Lucky Fall (9 page)

“Hello,” I said, trying to coax fake cheeriness in my voice.

“Hi, Marley. It’s Kathy Carver,” she replied, as if I didn’t know. She was all business except for the intermittent cough between words. “I need you to do something for me.”

Oh boy, this couldn’t be good. Kathy Carver didn’t like me very much, so the only plausible explanation for such an early phone call was some sort of grunt work she was pushing off her plate and onto mine. On more than one occasion, she’d reminded me that she was an executive assistant while I was just a lowly assistant, although no such distinction in titles really existed at our small company.

“What can I do for you?” I surprised myself with the fake level of enthusiasm in my voice.

“I need you to pick up the consultant at the airport. You know, the one that’s going to clean house.” My face fell with the reminder that the dreaded consultant was coming today. The whole office was buzzing about the whiz kid from New York Mr Henley had hired to turn around our company. The consensus was that he would fire all our asses and move our production to China. Actually, it was fire
almost
everyone. People like Kathy were probably safe, but her not so subtle warning let me know I was not.

I worked at an athletic apparel company that also sold a budding line of women’s clothing. Times were tight, and although we had carved out a niche market, everyone was worried about our economic outlook. The rumour was that this consultant was a last-ditch effort by Mr Henley to improve our profits. I was completely rooting for him, even if it meant I’d lose my job, which was most likely anyway.

“He needs a ride from the airport?” I realised immediately how stupid my question sounded when that was what Kathy had just told me.

I heard the sigh on the other line, supporting my own conclusion that my question was redundant.

“Yes, Marley, he needs a ride. I was supposed to do it, but I’m sick. I need you to get to the airport, pick him up and bring him to our office. Can you handle that?”

I thought about it for a second. Really, her question was…are you such an idiot that you can’t do this?

“Um, sure I can do that. What time is his flight coming in?”

“In an hour.”

I glanced towards the clock, tightening my grip on the phone. The airport was almost an hour away.

“I’ll email you his flight info. I have to go now. I’m really sick.” For emphasis, she ended the call with a few more coughs.

I ran to my laptop and printed the email as Stevie walked into my room.

“Who were you talking to?” she asked, placing my errant clothes in the laundry basket against her hip.

“Kathy Carver,” I said, piling a few additional garments into the bulging basket. Stevie cast me her famous eye roll that could probably cut through ice—not owing to the Kathy Carver call but because I had so many dirty clothes in my room. Yeah, I could be neater. Stevie was the epitome of neat. What’s more, she was a complete fashion plate. She had an uncanny ability to pair not just colours, but patterns together. Today, she was wearing a red and white fitted striped shirt with a grey pencil skirt and argyle hose. It sounds weird, but she pulled it off like the true creative person she was. Stevie’s a graphic artist, and although she wasn’t required to dress so formally for work, she always did. Her long brown hair was up in a Tortoise-shell barrette and it even looked like she’d deliberately picked her black rimmed Prada glasses for this outfit.

“What did she want, Marley?” Stevie put down the laundry basket to pet Van Morrison, her cat. I hated that cat. It was mutual. Stevie’s boyfriend—well now fiancé—Adam, had bought him for her, because he felt there was too much oestrogen in our household. That cat followed Stevie everywhere. He also loved my younger sister Billie, and our mother. It was me he despised, even when I was being nice and feeding him treats. He would accept my offering, arching his back, showing off his orange fur in my direction, lulling me into a false sense of security. Then, just when I petted him, Van Morrison would hiss, claw my hand and scamper away.

Stupid cat.

“I have to go pick up the consultant.” Stevie knew about him. We called him the consultant because I had no idea what his name was. Everything was supposed to be top secret, but my best friend Dillon worked with me and always had the good gossip. It was Dillon that had found out the guy was some sort of business guru and had apparently saved many companies in crisis.

“Seriously, Marley? Are you wearing that?” Of course, Stevie would ask this question. We were as close as two sisters could be, but our fashion senses differed greatly. I liked to wear comfortable—what Stevie referred to as ‘boyish’—clothes. My wardrobe mostly consisted of flannel shirts, jeans and T-shirts.

