Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

I’m wearing my second favorite gift from Cam. It’s another oversized t-shirt. This time, however, there’s a cartoon drawing of a voluptuous naked female body on the front and back––complete with red sequin nipples.

“I always wanted big hooters.”

He blinks. He blinks again. Cold and quiet, an iceberg stares back at me. This cohabitation thing is going to be really pleasant. He’s going to make three months feel like a Siberian winter. Grabbing a paper towel, he dries his hands, chucks the paper in the waste bin, and turns to leave.

“You’re fine the way you are,” I hear him say as he walks out of the kitchen.

Huh?

The front door shuts, leaving behind a wake of confusion.

After fussing with my black jersey wrap dress for far too long because, really, who cares what I look like––never mind that I spent a little longer blow drying my shoulder length straight hair when I never, ever blow it dry––I grab my coat and purse, ready to head out when the doorbell rings. I open the door to the vestibule and find the new contractor along with a crew of men standing on the front steps.

“Hello there, blondie,” he says in a gravelly voice while running his greasy eyes up and down my body. “You the assistant?”

“No. You the contractor?”

“The very one,” the portly misogynist retorts. “Bill Morrison.”

I quickly slip on my winter coat. And the answer is yes, I have a double standard when it comes to sexist name calling and leering. Women get a free pass. We have a long way to go to balance that scale, and God knows I’m going to do my best to contribute.

“You’re an hour and a half late.” His guys file past me and into the townhouse, carrying heavy construction equipment, tools. All the stuff necessary to fix this money pit.

“I’m here now and we’re wasting time talking about it.”

This guy’s attitude hits me in all the wrong places. He walks past me and into the living room. Against my better judgment, I follow.

“I have a meeting to get to, but we need to go over what the schedule is for the upstairs renovations.”

If I have to live in this hazard pit for the foreseeable future, I can at least make sure it isn’t detrimental to my health. I have a lot of energy, and I don’t like to see stuff undone that should be done. And if it helps Fancy in any way, if I can give him something in return for getting me out of my “situation”, why not.

I start ticking stuff off finger by finger. “The upstairs bathrooms should be the first item on your list. The water pressure sucks and the shower door is about to fall off the rusted hinges. Also can you please make sure Mr. Vaughn has a generator? They’re saying we could get some nasty weather by the end of the week.”

Looking around, he says, “We’ll get to it when we get to it.”

“No. No, that’s not the answer I was looking for. The upstairs bathrooms get done first.” Glancing at my cell, I realize I’m cutting it close. “The bathroom, Mr. Morrison. I’ve got to go.”

Twenty minutes and a serious hustle later, I arrive on time at the address Fancy gave me on Lexington and 52nd . The building is art deco, nice although not exceptional in any way, just your run of the mill city office building. The elevator doors open on the 30th floor, and I step into the reception area of Vaughn Sports Management.

Color me impressed. As I take in the shiny nickel letters spanning the maple covered wall, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever get to see my last name somewhere that does not include a bill, a pink slip, or more recently, jail house discharge papers. If I remember correctly, Camilla mentioned that Vaughn is around Cal’s age, which makes him either thirty-three or thirty-four, a mere three to four years older than me. And yet, look how much he’s accomplished. I, on the other hand…no need to follow that sentence to its logical end.

The young receptionist sitting beneath said letters greets me and takes my coat and gloves, after which, she asks me to take a seat while she lets Fancy know I’m here. It’s all very hush hush in the office. Beyond the reception area I can see people rushing back and forth, and wonder if he has a ‘no talking’ policy for his employees. From down the hall, a very tall woman approaches. How to explain...

She’s the embodiment of a 1950 bombshell. Jane Mansfield with natural red hair, fiery and bright and naturally curly even though she punishes it into a tight, low bun. Head to toe in black, all buttoned up, no hint of skin showing, big blue eyes hiding behind black framed glasses. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she wears her clothes as armor. Also, she’s wearing heels. Because five ten is insufficient. She feels the need to add a couple of inches to all that glory. Reaching me, she holds out her hand and greets me with a perfunctory smile.