Best Laid Plans, Robyn Kelly [read e books online free txt] 📗
- Author: Robyn Kelly
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“Have you told anyone you thought they were special?” My question seems to sober her up a little.
“No. I’ve known special people, but how do you say that to someone?”
“Well, maybe people think you’re special and they don’t know how to say it either.”
I can see she’s thinking about it. I’ll let her stew on that while I work on getting her dressed. “I’ll bring your clothes if you tell me where you left them.”
She hangs her head down even lower. “I flushed them down the toilet.”
That explains the plumbing problem. I need to save this party. I can’t have my last client at my last event be naked and crying in the kitchen. “Wait here.” I start to repeat to myself: I can salvage tonight, I can salvage tonight.
I head back to the bar, pull my wet dress out, and make a beeline to the dressing room. I know my guys travel with hair dryers, and I grab Atom and Brett to get the dress wearable. Then I track down Luke. When I tell him my plan, he panics. “I’ll be standing nearby,” I say calmly.
“She called me her horsey, and said she wanted to ride me hard, and put me away wet!”
“Luke, just say, ‘I’d like to bite that lip of yours’ and then you can walk away.”
He stares at me. “I don’t think you understand how attractive I am. Women don’t let me walk away.”
“I’m sure you have a standard excuse.”
He stops to think, and the effort is written all over his face. “I could tell her if I was fifty years older I bet I’d find her attractive.”
I sigh. “No, Luke. Do not say that!” Poor Luke. He is very handsome, and can lift very heavy things, but that is about the extent of his assets. “Tell her you’re already seeing someone.”
Atom delivers the dress to me. I probably should give Lois the little black dress and wear the work dress, but if I don’t want to return it, I have less faith in Lois’s impulse control. And this little black dress is going back to that man!
I hand the dress to Luke carefully so he doesn’t get his body oil on it, and walk him to the kitchen door. “Remember, hand her the dress, say ‘I would like to bite that lip,’ and if she says anything, you say you’re seeing someone.”
He’s as nervous as a virgin on prom night (another of Aunt Celia’s sayings). “What if she does something?”
“I’ll be standing at the door. Now go.” I want to give him a push but don’t want the oil on my hands.
Luke approaches her like a man going to the electric chair. Her eyes move from the bottle to his face. Thankfully she looks a little embarrassed, so she won’t be trying to mount the horsey. He hands her the dress. It’s not a glass slipper, but footwear isn’t what she needs right now. I can tell Luke wants to run, but he delivers the line. Maybe I was too hard on him. He does have other assets. He’s dependable. Predictable, but dependable.
Lois’s hand reaches up and takes his. Did he flinch? She says something to him. I’m ready to step in, but then he says something to her, and she replies, and pretty soon he sits down on the bench next to her, still with her hand in his. Maybe Luke’s not so predictable.
I ease out of the kitchen. I don’t know what happened in there, but I suspect she told him she thought he was special.
And who can resist that?
My alarm goes off at 11:59. I have a strict rule to always be out of bed before noon. I am a self-employed party planner who can’t afford to sleep in, and 11:59 is still before noon. Then I remember that I’m not a self-employed party planner—I’m an unemployed party planner. That thought is so depressing I decide I’m still self-employed until I send Lois her bill for last night.
I put on a robe, and a pot of coffee. When I head to the computer, I see my phone sitting on top of the little black dress. That incredibly soft, flattering dress. It would look so good in my closet, but it has to go back. Parting is such sweet sorrow.
The battery on my phone is dead, so I plug it in to recharge while I pour my coffee and grab a yogurt. When I get back to my desk, the phone has enough juice to display two missed calls.
The first was a little after nine this morning. A woman is asking me to call her back today about an event for her company. Probably some admin who has to get three competitive bids and then gives the job to the same firm they always use.
The second message is from Lois. It’s short. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! You really are special!” I guess she’s over her self-pity. I hope she feels the same when she gets the bill. I’m going to charge her for the plumber and the broken glasses. I’m providing the loan of my dress complimentary.
As soon as I set the phone down, it rings. I just want to enjoy my breakfast, so I may not be my most cheerful as I answer it.
“Ms. Whitkins? This is Felicity. I called earlier and I hadn’t heard from you.”
“Yes. I’m sorry. We had a late-night event yesterday, and didn’t open the office until noon.” She doesn’t need to know I’m still in my pajamas.
Felicity would like me to take a meeting today. She doesn’t have any particulars other than it’s a private event for one of the executives, and they need to schedule it for today. When I ask how many firms she is interviewing, she says only mine. It sounds too good to be true.
Felicity senses my hesitation, and mentions she’s just an intern, and because it’s for an executive, she needs to make this happen if she wants a job offer. I’m a sucker for a sob story, so we agree on meeting at 4:30. I was hoping for a corporate gig, but since it’s a private event I bet I’ll need to dust off the floggers.
I have four hours until the appointment, so I drag myself to the gym. I don’t want to work out, but the thought of staying home and replaying last night’s disaster is too much. I’ll do some cardio. If there’s an interesting class happening, I may join it. I just need to get out of my head right now.
By three o’clock, I’m home and scanning the closet for business meeting attire. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve bought myself a new business suit. When I had the money, I didn’t have the time for shopping. Now I have the time, but not the money.
I pull out the professional-looking gray twill jacket and skirt. It’s been my go-to garb for meeting a new client since I can remember, which is why it’s looking old. The lapels are the wrong width to be fashionable this year, and the skirt is “rump sprung”—the fabric is stretched from sitting, so when it’s hanging in the closet it looks like a death mask of my rear.
My eyes drift to the little black dress. Could I wear that? It’s short, but I have some black tights that would look good with it. It certainly would be an ego boost.
I give the dress the smell test, and it passes. It’s a little wrinkled from lying on the desk, but if I hang it in the bathroom when I shower, it should steam smooth. All right, I’m going to wear it, and tomorrow I’ll take it to the dry cleaners, and then I’ll send it back.
Hunter Enterprises is on the top floors of the Embarcadero Building. The views are incredible. Just from the reception area, you can see from Coit Tower to the Bay Bridge. But right now I’m staring at the clock tower in the Ferry Building, and it’s 4:50. I’m a little peeved. They were the ones who needed to have this meeting today, and they’ve kept me waiting for twenty minutes. I probably should be standing. I can’t let this dress get rump sprung.
“Ms. Whitkins?” a voice behind me calls.
I turn around. A woman stands in what I thought was a solid wall. Now I realize the doorway was hidden in the paneling. This certainly isn’t Felicity, the intern. This elegantly dressed woman is in her fifties and could be a poster child for executive assistant.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, but there’s been a little hiccup in our schedule today. Let me show you to the conference room. May I get you anything to drink?”
I stand and am shocked to see my skirt hiked up much too high, and glued to me. I try to shake it loose, but there
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