by Tara Brent
Anyway, my big break came along when I was handling a simple little affair; just a couple of kids, really. Middle-class families. Nothing fancy; that was the plan, anyway...
Only thing is, the groom was a sensational baseball player. He got drafted by the Padres in a late round, signed to a no big deal minor league contract. They probably wouldn’t even have signed him, but he was a local kid. So he was known around the county, and they figured what the hell.
But between the day he proposed, until a week before the wedding, he just caught fire. I mean, an inferno. He just started hitting the hide off the baseball. Maybe it was the challenge of the competition. Or maybe he was just so excited about being in love. Anyway, they brought him up to the majors, and he got even better. Sensational.
And of course, the press went nuts over him. Big, handsome guy, marrying an incredibly sweet, and admittedly very hot, young lady. So this modest little wedding turned into the media event of the season. And just like that, everyone who was anyone wanted yours truly, Kira Ricci, for their event.
Fast forward to now. I’m right in the middle of a really complicated wedding at a country club which shall go nameless in Rancho Santa Fe. Totally grand, international jet-setters at every one of a hundred tables. Chef flown in from France. Wine from Italy. They even had a sushi master from Tokyo, just to do appetizers. And there’s little old me to coordinate all this madness.
Well, me and Jimmy. He’s my right hand. And left hand. And a lot of other parts. Although not as many as he might wish. There’s nothing Jimmy doesn’t like about a woman. Except for the competition for a cute guy, that is.
Jimmy is a little bit what you might call overt about who he is, and what he does. The only time he’s in the closet is when he’s getting dressed. And boy, he’s got some closet. Jimmy has exquisite taste, and an encyclopedic hard drive of a mind, which can call up the perfect vendor to supply the ideal detail for every aspect of an event. He’s also a cut throat bargainer and a smooth-talking salesman who can find a way to close on anything. He’s thirty-one, with his perfect hair, straight white teeth, a handsome jaw line with just the right amount of five o’clock shadow. He’s immaculate in his reliably stylish outfits, with a perfect body to hang designer clothes on. Tall, lean, not skinny, but without enough body fat to render a pat of butter.
Which, truth be told, is something that certainly distinguishes him from me. I am not exactly what you would call buff. Don’t get me wrong, I’m in great shape. I can swim for miles. I can run in all the charity marathons you can sign me up for. I can hammer a golf ball almost three hundred yards, slam an ace tennis serve, even shoot a three-pointer on occasion. I’m really quite a jock, and always have been.
But I am definitely not your standard swimsuit model.
You might call me heavy, but that doesn’t really give you the picture. I’m not what you’d picture if someone said, oh, she’s heavy. Anything but. I’m big, I’m strong, and I am... well, a curvy girl. Big curves. Full-figured, some call it. Big in the bosom department, wide in the hips, and with plenty of junk in the trunk. Plus size, all the way around. Bigger than life, I’ve heard it said.
But, and I say this with all due modesty, I can pull it off. There’s no ‘problem area’. Everything is in proportion. There is simply plenty of everything. Am I the poster girl for the slim-figured Barbie look? Not a chance. Am I your typical, air-brushed beauty pageant babe? No way, and wouldn’t want to be. Am I every man’s cup of tea? Nope.
Am I perfectly happy with my body, and how I look?
You bet I am.
Anyway, here we are, almost at the end of this three-ring circus in Rancho Santa Fe. The dinners served and cleared, the orchestra is wafting romance into the air, the teenagers are prowling the tables, snatching any booze that someone isn’t clutching in their paw. And now, it is time for the cake (flown in from New Orleans) to make its debut. Then I get a beep – Jimmy. Texting me to get back to the catering station, double quick.
Two things to panic over. First is the cake. Eight layers. And damn near six feet tall. Or should be. Only it’s not. Because it is so rich and soft and wonderful that it can’t support its own weight anymore. It is starting to compress. That’s the first disaster.
The second is all Jimmy’s fault.