“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, assessing my khakis and plaid button-down shirt.

“Do you want him to think you’re a slob?”

“I look fine. I’m in the dress code.”

Stevie rolled her eyes, “So? Don’t you want to impress him? Maybe he won’t be so quick to fire you then.”

“Stevie, my days are numbered either way.”

“Dress up…just this once.” Her voice got sing-songy as she uttered the next words, “I’ll let you borrow my Louboutins.”

My mouth dropped open. Okay, I’ll admit I’m a twenty-five-year-old tomboy, but I’m still a girl at heart. I liked to dress up occasionally and look good, usually in Stevie’s clothes. She was very generous with her wardrobe, and we had identical body types. She was, however, prickly when it came to her designer stilettos. A chance to wear Louboutins made my mouth water just a little.

“Deal, but I have to hurry. I’m already going to be late.”

We ran into Stevie’s room, an area of orderliness, which contrasted drastically with my den of chaos. She went to her closet and handed me a slim-line black skirt, a fitted jacket and a pale pink shell top. She placed the shoes on top, somewhat reverently.

“Pink, really?”

“Pink is perfect. It was practically made for your crazy shade of blonde hair and those pale blue eyes.”

“This is a little much, Stevie. Why can’t I just wear the shoes?”

“You’re kidding right? You want to wear my Louboutins with that outfit? Are you trying to insult the great Christian Louboutin himself?”

I looked down at the pile in my arms doubtfully. “I don’t have any pantyhose,” I replied in weak protest.

“Want to borrow some?”

“Yuck, I’m not borrowing your pantyhose. I know you don’t wear panties with them.”

Stevie put her finger under her chin in deep contemplation, as if she was trying to solve the economic problems of a third-world country. She suddenly smiled and snapped her fingers at me. “Do you remember that garter belt and hose set I got you for your birthday?”

I grimaced. “You mean the gag gift?”

“No, you idiot, it was a real gift. Wear those. It’ll be fabulous.”

I thought about arguing, but Stevie looked determined and I was already running late. I ran into my room and assembled myself in an amazing fifteen minutes. Stevie ran blush and eye shadow across my face, despite my protests. I had already put makeup on, but apparently it was too light. When I finally looked in the mirror, I had to admit I was impressed. The outfit was snug enough to hug my curves perfectly without being too tight or short. I pulled my hair up to twist it into a knot, but before I could fasten it, Stevie grasped my hand.

“Your hair is so pretty. Don’t hide it,” she commanded, smoothing out my locks. I didn’t quite agree with her sentiment. I had thick, shoulder-length blondish hair that some people referred to as ‘dirty blonde’. It was like, five colours, really. People asked me if I had highlights all the time, but my hair was naturally uncommitted to a certain colour. I stared into the mirror, allowing myself a brief moment of admiration. I was no siren, but the pouty lips and long eyelashes inherited from my mother provided a subtle sexiness. I would call Stevie classically beautiful, whereas I was cute in that tomboy kind of way. Growing up, some boys had said I was prettier than Stevie—I guess in the same way guys prefer Jennifer Aniston to Angelina Jolie…not Brad Pitt mind you, but some guys. We never fought about it, though. It was never a competition, especially since I wasn’t very interested in charming the opposite sex.

“I don’t know about this, Stevie. I think I’m overdoing it. I don’t want this guy to think the company sent an escort to pick him up.”

She rolled her eyes. “You look totally professional, not slutty. Seriously, Marley, professional doesn’t mean matronly. You’re a pretty girl. Don’t be afraid to show off what your mama gave you.”

I laughed. “Yeah, looks like you got more from mama than I did.” I glanced towards the clock and gasped. I had to go. I snatched the email from the printer, hugged Stevie and thanked her for her tutelage before bounding down the stairs. My mother, thankfully, had coffee waiting for me.

“Can’t talk, Mom, got to go. I have to pick up this cheapskate consultant at the airport,” I said hastily, grabbing the travel mug she handed me.

“How do you know he’s a cheapskate, sweetie?”

I shrugged my shoulders, smiling at my lovable mother. “What else would he be when he can’t even spring for a rental car?”

