“That’s supposed to be encouraging?” I gasp.
“It’s a car, Shannon,” Greg sighs. “It’s a free car, and you also get paid $200 a month on top of your regular salary for driving it more than one thousand miles a month in the greater Boston area.”
Josh and Amanda clap at this news. “A raise!”
“Not a raise,” I say. “We’re just getting paid extra to humiliate ourselves.”
“Pfft,” Amanda says. “I humiliate myself for free. It’s great to get paid for it!”
“Neo-Warhol post-modern art performance?” I gawk at Josh, who scowls and folds his arms across his chest.
“Shannon, sometimes you have to be hard to please.”
“Let me get the keys for you,” Greg says, turning back toward the main entrance. He seems looser, less tense. Who wouldn’t? He just got a big burden off his chest. And placed it squarely on us.
“I didn’t agree to drive that,” I hiss. My tone is more menacing than I want it to be. My head is splitting from caffeine deprivation, and all I can think about is driving around town in a car that looks like an ad for plumbers who unclog toilets the day after Superbowl Sunday.
Greg comes to a halt at the small picnic table under the oak tree in front of the building’s main entrance. Cigarette butts litter the ground around the metal bucket with sand in it. Bright red lipstick encircles every single filter. Louise, the receptionist for the wholesale lamp import firm above ours in the building, must be back to smoking.
“You can’t refuse,” he says in a calm voice. His eyes meet mine. There is no pleading. He’s stating a presumed fact.
“Yes, I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Is this a condition of my employment?” The idea of driving a turdmobile around town to do mystery shops, to perform my own personal errands, to shepherd my nephews around, makes my stomach turn into a pretzel.
“Besides,” I add, “it’s going to make us all huge targets when we do our shops. None of these cars is exactly nondescript.” I can’t hide the tone of triumph in my voice.
With one slow, drawn-out gesture, Greg points to my car. The paint on the roof and hood is flaking. The passenger-side door is bright red. The rest of the car is black.
“Your car isn’t exactly ‘nondescript’ either.”
“It doesn’t have a piece of fiberglass poop on top of it!”
My words carry on the light breeze that passes between us just as a long, sleek limousine pulls up in front of the building, not twenty feet from us. The rear window is open and—to my utter shock—the face of Declan McCormick emerges from the shadows.
He looks puzzled. Behind him sits his father with a horrified look on his face. Both men are dressed in suits, Declan’s arm reaching out the window to wave me over. Each step I take makes my body tingle. Once I’m close enough, I smell the heady scent of cologne and leather, pushed out by a blast of air-conditioned air.
“Hello, James.” I make eye contact and smile, just like I would in any professional setting. “Declan,” I add, as if an afterthought, then tear my eyes away from his father and give the younger man my full attention. My body has been giving him every molecule of awareness since the limo pulled into the parking lot. My eyes just need to catch up.
He shoots me a half-smile, the kind where one side of his mouth curls up with sultry amusement. The tingling turns into a full-blown blood blast, making my skin hover a quarter-inch from my body and pushing my sex to a dull throb that needs his touch to recede.
Decidedly unprofessional. But very authentic. My God, the man can set me atwitter with a look. What would a night in bed do?
“Ms. Jacoby,” Declan’s dad says. “Shannon,” he corrects himself, then gives Declan a side eye that I take to mean What the hell are we doing here?
Greg comes over and gives an anemic wave. He’s clearly as puzzled as James is. Then, suddenly, both of them look at us. Or, at least, I think they look at us. All I know is that I’m looking at Declan and he’s staring right back and everyone else fades into a different world where they’re important.
But not urgent. The only urgent person in the world is making me his obsession with eyes that won’t cut away. I can’t breathe, and yet I become air. I can’t look away, and yet I see everything in his piercing look. I can’t move, and yet I feel connected to every single item in the world, as if I’m one with everyone and every thing.
James clears his throat and taps Declan’s shoulder. “The jet is waiting.” His words break the spell and Declan turns just enough to cut his eyes away from me. It’s like a dimmer switch on the sun has been spun a half-turn.
“The jet can wait longer.” Declan’s words are cold ice.
“No, son, it cannot. I need to make a series of meetings before yours.” James matches Declan’s tone. I feel a distinct chill in the air, and it’s not the car’s A/C.
The black door opens and Declan steps out. The man can wear a suit like an Armani model on a Milan runway. My mouth waters as he steps out, from classic wingtips on his feet to the heathered lavender tie that is loose around his neck. A crisp white shirt with sterling silver cuff links peeking out under an all-black suit sleeve makes me snap to attention, the top button at his neck undone, his body language tense but his overall look alluring and demanding.
Why is he getting out of the limo?
The car door snaps shut with a resolute tone. Declan’s words do, too. “You go ahead, then. I’ll catch up.”
“How?” James is outraged. “I’m taking the jet.”
“Then I’ll fly commercial.” Declan pulls out his phone and taps into it for a few seconds. “Done. Grace is making arrangements.”
“Commercial?” James says the word as if Declan had just announced he’d drive a Flintstones car to London. “Why on earth would you do such a thing?” His expression is tight and he’s angry. Deeply furious.
Meanwhile, Declan is closed off. Aloof. Contained, controlled, and in full mastery of whatever emotions must be roiling inside him like a cyclone waiting to strike land.
This is no simple pissing contest. The argument over Declan’s detour here—to see me—has roots that go way back.
I’m riveted in place, my hands beginning to sweat. The Turdmobile is a distant memory. A horrid one, but nothing compared to the cataclysm of these two duking it out with every clipped word.