“It’s about the Sebastian Okoye wedding.” I know the one he means. Nobody who knocks around with the horsey and yacht crowd doesn’t know about the Okoye family. Now, there is rich. Then, there’s filthy rich, but way up in the stratosphere, there’s Okoye rich. Filthy rich can buy anything they want, but what the merely Filthy Rich really want is what Okoye rich already had last year. Okoye rich is the kind of riché that nouveau can only dream of.
“Yeah?” I mumble, trying to focus on how to get this cake out there before it collapses into itself like a Florida sink hole. “Williams and Bartholomew’s doing the gig, right?”
“Not anymore,” Jimmy says with a wicked smile. “Somehow, the Okoye party got the impression that W and B had a reputation for certain; social intolerances that are a little bit too... Teutonic?”
“No kidding,” I say. “What tipped them off? The swastika cuff links?”
“I think it was the Best Man? No, wait. Not the Best Man. One of the ushers. I think.”
“Digressing.”
“Right. Sorry. Anyway, he’s someone in the wedding party.”
“This is going somewhere?”
Yes. Anyway, he’s a very political fellow. Jason Mattis?”
“L. B.G.T.Q. Jason Mattis?” I’m surprised. Jason Mattis cut his teeth fighting Prop Eight. He helped get Mike Pence almost run out of Indianapolis on a rail. He can root out a bigot like pulling turnips.
“I didn’t know Jason is a friend of yours.”
“Don’t I wish. Besides, he’s married now.”
“I still seem to be missing the connection. How did you know Jason Mattis blew the whistle on The Brothers Homophobe?”
“Well, you know my friend Kyle?”
“Was he the spelunker?”
“That was Cody. No, Kyle’s a lawyer. Anywho... I happen to know he and Jason are old friends. So I was talking to him about a brunch he’s planning, and this little tiff with Williams and Bartholomew happened to come up.”
“You skunked them.”
“Moi? Heaven forbid,” he fluttered with total innocence.
“Jimmy, did you get them fired?”
“Absolutely not, but I do keep my ear to the ground for opportunity.”
“You torpedo a competitor, it comes around eventually.”
“So... You don’t want us to take over the Okoye wedding?”
“No, I don’t” I’m trying to discourage his penchant for freelance sabotage. Although he is damned effective at marketing. “How soon is it, anyway?”
“We’d have almost three weeks to...”
“Three weeks?”
“Not quite. Two and change.”
“Are you insane? Three weeks to plan the biggest...”
“It’s not that bad, just family and some friends.”
“How many friends? A thousand?”
“Well, they only sent out six hundred invitations. But you know, plus ones, and all. However, we could handle it.”
I know that it would be nuts to take on a wing-ding that big with two weeks to pull it together. And messing up an event like that? That would be Career suicide.
“Look. I don’t have time to explain the ten billion reasons that idea is terrible. Right now we have other fish to stink from the head. Jesus, look at this cake. It’s starting to bulge like a bad hemorrhoid.”
“I didn’t know there were good hemorrhoids.”
“We are screwed here, Jimmy. I need to come up with...” I cut off my own thought, as an idea hits me and pushes everything else aside.
“What?” Jimmy asks. “I know that look.”
I walk away, heading into the herb garden behind the country club’s fancy-shmancy restaurant.
“New Year’s Day. The floats.”
“Floats?”
“Pasadena? The Rose Bowl Parade?”
“Not following you, Kira.”
“The floats are all covered in rose petals. It’s... magical.”
“Take your word on that. It would take a lot more than magic to get me out of bed before noon on New Year’s Day.”
It takes me working with Moira (catering genius, absolute artist) and four of her wait staff gentlemen to hoist that gigantic cake onto a big rolling cart and wrestle it out to the garden. “Start plucking,” I tell them.
In fifteen minutes we have stripped every damn petal off three dozen American Beauties. Not to mention Hibiscus (they have a cranberry flavor), Lavender, and some violets.
“What are these yellow ones?” Jimmy asks.
“Pansies”
He gives a little hmph to that.
But Moira? She’s a Picasso with icing, fondant, and flowers. It’s not just a beautiful wedding cake when she’s done. It is a magnificent tribute to art, nature, and fertility. This cake doesn’t just beg to be eaten, it inspires awe.
