Page 4 of Tempting the King

The pressure inside my skull grinds toward the point of no return. The co-dependence is strong here, which only makes me feel more helpless.

I push to my feet, covering the five steps back to my desk, grab my vintage Dior purse from the bottom drawer of my credenza and count out ten hundred-dollar bills from the envelope of cash one of my clients always hands me on his first appointment of the month, paying in advance for his two sessions a week, where I simply sit with his head in my lap while he naps.

I’m pretty sure the cash isn’t from above board business dealings, but I have no proof, and even underworld mob bosses need a safe, soft place to land from time to time.

Benjamin sets the dripping can of Coke on the coffee table, right next to the stack of coasters, rubs his hands together, and wobbles to his feet.

I shove the money his way, swallowing down all the questions and bottom lines I’d like to discuss. But it’s my turn for a little stab at some happiness.

Or at least some distraction.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as he whistles and counts the bills, then I grab his shoulders, spinning him toward the door with a soft shove.

“Thanks, sis,” he says with a wink, and a sadness creeps through my heart, hearing Mom’s voice, telling me it’s the woman’s job to be responsible because men are pigs.

Her own actions said otherwise, but I was always the pleaser.

Still whistling, he’s out the door, stuffing the cash into his pocket, phone in his other hand, dialing God knows who. I know that money will likely be gone by midnight.

Not my problem right now, I tell myself as I lock the office door and check my Apple watch.

6:04 PM. Heartrate 180.

Shit. I’m off my schedule. I wanted to be getting dressed by six.

I scurry into the back-office space, the patchouli oil and citrus blend in the oil diffuser sending a calming fresh scent billowing around the room. There’s an oversize low king bed, covered in cream and white linen bedding and pillows. There are two overstuffed chairs in a dusty blue, and a sumptuous sofa draped with faux fur throw pillows and blankets.

This is where the cuddling happens, along with a lot of tears and confessions. Also, some snoring. And, at least I hope, some healing.

I swing open a door to a large closet filled with mostly yoga pants, t-shirts and tank tops with my company name and logo.

Something that is not usually inside is the scarlet red dress I scored at one of the resale shops I scour weekly when I need some retail therapy.

This dress is unlike anything I’ve worn before. It’s vintage Galliano, with its cinched waist and corset-looking bodice. My boobs are going to look epic, I think as I strip down and tiptoe into the washroom to freshen up.

With my hair already done, I contemplate wearing a pair of Skims mid-thigh control deals that I bought to go with the dress, but decide to give-no-fucks and step into the dress, then wiggle and tug the stretchy fabric over my hips. The side zipper fights me for a second on the way up, pinching at my pale skin, but I win the battle without so much as a curse word.

With a new coat of Tart Cherry Everlast lipstick, I slip on my new boots, then add a squirt of perfume, grab my keys, credit card and ID, re-homing them into a sparkly little black clutch purse, and I’m out the door.

The dress is second skin snug, but I feel womanly and sexy, and I don’t miss the look Jack the security officer behind the desk on the main floor gives me as I pass. He’s harmless, so whipped by his wife it’s cute. I’m a curvy girl, but I have no shame about my body. I eat well, enjoy life and do yoga daily.

If someone is turned off by a type-A size-fourteen redhead with a high emotional IQ, that’s on them, not me.

CHAPTER 2

Emee

Ten steps down the street, I’m cursing myself for not getting a half size bigger on the chunky knee-high black Dolce boots I ordered from ThreadUp.

But even with my painfully squished toes, I make it to Don’s on Main, with its polished brass and lacquered cherry-wood tables looking like the inside of a 1980’s cruise ship, five minutes before I’m supposed to meet Frank for our third date.

Another of my grandfather’s euphemisms was, If you’re on time, you’re late. He may have always smelled like cigar smoke and Mentholatum, but he was a bright spot in my childhood.

“Phew.” I exhale, my heart pittering like a hummingbird’s wings, reminding me I’ve been neglecting my cardio.

I fuss with the waistband of the dress where it’s digging in, take a cleansing breath, force a bored yet approachable expression onto my face, and push through the doors.

Eighties soft pop music mixes with the sounds of laughter, the clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation as I scan the crowded space. My eyes land on a high-top table next to the bar and shocker, Frank’s early. For the first time. Things are looking up.

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