Love in Lingerie(2)

“Both.” He pushes to his feet and extends a hand. “Thank you for coming in, Ms. Martin. Someone will be in touch to follow up.”

My stomach twists. Maybe it is my portfolio. Maybe I seemed too eager. Maybe, it is the ring on my finger. I force a smile and slide my palm into his, the squeeze of his handshake just strong enough to ground me. “Certainly. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

The lie falls smoothly from my lips, but our handshake lasts a second too long.

I don’t know how I’ll return to Lavern & Lilly, or how I’ll make it through more years under Claudia, but I know one thing: Trey Marks can say all day long he doesn’t fuck his employees, but I’d bet you his watch that he’d have spread me wide open on his desk if I’d asked for it.

I push on the exterior door and step into the Los Angeles heat, inhaling the light honeysuckle scent. In four hours, I have dinner with Craig, a meal where he will dissect every moment of my interview and manage to pile more stress onto my job search. I leave Trey Marks’s inappropriate comments in the parking lot, and get in my car, my mind already cataloguing which details I will share with Craig.

It takes twenty minutes of windows-down driving, music blaring, my steering wheel shuddering underneath my palms, for me to forget the pull of his smile.

Baby Jesus in a Manger. The man should be illegal.





Him

My desk was a gift from my father, a man who always spent more than he made, my childhood a mix of shiny toys and eviction notices. He gave me this desk a month before he died, the piece plucked from an estate sale down in Rancho Santa Fe, the hundred-year-old piece hand-carved, the edges filled with miniature battle scenes, the top inlaid with leather. I kept the card that he left on its surface, a single notecard, his scrawl barely legible across its lined surface. Always fight, it said. An interesting sentiment for a man who drove his brand new Porsche off a Malibu cliff. The responding officers blamed fog and heavy rain. I blamed aggressive creditors, mom’s death, and the flask he liked to keep in his front pocket.

I slide the folder of resumes before me, the simple act of opening the folder exhausting in its chore. Staffing will be the death of me. So important to a company, so time consuming when squeezed into a day. But this position, out of all of them, is the most important. I can’t pass off my Creative Director to a staffing agency or HR. This role will work hand-in-hand with me. This choice could save Marks Lingerie or cement our demise. I flip through the resumes and stop at Kate Martin’s, letting out a stiff breath as I survey the page. A Bachelors from Parsons. UCLA for her MBA. Only one job dotting the work experience section, her last eleven years spent with Lavern & Lilly. I make a face. Lavern & Lilly is conservative women’s fashion, its closest competitor White House Black Market. Would she know anything about seduction? About sex appeal? Her conservative pantsuit hadn’t exactly helped her cause.

Settling back in my chair, I close my eyes and picture her. Those pale pink lips, a faint tint of gloss, their constant press. She had been nervous, her fingers running over the top of her resume, her hands clenching and unclenching the portfolio, her eyes darting everywhere but my face. I’m not a stranger to nervous women; I’ve spent a lifetime using my looks to my advantage, my smile and words to fill in any gaps my appeal might contain. If I’d wanted to, I could have had Kate Martin. If I want to, I still could. Fuck the ring and the fiancé. No woman who wants to get married waits to set a date.

“Literally or figuratively?” Something had flashed in her eyes when she had asked the question. The edge of her mouth had curled, the hint of a dimple appearing. In those three words, she had shown what hid beneath that stiff posture and nervous eyes. In those three words, she had shown spunk.

I pull out her resume and close the folder, pushing aside the inappropriate thoughts that have plagued me since our meeting. My company is in trouble. I’m leveraged in ways that make me sweat, our assets dwindling, sales declining, morale at an all-time low. It doesn’t matter if Kate Martin is fuckable, willing, or engaged. I don’t need another fuck buddy. What I need—more importantly, what my company needs—is a savior.

Could she be it?





chapter 2

Her

“You got the job? Oh honey, that’s terrific!” My mother’s voice pumps out from my cell phone, and I can picture her legs moving, one hot pink lycra-ed leg before the other, her free hand swinging, as she moves down the street. “I am so proud of you! Do you like your new boss?”

“I’m not sure yet.” I open the fridge and stare at the contents.

“I’m sure you will, I can just feel it.” She inhales. “Plus, it’s a new moon tomorrow, and that will help.” There is the blare of a horn, and the muffled sound of her cursing. I put her on speaker and set the phone down on the counter. When she returns, her voice is bright and cheerful. “So! I’m assuming you gave L&L your two-week notice?”

“I tried. They had security escort me out.”

“What?” I can almost hear the screech of her tennis shoes against the pavement.

“It’s standard, Mom. They don’t want me messing anything up on my way out.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. I’m so sorry, Kate.” She huffs into the phone.

I find a box of stuffed green peppers in the freezer and pull it out. “Anyway, you can tell Jess tonight. It’s not a secret.”