered, the furniture functional and smart. He nodded, impressed with each room on the first floor, then smiled his approval when they viewed the kids’ rooms.

  She tensed when his bedroom suite appeared on-screen. Through the magic of animation, she’d designed the room around one theme: inviting. She’d elevated the bed with a platform so the piece dominated the room. A black and grapecolored comforter was turned down to reveal matching sheets, piled high with large, deep pillows. She’d arranged a dark-wood entertainment center along the opposite wall to house a television and stereo equipment. With the press of a few keys, jazz sounded low and sexy from her computer, giving the illusion that the sound came from the stereo speakers featured in his bedroom. Deep upholstered chairs punctuated the open spaces, along with low tables and tall lamps.

  “I knew I’d like it,” he said, giving her a warm smile in the dim light.

  The sitting room had been converted into a pseudo library, with glass-fronted bookshelves and a chess table. A fire glowed in the fireplace between matching reading chairs, flanked by an overstuffed couch. He nodded, obviously pleased. Jo progressed through the bathroom, then opened the doors to the large walk-in closet. She’d inserted an organized system of racks, drawers and shelves. A man’s wardrobe hung on one side, a woman’s on the other. John looked at her, eyebrows raised, an amused expression on his face.

  Jo blushed at the implication of the redesigned bedroom suite—rooms that could be comfortably shared. “You seemed to be worried about, um, the rooms not being too masculine,” she reminded him.

  “Oh, I’m more than pleased,” he assured her, then leaned near her ear. “And do you think a woman would be cozy in these surroundings?”

  She scanned the planes of his. handsome face and decided that even Pamela Kaminski might forgo her flamboyant taste and aversion to kids for a chance to conjugate with this man. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” she croaked, staring straight ahead, then turned up the light. “That’s it.”

  John squinted and nodded. “When can you start?”

  “Don’t you want to see how much all of this is going to cost you?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  Jo walked her fingers through several papers on her desk, then withdrew one and handed it to John.

  He frowned. “Are you sure this is right?”

  Jo bit her bottom lip. “If it’s more than you had in mind—”

  “No,” he cut in and lifted his gaze to hers. “I’ve been in this business long enough to know what a job like this should cost, Jo. This figure looks suspiciously like wholesale—you can’t be making any money.”

  She shuffled the remaining papers nervously. She already felt guilty about the wealth she’d be gaining from the Pattersons’ account—she wasn’t about to capitalize on his project, as well. “I—I’m giving you a preferred-customer discount.”

  He laughed. “I’m flattered, but I wouldn’t accept this kind of cut unless you were my wife.”

  Her gaze bounced to his and held there.

  His smile was slow and sweet, and oh so tempting. With a slow movement, he turned her swivel chair so that she faced him. “Of course, if this price comes with a marriage proposal, I’ll consider it,” he said.

  Warmth flooded her limbs, melting her muscles and loosening her tongue. “The price or the proposal?” she whispered.

  His hands stumbled along the table, then came up with the dimmer control. Jo inhaled sharply because he leaned closer as the lights lowered.

  “Are you sure your aunt won’t be back for a while?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” she breathed. Dusk descended around them.

  “No flying Frisbees around?”

  “No.” She could barely make out his face.

  “No spillable hot drinks within reaching distance?”

  “No.” Blackness enveloped them.

  “You mean it’s just us?”

  “Just us.” She couldn’t see him, but the breath left her lungs when his lips descended on hers hungrily. Jo lifted her hands to both sides of his face, to meet him, to guide him in his exploration of her mouth. With a groan, he shifted and lifted her to his lap, surrounding her with his warm arms, kneading her skin with his big hands. His fingers grazed her neck, then skimmed down her back to span her waist. Jo arched into him, biting at his tongue, clicking her teeth against his.

  She realized they’d been careening toward this moment since the second their eyes had met. Her hands clawed at his shoulders, his back, drawing him closer to her. His hand slipped up the front of her untucked blouse, and she moaned at the feel of his fingers burning through the flimsy fabric of her bra. He captured a hardened nipple between forefinger and thumb, and Jo shivered in response.

