James pondered his dinky fifteen-inch flatscreen monitor, clueless as to how to approach this Miss Munroe about catering an entire film now, instead of just the production crew’s meals behind the scenes. He opened up his Web mail browser and hit ‘Compose,’ and stared for another baffled handful of seconds before coming up with a subject that wouldn’t look like spam:
Subject: Our phone call regarding the catering for Xavier Pictures
To: ororo.munroe@thegoddess.com
From: howling_wolf@aohell.com
That was as far ahead as he’d thought so far. Even on the best of days, he was never much for writing shit. He was more visual by nature and by trade. He sipped his beer, musing that it wasn’t “the hair of the dog that bit him” if he kept on drinking enough to cover his hangover with a fresh buzz.
Should he just say “Hello?” Or “Dear Miss Munroe?”
Maybe “Hi, Ororo?”
Ehhh…
His fingers eventually began typing of their own volition; the best way to deal with it was to just get it over with. Wasn’t like he was leavin’ a note in her locker, for cripe’s sake:
“Good morning, Ororo. Just following up on our call from last night. Wanted to know when we could meet to go over some more details. Scott Summers is the guy you want to talk to, whenever I can arrange a meeting.” Then it struck him how dumb that sounded; Scott’s schedule was like wading through the hedge of thorns around Sleeping Beauty’s castle. Scott’s “people” would be the ones tiptoeing through his docket to flex it enough to meet with the caterer. He wouldn’t really have anything to do with it. But he wanted to at least be there for the initial meeting.
Her voice intrigued him. Warm, sweet and deep, and it seemed to stroke him and wrap itself around him like a blanket.
James shook himself. Where the hell did that come from? He spared his tiny framed photo of Mariko sitting in its customary spot on his cluttered desk a lingering glance before he went back to his letter.
“Come prepared to discuss details such as the size of events that you’ve catered, menus, cost-effectiveness, etc. Blow your own horn. Christine had glowing things to say about you.” Sure. Throw in some flattery. Then, he decided to tack on “Look forward to meeting you.” A phone call wasn’t really meeting her. Neither was an email. He wasn’t into that whole “online friends” thing where you couldn’t see who you were talking to. For all he knew, she could be Barry White after a sex change.
He added his autosignature and hit “Send.” There. Time for a shower.
Back at Ororo’s condo:
“Ohhhhhh…why did you let me drink so damned much, girl?” Ororo moaned, gritting her teeth against the throbbing in her forehead. The sunlight streamed in way too brightly through her patio doors, a grim reminder that she’d slept in til noon. Benders with Ali were always an all-night affair, complete with “war stories” the next day that she’d kill anyone to ever repeat. Her vocal cords were hoarse and strained, and her words were a scratchy little rasp when she could manage to do more than groan and dangle over the arm of the couch.
“You were enjoying yourself, which you so richly deserve. Besides, it beat having you be the sober and sensible one to spoil my buzz,” she pointed out. “Don’t be such a poop!” she said, pulling Ororo’s favorite line from “Sixteen Candles.” Ororo shot Ali an evil look, attempting to peel her face off with it, but only succeeding in making her snort with laughter from the loveseat across the living room.
“Sure. Get us both arrested, so neither one of us can post bail.”
“If you’re my prison bitch, then the big mean girls who killed their boyfriends or held up a bank won’t try to make a move on me, I’ll already be taken.”
“And here I thought you just liked me for my cooking. Ulterior motive,” Ororo grumbled.
“Speaking of which, let’s hit Denny’s or IHOP, I’m starved!”
“Blasphemy,” Ororo declared. “I’m not laying my lips on that slop. Find me some Advil. I’m making French toast.” She was surprisingly nimble as she hopped up from the couch and flitted into the kitchen.
“Freedom toast,” Ali quipped.
“What the fuck ever.” Ororo’s ears rang as she bent down to rummage through her cabinets for her metal mixing bowl, making all of the baking dishes clang together.
“So what’s the plan today?”
“We eat.”
“’Kay.”
“We get cleaned up.”
“’Kay. You scrub my back first.”
“Shut UP!” Ororo cackled. “We shop.”
“Too right.”
“Then…I dunno. Haven’t planned that far ahead yet. I’ve gotta check in at the restaurant at some point today. No big events, thank God, but I told Kurt I’d be on hand to help with the special.”
“What is it this time?”
“Fontina and gorgonzola ravioli with lobster and parma rosa sauce, endive salad with raspberry and balsamic vinaigrette, and bruschetta with fresh basil.”
“Damn.”
“I know. Kurt can handle it, but he likes an extra set of hands.”
“Is he still dating that Amanda chick?”
“Nope. They’re past tense.”
“Can’t blame him. She was high-maintenance.”
“You hardly even knew her.”
“The one time that you convinced me to have dinner with you two, she sent back her whole order just because the garlic bread was the slightest shade too pale; I quote, ‘if the rest of the meal is this underdone, I’m sending the manager the bill when I’m treated for salmonella.’ I knew all I needed to know if her, ‘Ro.”
“Picky, picky, picky,” Ororo accused.
“She was,” Ali chirped, holding up her hands defensively. She adopted a dreamy expression that looked out of place on her gamine features. “Kurt’s just so nice.”
“Yup.”
“I like those short, wiry guys for some reason.”
“Yup.”
“Think he likes me?”
“Yup.”
“Nuh-UH. You’re shittin’ me.”
“Nope. The last time you stopped in to visit me back in my office, he almost burned the sauce when you walked by in those tiny little shorts and clogs. Burnt sauce and drool…won’t keep my restaurant open, girlfriend.”
“He likes me.” She still looked uncertain.