I don’t inspire anything, however. As Moira and the lads trundle the cake off to be admired and demolished, I realize I am caked myself, with mud. And a hot, sweaty mess, but I’ve dodged another bullet.
I notice Jimmy standing around. Checking his watch. Nervous.
“Kira? Maybe you should just... clean up a little?”
“Oh? Really? I never thought of that.”
“I mean, quickly? Like, now.”
What is he not telling me, the little weasel? My stare melts him. “Spit it out,” I say.
“The Okoye job. Uuh, the brother, Blake’s his name. Wants to meet you to go over some things.”
I’ve made it back to the catering truck, where I paw around until I find a clean set of cook’s whites. Way big and baggie, but clean is clean.
“Okay, fine,” I say, mostly to shut him up. “I still think it’s going to be way too much, too soon. But set up a meet, and I’ll talk to him.”
“I already did.”
I start to strip off my muddy outfit. A little immodest, I know, but the catering trucks are parked off behind the club, around by the swimming pool area. Which gives me an idea.
“Where are you going now?” Jimmy looks nervous.
“Just a quick dip to rinse off.”
“Now?”
The pool is huge and beautiful. The area is deserted, and there are only the pool lights to illuminate it. I put the clean whites on a deck chair, and strip down to my bra and panties. Yes, in front of Jimmy. Like he would give a shit if a woman was buck naked and alone with him.
I slip into the pool. The water is gently warm, but it helps cool me off.
Although I notice, Jimmy does look a little bit unnerved.
But, I’m all cleaned off and no worse for wear. Although there is a moderate cloud of mud diffusing into the pool water. Oh, well. That’s what pool filters are for. Besides, I figure nobody’s going to go swimming at this hour anyway. “Grab me a towel?” I say to Jimmy.
Jimmy rushes over to grab one from the towel locker, over near the tall lifeguard chair. He hurries back with it, as I scurry out of the pool and up onto the deck. My bra and panties are practically transparent now that they are soaked. Jimmy holds up the towel, to block any view of me in my dripping wet nothingness. Decent of him. Suspiciously so.
He also checks his watch again.
“What’s your problem?”
“Nothing. Get dressed, get dressed.”
“What’s the hurry? Why are you getting all hot and bothered?.”
Behind us, I hear a man politely clear his throat. “...Er hello.” The voice behind us is a deep baritone. It belongs to the tall, dark shape stepping out of the shadows. I take a step back, stunned. The deck is slippery, and I almost go down. I catch myself, but the man moved with the quickness of an athlete, reaching out to offer his help.
“Are you okay?” He’s trying to look me in the eye, but I can see the smile on his lips, as he gives me the glance. I expect to see... I don’t know what. It is hard to read his face or gauge what he really thinks. But whatever he’s feeling, it’s not the slightly disappointed look I’m used to when a great looking guy is evaluating my body with his eyes. It is obvious this one likes what he sees. Matter of fact, so do I. He ain’t chopped liver, this one.
Jimmy breaks the spell, “Uh, Kira? This is Blake Okoye.”
I will remove several of Jimmy’s internal organs later, probably with that razor sharp carving knife Moira got in Tokyo and keeps handy in the catering truck. For now, I just stand and drip.
Blake tries to make a polite remark. “Wow. Quite an operation you run here. Jimmy didn’t want me to come over while you’re so busy, but I just wanted to see you in operation. A peek behind the scenes, you know?”
“Well, you sure got your peek.” I snatch the towel back from Jimmy, and try to wrap it around my ample near-nakedness.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarras...” That’s when he hits the same slick patch of deck that almost took me down. As he slides in a stagger, I grab him tightly, help to steady him. He doesn’t seem to mind that I take my time making sure he remains erect. Standing that is. As I step free, I skid again, just a little. This time, he grabs for me.
But we both topple over, right into the swimming pool.
