Wallbanger (Cocktail 1)

“Caroline?” a concerned voice came from behind me, and I turned to see James walking toward us.

“Hey, James,” I called out, stepping away from Simon with a giggle.

“You ready to go?” he asked, looking at Simon carefully. Simon straightened to his full height and looked back, just as carefully.

“Yep, ready to go. Simon, this is James. James, Simon.” They leaned in to shake hands, and I could see that they both exerted a little extra force, neither seeming to want to be the one to let go first. I rolled my eyes. Yes, boys. You can both write your names in the snow. The question is, who would make bigger letters?

“Nice to meet you, James. It was James, right? I’m Simon. Simon Parker.”

“That’s correct. James. James Brown.”

I saw the beginnings of a laugh on Simon’s face.

“Okay, James, we should get going. Simon, I’ll talk to you later,” I interrupted, ending the handshake of the century.

James turned toward where his car was double-parked, and Simon looked at me.

“Brown? James Brown?” he mouthed, and I squelched my own laugh.

“Shush,” I mouthed back, smiling at James when he turned back to me.

“Nice to meet you, Simon. See you around,” James called, steering me to the car with his hand on the small of my back. I didn’t think twice about it, as that’s how we always used to walk together, but Simon’s eyes widened a little at the sight.

Hmm…

James opened the door for me, then headed around to his side. Simon was still standing in front of our building when we drove away. I rubbed my hands together in front of the heater and grinned at James as he steered through the traffic.

“So, where are we headed?”

We made ourselves comfortable in the swanky bar he’d selected. It seemed very James: chic and sophisticated, and laced with hidden sexuality. The deep red leather banquettes, thinly cushioned and cool, ensconced us as we settled in and began the process of getting to know each other after so many years apart.

As we waited for a server to come by, I studied his face. He still looked the same: closely cropped sandy blond hair, intense eyes, and a lean frame folded in on itself like a cat’s. Age had only improved his good looks, and his carefully torn jeans and black cashmere sweater clung to a body I could see was in great shape. James had been a rock climber, relentless in his pursuit of the sport. He viewed each boulder, each mountain as an obstacle to overcome, something to be conquered.

I’d gone climbing with him a few times toward the end of our relationship, even though I grew up skittish about heights. But watching him climb, seeing the sinewy muscles stretch and manipulate his body into positions that seemed unnatural, was a heady experience, and I’d pounced on him those evenings in the tent like a woman possessed.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, interrupting my musings.

“I was thinking about how much you used to climb. Is that something you still do?”

“It is, but I don’t get as much free time as I used to. They keep me pretty busy at the firm. I try and get out to Big Basin as often as I can,” he added, smiling as our waitress approached.

“What can I get you two?” she asked, placing napkins in front of us. “She’ll have a dry vodka martini, three olives, and for me bring three fingers of Macallan,” he answered. The waitress nodded and left to fill our order.

I studied him as he sat back, then turned his gaze to me.

“Oh, Caroline, I’m sorry. Is that still your drink?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “As it happens, yes. But what if I didn’t want that tonight?” I answered primly.

“My mistake. Of course, what did you want to drink?” He waved the waitress back over.

“I’ll have a dry vodka martini with three olives, please,” I told her with a wink.

She looked confused.

James laughed loudly, and she walked away, shaking her head.

“Touché, Caroline. Touché,” he said, studying me again.

“So, tell me what you’ve been up to the last few years.” I put my elbows on the table and chin in hands.

“Hmm, how to encapsulate years in a few sentences? Finished law school, signed on with the firm here in the city, and worked like a dog for two years. I’ve been able to ease up a bit, only around sixty-five hours a week now, and it’s nice seeing daylight again, I admit.” He grinned, and I couldn’t help but smile back. “And of course working as much as I do leaves me very little time for a social life, so it was just blind luck that I saw you at the benefit last month,” he finished, leaning forward on his elbows as well. Jillian attended many social events around town, and I accompanied her on occasion. Good for business. I should’ve known I’d eventually run into James at one of those shindigs.

“So you saw me, but you didn’t come talk to me. And now here you are, weeks later, asking me to work on your condo. Why is that, exactly?” I accepted my drink as it arrived and took a long pull.

“I wanted to talk to you, believe me. But I couldn’t. So much time had passed. Then I realized you worked for Jillian, who a friend had recommended to me, and I thought, ‘how perfect.’” He inclined his glass toward mine for a clink.

I paused for a moment, then clinked him. “So you’re serious about working with me? This isn’t some kind of ploy to get me into bed, is it?”

He looked at me evenly. “Still direct as ever, I see. But no, this is professional. I didn’t like the way we left things, admittedly, but I accepted your decision. And now here we are. I needed a decorator. You are a decorator. Works out well, don’t you think?”

“Designer,” I said quietly.

“What’s that?”

“Designer,” I said, louder this time. “I’m an interior designer, not a decorator. There’s a difference, Mr. Attorney Man.” I took another sip.

“Of course, of course,” he replied, signaling for the waitress.

Surprised, I looked down to find my glass empty.

“Care for another?” he asked, and I nodded.

As we small talked for the next hour, we also began to discuss what he needed in his new home. Jillian had been right. He was pretty much asking me to design his entire place, from area rugs to lighting fixtures and everything in between. It would be a huge commission, and he’d even agreed to let me photograph it for a local design magazine Jillian had been wanting me to submit to. James came from a wealthy family—the Browns of Philadelphia, don’t you know—and I knew they must be footing the bill for most of this. Young lawyers didn’t make enough to afford the kind of place he had, let alone in one of the most expensive cities in America. But trust funds live on, and he had a large one. One of the perks of dating him in college had been that we could actually afford real dates, not just cheap takeout all the time. I’d enjoyed that aspect of being with him. Not gonna lie.