“Yup.” Ororo whisked the eggs in solid strokes, throwing in a hefty pinch of cinnamon and lemon zest. “Can’t blame him.”
“Wow.”
“Yup.”
“Is that all you’re gonna say?”
“Ask the boy out and put him out of his misery.” Ororo made short work of their breakfast, sliding a steaming plate of toast, sausage patties and strawberries with fresh orange juice in front of Ali before she headed back to her room to fetch her day planner. She came out holding something small and making a face.
“Whose boxers are these?”
“Got me?”
“They were in my purse.” Ali squinted at the ceiling in an attempt to recollect what happened after their third round of lemon drops.
“Ah. I remember now. The guys by the speakers pulled a ‘Tom Jones’ in reverse and threw those up onstage when you sang ‘Lady Marmalade.’”
“Chee maneez,” Ororo winced, “why didn’t you stop me?”
“The guys with the boxers wouldn’t let me. Especially not in that tiny little red nothing of a dress. It was a hoot. You were on fire, baby!”
“Gads,” she groaned under her breath. She flipped through her day planner, chewing thoughtfully on a sausage pattie. “Crap.”
“What?”
“I need to get back in touch with that Howlett guy about the movie set job he was gonna line up.”
“Today?”
“No. Just soon.” At least she didn’t THINK it was today. Ororo dove back into her bag and produced her Blackberry. She skimmed through her contacts and found two phone numbers of men she didn’t remember talking to and deleted them, figuring one of them had to be Boxer Boy. Then she noticed she had email on her own domain account.
“Howling Wolf?” she muttered.
“Got me,” Ali mumbled around a cheekful of strawberry. “Read it,” she barked.
Ororo clicked on the tiny envelope and skimmed the cryptic text. “Huh.”
“You’re grunting. You’re still hungover.”
“Girl, please! Naw, it’s just a note from that Howlett guy that I spoke to yesterday. He emailed me. Wants to set up a go-see with one of the bigwigs at the studio.”
“Cool.”
“Hope so.” Her stomach volleyed the food back and forth as she mentally planned her first meeting with a Hollywood producer and drew a blank. “What can I even tell them about myself?”
“Comp them a copy of your book. That’ll get their attention. Guys like free stuff,” Ali considered.
“Pfft. Guys like that with money don’t cook. They won’t give a damn.”
“Invite them to lunch at your restaurant, then, Petunia.”
“Yeah. YEAH. Shit, why not?” Why didn’t she think of that. “Kinda like an audition.”
“Usually works for me,” Ali deadpanned. They exchanged a knowing look. Ali didn’t have to audition for anything anymore. Her last two albums went platinum.
Ororo reread the last line of his message. Looking forward to meeting you. Sounded reasonable enough. And it felt weird that she was looking forward to seeing him, too. Then she reminded herself that no one could look as yummy as he sounded on the phone. It wasn’t humanly possible.
She had a fuzzy flashback to being onstage under the hot lights, belting out Patti LaBelle’s bad girl anthem with gusto “ perhaps more gusto than actual talent “ and scanning the audience of college students and couples out on “mister and missus dates.” She and Ali had overdressed for the denims and sandals crowd, just because it felt so good to show off and be a girl, for once.
That’s when she saw those moody, pensive dark eyes. So dark they were almost black. Deep-set and framed by enviably thick lashes, tiny laugh lines fanned out from the corners, even though he looked like a man who had forgotten how to laugh.
Just for a second, she preened, running her palm down her body, skimming it down her throat, chest, ribs and belly, styling like a showgirl before she licked her lips. Their gaze locked; she knew he hadn’t missed it, because his hand stilled for just a moment as he lifted his beer to his lips. The air between them seemed to sizzle as he inclined his chin in the briefest of nods, before taking a sip.
Almost indiscernibly, he sucked the foam from his lip, then groomed the corners of that sensual mouth with his finger and thumb. He had big, beefy hands with dexterous fingers, from where she was standing.
She snapped back to attention, and realized she was almost two beats behind the music rolling across the screen. She recovered herself and made the big finish, nearly tripping over something on her way down the stairs. A pair of boxer shorts. By the time she reached Ali again, her best friend was crowing “You go, girl!” and giving her a drunken hug that resembled a headlock; and the stranger was gone.
They finished their breakfast. Ororo mentally promised herself she’d clean her condo later and water her plants as she and Ali got ready to go out. She made suggestions from Ali’s wardrobe offerings in her overnight bag of what to wear to impress a shy sou chef.
Barnes and Noble bookstore, downtown Los Angeles:
Logan felt fucking silly asking the girl at the customer service counter in the middle of the store if they carried a cookbook called “Cheap Ass Meals.” Her expression told him that he’d provided her with an anecdote of “stupid crap the customers asked me” that she’d be regaling everyone in the employee break room. Her eyes lit up, though, when he mentioned the author. She smacked her forehead and gave an enthused “OH!” before typing in a few keywords into her computer.
“Cookbooks are over there. Look on the top left shelf down that aisle,” she grinned. “You’ll love it. It’s a bestseller.”
“’Preciate it,” he mumbled, nodding his thanks as he strode off in that direction.
He found the shelf that she’d indicated, mentally chanting “Cheap Ass Meals, Cheap Ass Meals…” Then he finally found a bright orange hardcover with afro centric print on the spine: The Goddess’ Guide To Dirt Cheap Cuisine. He removed it from the shelf and peered at the cover. A gorgeous entrée of something that looked like seared fish and a colorful, fancy-lookin’ salad was displayed on a plate that he knew was Noritake, only because Raven had a set of the same ones that were her pride and joy.
He stifled a gasp when he looked inside the book jacket.
“Goddamn!”
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