  His mouth traveled up her cheek and over her eyelids, punctuated by his hushed whisper of her name. “Jo…Jo…Jo.” At the sound of his desire for her, physical need billowed hot within her, stealing her body’s ability to support her weight. She melted into him, driving her fingers into his thick hair, and urging his mouth lower.

  He clasped her hips and twisted her around so that she was straddling him. His mouth moved with greater intensity, nipping at her collarbone and nuzzling the top of her cleavage as low as her buttons would allow. Jo strained into him, desire for him crowding out any rational thought. All she wanted was for his hands, his mouth, to be on her skin. She tore at the buttons of her blouse, freeing them, inviting him to explore further. Within seconds, he found the front closure of her bra. Beneath her loosened blouse, she felt the silky straps of her bra fall down her shoulders.

  With another groan, he sought her mouth again for a hard kiss. A rush of cool air whipped across her bare nipples an instant before he claimed both breasts with his warm hands. Desire stabbed her low and moisture gathered between her thighs. She moaned into his mouth, he breathed hot air into hers.

  Jo had never felt such exquisite pleasure. She felt alive, on fire, desirable, wanton. He dragged his mouth from hers, breathing her name against her skin as he moved lower to capture the peak of her breast between his lips.

  Jo’s groan of approval coincided with a loud knock at the door.

  She jerked her head up, her back ramrod-straight. Panic bolted through her as reality came crashing down. The enormity of their indiscretion settled around her even as she struggled to her feet and fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” She snapped on the lights to speed her frenzied dressing.

  John blinked against the bright light and sighed heavily in exasperation. “Is this a conspiracy?”

  “Jo,” Alan’s voice sounded low and polite through the door.

  “Oh my God.” Dread washed over her, and her knees nearly buckled. “If it is, now my boyfriend’s in on it,” she whispered frantically.

  “Oh, great,” he murmured, slowly raking a hand through his disheveled hair.

  She straightened her clothing, the blood pounding through her ears. Sweat popped out along her hairline. John’s lazy perusal of her from his seated position unnerved her. After smoothing one hand over her blouse, she stepped forward, raised the he
m of her shirt and wiped her lipstick from John’s mouth with a hard swipe.

  “Ouch,” he complained, holding a hand to his lip.

  Jo ignored him and walked toward the door.

  “Wait!” he whispered hoarsely.

  She turned back, her eyebrows raised. “What?”

  He sighed, then pointed to his crotch. The long, hard ridge of his erection was painfully evident.

  She waved her arms. “Make it go away.”

  His face was incredulous. “I can’t just say abracadabra and, presto, it’s gone!”

  “Jo?” Alan asked through the door, knocking lightly.

  “Just a minute, Alan,” she said carefully. “We’re just winding down in here.” She turned back to John. “Do something!” she hissed.

  “I have to stop thinking about you for it to go away,” he said calmly.

  “Well?”

  “Well, I can’t stop thinking about you while you’re still standing there.” He rose to his feet, the bulge still as imposing. He lifted his hands palms up, and smiled. “In fact, I can’t stop thinking about you no matter what.”

  Her heart flipped over. “John—” She stopped. “Stay right here.”

  Trembling, she slipped from the room and closed the door behind her. Alan stood across the hall, hands in the pockets of his designer suit, critiquing a sculpture sitting on an antique sofa table. Guilt and sadness bolted through her as he turned around and smiled. Dependable, predictable Alan.

  “Hi,” he said, walking toward her.

  “Hi,” she said, lifting her cheek for his quick kiss.

  He sniffed. “New cologne?”

  She stiffened, then waved her hand in front of her nose and lowered her voice. “My client is wearing so much cologne, I’ve been choking through the presentation.”

  “Sorry to bother you,” he said. “Hattie wasn’t around, and I didn’t realize you were busy. Is it the Pattersons?”

  “No,” she said, then turned when Alan’s eyes focused beyond her. She swallowed. John was walking toward them and, thankfully, it appeared that he’d managed to stop thinking about her.