Chapter 2: Blake Okoye
Don’t ask me why, but for some reason, grabbing a billionaire in a bear hug while I am wearing nothing but some admittedly skimpy panties and a bra (which has its work cut out, just barely containing my “generous” boobs), all of it soaking wet and nearly transparent, did not result in the immediate death penalty. And neither did knocking Blake Okoye ass over teakettle into the swimming pool. Where said over-worked brassiere didn’t actually come all the way off – but did fail its mission of containment, as said ample boobies make a dash for Illinois, and freedom, springing forth over the top of the cups.
As we each thrash and splash our way out of the water and back onto the pool deck, Jimmy dashes off to grab half a dozen more big, fluffy towels. But before I’m able to wrap myself like a crimson-faced mummy, I have to take the damn bra off altogether.
As I pointed out before, I’m anything but your typically modest human being. So it isn’t the mere exposure of any particular part of my surface area that causes my blushing embarrassment. What shames me is the questionable judgment I am showing by using the swimming pool as my personal bathtub. Along with the unconventional approach to my first professional interaction with a potential six-figure client.
I’m now babbling in effusively apologetic overdrive, gesturing wildly with my hands, as I usually do when I get excited. In retrospect, a more conventional use of my hands and arms might have been to provide some cover for my plainly visible and unencumbered upper thoracic region. That might have allowed Blake to focus his attention on my plaintive appeal for a chance to redeem our introduction.
But I miss this opportunity to attempt some modest concealment. And, he is too busy staring at my boobs to hear a word anyway. No, his gaze is still absorbing my overwhelming display of erect nipples, wet camel toe undy region, and so forth. I can tell because his mouth is almost as wide open as his eyes. Until the none-too-soon arrival of Jimmy, and the towels, allows me a moment of recovery. It’s not until I wrap the more dubious exposures that it occurs to Blake to stop gaping. He makes an appropriate show of averting his eyes. A gentleman; although late, but still better than never.
He even mutters “Oh... I... sorry, please. I didn’t mean to stare...”
“God! No, my fault. I’m so embarrassed—”
“No, I’m the one...”
“...can’t believe I did something so...“
“I had no right to surprise you at work“
“This isn’t the way I normally work, believe me.”
“No?” he says, allowing a slight smile to curl the corner of his lips. “In a way, that’s... a shame. If you’ll forgive me.”
“Forgive you? I’d rather just zap your memory with one of those Men In Black gizmos. Wipe your hard drive clean.”
Now his smile grows genuinely radiant. The sensual lips that have my attention still seem deeply attractive. But the dazzling dentition revealed gives this magnetic mouth an even more powerful draw. The kind that takes all my effort of will to restrain the urge to kiss him hard on that sexy mouth.
I notice how we are both panting. Odd, because it’s certainly not due to the physical exertion of climbing out of the pool. I’m in better shape than that. And, it’s very obvious, so is he.
This becomes even more obvious as he removes the tailored sport coat, and peels off the perfectly fitted custom shirt beneath it. I feel goosebumps pushing up like April flowers, as a flush passes through me. The sight of his rock hard pecs, and the light wisp of fur running down from his navel, to disappear into the mystery below his belt, sets my imagination off in a dozen directions. None of which would be welcome in polite society.
By the way, that’s not any big surprise.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m no push-over. In fact, I am very discreet about the level and frequency of my sexual interactions. To be honest about this, I kind of have to be. I keep my urges under pretty constant control. Because, if I didn’t fight back against the frequent, insistent messages of inflamed desire that cascade through me at will when I feel an attraction, I think I might be too busy screwing to remember to breath. Like I said, I’m built on a grand scale. Big and strong physically, and just as big in my appetites. At the table, and in bed. Strong needs, big desires. It’s just who I am, and I deal with it.
But this man, this dripping Adonis with wandering eyes, has me feeling like the juices might just pop out of my skin. His hair is black and curly. His eyes are both dark and bright all at once, if that makes sense. His arms and shoulders appear as hard and solid as teak. Which is a good way to describe the beautiful, rich tone of his skin color, too. I know very little about his family background, other than his parentage is mixed. I’m not even sure which side contributed what genes from which race. All I know is the result. It is an absolutely gorgeous and convincing argument in favor of hybrid vigor. In short, this man looks so hot I just hope Jimmy doesn’t dive on him before I get my chance.