And I would enjoy that aspect of this project. A basically unlimited budget? I couldn’t wait to get started.

In the end, it was a nice evening. As with all old flames, there was a feeling of knowing, a nostalgia you can only share with someone who has known you intimately—especially at that age when you’re still forming. It was great to see him again. James has a very strong personality, intense and confident, and I was reminded why I’d been attracted to him in the first place. We laughed and told stories about things we’d done as a couple, and I was relieved to find that his charm remained. We could get along quite well in a social setting. There was none of the awkwardness that could have accompanied this.

As the evening wound down and he drove me home, he got around to the question I knew he’d been dying to ask. He pulled the car to a stop in front of my building and turned to me.

“So, are you seeing anyone?” he asked quietly.

“No, I’m not. And that’s hardly a question a client would ask me,” I teased and looked toward my building. I could see Clive sitting in the front window in his usual post, and I smiled. It was nice to have someone waiting for me. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing next door to see if there was a light on in Simon’s apartment, and I also couldn’t stop my tummy from doing a little flippity-flop when I saw his shadow on the wall and the blue light of his television.

“Well, as your client, I’ll refrain from asking those kinds of questions in the future, Ms. Reynolds,” He chuckled.

I turned back to face him. “It’s okay, James. We passed designer/client relationship a long time ago.” I felt triumphant as I saw a blush carve a chink in his careful façade.

“I think this is gonna be fun.” He winked, and it was my turn to laugh.

“Okay, you can call me tomorrow at the office, and we’ll get started. I’m gonna fleece you blind, buddy, Get ready to work that credit card,” I taunted as I stepped out of the car.

“Oh hell, I’m counting on it.” He winked and waved goodbye.

He waited until I was inside, so I tossed another wave his way as the door closed. I was glad to see I could handle myself with him. Upstairs, as I turned the key in my lock I thought I heard something. I looked over my shoulder, and there was nothing there. Clive called to me from inside, so I smiled and stepped in, scooping him up and whispering softly in his ear as he gave me a tiny cat hug with his big paws around my neck.

The next evening I was rolling out the pie crust when the text came in from Simon.

Come on over whenever. I’ll start dinner once you’re here.

I’m still working on the pie, but I’ll be over soon.

Need any help?

How are you with peeling apples?

The next thing I heard was a knock on the door. I walked over, hands covered in flour, and elbowed the door open. “Well, hello there,” I said, holding the door open with my foot.

“Looks like the end of Scarface in here,” he observed, reaching out to touch my nose and show me the flour on the end.

“I tend to lose control when there’s pie crust involved,” I said as he shut the door.

“Duly noted. That’s good information for me to have,” he responded, swatting at my hand as I tried to slap him.

He took a good long look at me then, blue eyes dropping from my face and traveling across my body. “Hmm, you weren’t kidding about the apron, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hang in here without trying a little grab-ass.”

“Get in there and grab an apple, buddy,” I said and walked toward the kitchen, adding a little extra swish to my hips. I heard him sigh heavily. I glanced down at my outfit, noting my tank top, old jeans, bare feet, and chef’s apron that said, You should see my scones…

“Now when you said ‘grab an apple,’ what exactly were you referring to?” he asked from the kitchen where he’d started taking off his sweater.

I shook my head at the sight of Simon in a black T-shirt and weathered jeans. He was in his stocking feet once again, and I marveled at how at ease he seemed in my kitchen.

I walked around the kitchen counter and picked up my rolling pin. “You know, I won’t think twice about whacking you over the head with this if you continue this borderline sexual harassment,” I warned, running my hand up and down the rolling pin suggestively.

“I’m gonna have to ask you not to do that if you’re serious about me peeling apples here,” he said, eyes widening.

“I never joke about pie, Simon.” I sprinkled a little more flour on the marble.

He was silent while he watched me pat out the pie crust, breathing through his mouth. “So, what are you gonna do with that?” he asked, his voice low.

“With this?” I asked, leaning over the board, and perhaps arching my back a little as I did.

“Mmm-hmm,” he replied.

“I’m gonna roll this crust out. See, like this?” I teased again, thrusting the pin back and forth over the dough, making sure I arched my back each time and the forward action pushed my girls together.

“Oh my,” he whispered, and I grinned naughtily at him.

“You gonna be okay over there, big guy? This is just the top crust, I still need to work on my bottom,” I said over my shoulder.

His hands clutched at the edge of the counter. “Apples. Apples. Gonna peel me some apples,” he told himself and turned away toward the colander filled with apples in the sink.

“Let me just get you the peeler,” I said, coming up behind him and pressing myself against him as I curled around his side to grab the vegetable peeler from the other sink. This was fun.

“Peeling apples, just peeling apples. Didn’t feel your boobs. No, no, not me,” he chanted as I openly laughed at him.

“Here, peel this,” I said, taking pity on him and removing myself from his cooking space. I might have sniffed his T-shirt.

“Did you just sniff me?” he asked, keeping himself turned away.

“I might have,” I admitted, going back to my rolling pin, which I squeezed mightily.

“I thought so.”

“Hey, if you can sniff, I can sniff,” I shot back, taking out my sexual frustration on a defenseless Pâte Brisée.

“Only fair. So how do I rate?”

“Good. Very good, actually. Downy?”

“Bounce. I lost my Downy ball,” he confessed.

I laughed, and we continued to roll and peel. Within fifteen minutes, we had a bowlful of peeled and sliced apples, a perfectly rolled-out pie crust, and we’d both consumed our first glass of wine.

“Okay, what’s next?” he asked, wiping up flour and generally tidying.