Page 9 of Just The Way You Aren't

“Oh, Alfred?” I say.

He hits his head on the bottom of the table as he jerks to his feet. “Ouch!” He glowers at me. “Yes, Damien?”

“Your hair’s trying to escape again.” I give him the first genuine smile I’ve given anyone on the board the entire meeting.

His eyes widen and he drops his briefcase to quickly pat down his hair.

I turn on my heel without a word and stalk toward my office. I need to have a word with Rhonda.

CHAPTER 4

DAMIEN

“Ican’t believe I agreed to this,” I mutter as I finish straightening my tie, so it is precisely centered. I open my drawer of cufflinks to add to my suit ensemble and note that the pair I am looking for is not in the spot it usually occupies.

With a frown, I open the drawer below, only to find that Eliza, the upstairs maid, has begun a silent organization war with me once again. I have a system for my cufflinks that she doesn’t understand. She prefers to sort them by color. I prefer to sort them by formality. My less formal cufflinks should be in the top drawer, while the fancier ones belong below. Now, the gold ones are clustered together, next to platinum and white gold, while emerald is in a militant square next to sapphire and ruby.

I can’t fault her organization skills; it is style where we differ.

“Damn you, Eliza,” I grumble, searching out the pair of platinum cufflinks inscribed with the letter L that I’d been looking for. I was going to have to have another talk with her.One where she pretends not to know English very well. Oh yes, Eliza is a wily one. But I’ve got her number.

Even though I’ve left myself plenty of time, the cufflink search has set me back three minutes and I am not pleased. I hurry down to my Mercedes, thinking of the three—three—meetings Rhonda had to reschedule so I could clear a full half of my day to be with this Willow Harper person.

My eye tics. I’m starting to think it’s going to be permanent. If it is, I’m naming it Alfred in honor of my sworn enemy on the board.

The lights are not in my favor as I drive across the city to get to the Silver Hearts offices in Washington Heights. Or, rather, office. Apparently, the whole organization manages to mobilize from one office. Given the number of services they provide, I find this mind-boggling. My grip tightens on the steering wheel as the car in front of me manages to creep through the light, but leaves me stuck on red.

A red-haired woman on a bicycle crosses gracefully in a skirt that threatens to get tangled in her gears. I look around at the surrounding traffic, not to mention the questionable neighborhood, and wonder if she’s out of her mind.

Suddenly, she stops right at the median, her back tire jutting right out into traffic.

I groan and press my forehead to my steering wheel. Given the tightness of our lanes, I won’t be able to pass her without getting a scratch on my new Mercedes, either from her or the old Chevy Nova next to me. I blink at the Nova. I didn’t know there were any still running. Hadn’t they stopped building that car in the 80s?

A car honks loudly behind me and I glance up, looking at the now green light. I tap my horn twice in warning to thewoman on the median, but instead of moving, she waves at me.

What the hell does she want?

I roll down my window. “Miss,” I shout over the honking. “You’re blocking traffic!”

She bends down and I am momentarily mesmerized by the most perfect ass I’ve ever seen, encased in a flowing skirt. My mouth waters. How long has it been since I’ve gotten laid? Not since the Guardian Productions deal has been in the works.

The honking finally brings me out of my reverie and the air quality isn’t exactly great here in the middle of traffic, so I roll my window back up and tap my horn again.

She scoops something up off the median and waves frantically again.

With a sigh and a feeling of trepidation, I roll down my window again. “Miss?—”

“Help!” she cries, holding up a… kitten.

A kitten? All this fuss over a kitten? “Lady,” I finally say, losing all semblance of patience. “You’re blocking traffic!”

She puts a hand on one hip, the other cuddling the kitten close to her chest. A very nice chest in her flowy blouse, I might add. “Please?” she asks impatiently.

I’m going to regret this. I’m going to be late, and I’m going to regret this. But, with a sound of frustration, I inch forward and wave her out of the way a bit so I can move near the curb. Vehicle horns blast from behind me, along with shouts from angry drivers telling me to get moving. I ignore the cacophony, but my irritation is climbing with every second I’m delayed here.

“What’s wrong?” I demand, my widow still rolled down. “What do you need help with?”

She smiles pleasantly. “I don’t have a basket on my bicycle and I need to get this kitten to the shelter. I was hoping I could lock up my bike and we could take your car?”

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