“Okay, sweetheart, let me know what you think of the sweetener I put in your coffee. It’s chocolate almond milk this time.”

I stifled my groan. My mom had become a vegan a few months ago and had managed to force the lifestyle on us. We all loved her so much that we suffered silently while she found herself through food.

“Marley!” Stevie yelled, standing at the top of the stairs.

I turned to her, letting out an exasperated grunt. “What now?”

“Don’t forget to clean your car. If he’s riding in it, you want to make sure it’s presentable.”

Damn! Why didn’t I think of that?
My car was a complete sty. I jumped into my little Honda, cursing myself as I drove with a lead foot to the nearest car wash. After my car was thoroughly bathed, I pulled over and started vacuuming the insides, ignoring the catcalls of the carwash boys. It wasn’t smart for a girl to be vacuuming her car in a short skirt and high heels. I noticed a speck of lint on the driver’s seat floor, which I had missed with the hose when I was on that side. I leaned all the way over from the passenger side to vacuum it up. Instead of sucking up the lint, I managed to knock over my travel mug. Almond-flavoured coffee spilled everywhere.

Crap!
The hot coffee rolled in rivulets down the passenger seat, drowning the email with the flight info. I ran around like a lunatic looking for towels to soak up the mess. The car wash guys took pity on me and found me some. I guess a short skirt can come in handy at the right moments. I wiped down the seat, but it was still damp.

Screw it!
Let this jackass, cheapskate consultant sit in the wet spot. It served him right for ruining an otherwise mundane Monday for me. I placed the soaked email on the dashboard, hoping feebly it would dry. I jumped into my car then proceeded with an even heavier lead foot all the way to the airport.

I parked in the intimidating parking garage, cursing repeatedly until I finally found a spot. With a deep breath, I realised I had no idea what this consultant looked like. I snatched the email off the dash. It was still damp and part of the paper didn’t lift completely. I tried to piece it together, but it had torn right through his name. I stared at the smudged, ripped letters in complete disbelief. I couldn’t very well go through the airport and yell out, ‘Mr Cheapskate consultant. Your ride is here!’

I put it out of my mind, running into the airport and praying I didn’t trip or break a precious heel on Stevie’s Louboutins. By the time I got into the passenger pick up area, I was a panting, wheezing mess. I looked around the bustling lobby, trying to regain my composure and hoping it would be obvious who I was supposed to pick up.

It wasn’t.

The airport looked like an orphanage for business executives. There were tons of suit-clad men talking on their cell phones, working on their laptops or just walking around. Was this for real? Where had they all come from? Did a stork deposit them at the United Airlines terminal at O’Hare? At least the view was nice. Although I wasn’t a dressy kind of girl, I did enjoy a man in a good suit, and this was an all you can eat breakfast buffet of hot men in suits.

One in particular made me gasp for a deeper breath. It felt like those movies where the girl and guy catch each other’s eyes and the soft music plays while they exchange lovesick looks across a crowded room. That’s complete bullshit. My reaction to this man was so strong it frightened me, but it was completely sexual. There was no music, except for the drastic beating of my heart, which was not soft at all. He bit his lower lip and I clenched my thighs, aware of the sudden dampness emanating between my legs. Sex was real—tangible, visceral and primitive. Love was mystical, elusive, vague and obscure. Sex was atmospheric, but love was ethereal. I chose sex every time.

I stared at him a little too long and he held my gaze, which did not aid in my attempts to control my breathing. The planes of his face appeared chiselled with a strong jawline that was clean-shaven. His sandy brown hair forked effortlessly across his forehead. It was neat, but not slicked back or groomed perfectly, which I liked. It was a head of hair that could sustain a friendly tousle, but still look flawless. I couldn’t see his eyes, but I imagined they were sexy like the rest of him. He wore a charcoal suit with an emerald-green tie and looked comfortable in the tailored fit. A suit like that coupled with the designer briefcase led me to conclude he was wealthy and definitely not my cheapskate. He was talking on his cell phone, but even from this distance, I could see he was studying me with the same intensity. I looked away quickly, trying to hide my lustful leering.