“Logan, the owner of the custom Cadillac is here for pickup.” Nate’s hazel eyes scanned the board of hooks for the right key chain. Logan whistled shrilly through his teeth to get his attention.
“Heads up!” Logan chucked the key ring in question, and Nate deftly caught it on a jingle.
“Who’s working on it next?”
“Rory Campbell’s detailing shop. They’re also gonna have it fitted for rims.”
“Sweet.”
“Hope they don’t overdo it when they send her for paint,” Logan muttered as he flipped through receipts for parts they’d received in the last shipment. “Ever since American Hot Rod and Orange County Chopper became so popular, all anyone wants is candy paint. I hate it when someone dunks a perfectly vintage classic like that into all that glitter.”
“Last time he was in here, the owner mentioned he had it in mind to go with a nice muscatel, kinda that pale off-gold color you see on some of the newer cars, but its not candy-lookin’, thank God. Might even add a little racing stripe, but nothing too over the top.” Nate’s expression revealed that candy paint was a fate worse than death for any car that was old and precious.
“I’ve always liked good ol’ fashioned light blue on a Caddy,” Logan groused. “My grandpop had a sweet car like that.” He laughed as he popped open a can of Pepsi and took a thirsty gulp. “My dad was conceived in the backseat!”
“TMI, man, TMI!” Nate held out his hands in mock-surrender, making Logan positively roar when he said “Think with my parents, the condom just broke. That, or something about being on their honeymoon on the middle of the ocean, almost being eaten by giant squid, and being creative about celebrating their rescue. I can never tell if Dad’s kidding or not when he tells that story,” Nate mused. Random snorts of laughter escaped Logan as he attempted to take another sip of soda, but continued to fail miserably.
“Ya gotta quit sayin’ shit like that when I’m drinking something,” he advised, snapping his ledger book shut and tucking it back into the metal rack on his desk.
“Eh.” Nate turned back to the box of parts he was counting and tagging and resumed inventory. “Hey, Logan…I noticed that red Impala out back was picked up.”
“Yup.”
“That woman was miles tall! Think that was her real hair?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Really?”
“Unless she had her brows died to match. Doubt it. Guessin’ it was hers.” Logan grabbed his soda and lumbered outside to have a smoke. He wasn’t in the mood to keep going for fear of giving away too much.
Rich, acrid smoke curled into the air from the glowing end of his Cuban, and Logan chewed on it thoughtfully as he remembered her voice, deep, resonant, and with a faint Brooklyn accent. She didn’t look like the kinda girl who liked car shows, but hey, ya never knew. Her taste in music wasn’t bad. And superheroes, he chuckled to himself. He used to drool over his sister’s wall poster of Linda Carter in that tiny little red, gold and blue suit, bracelets crossed and ready for action. Drooled privately, of course, or she’d never let him hear the end of it.
Ororo Munroe…neat name. Suited her. Everything about her “suited her.” He was a sucker for a gorgeous woman in a skirt, and it had been a while since he had looked a woman in the eye and seen a genuine little “something,” a spark.
Yup. The one time he’d come eye to eye with a woman who was too good to be true, it was completely unlikely that he’d ever cross paths with her again.
Across town, at Alternatives Shelter Network:
“My office is beginning to look like a blinkin’ store!” Ororo sighed, blowing out a breath of disgust that sent her bangs floating off her forehead. Anna Marie chuckled and patted her shoulder heartily.
“Ah could keep some of this stuff out front in one of the conference rooms.”
“What we need to do is find a place where we can keep it all locked. I don’t want this to become a security issue,” Ororo pondered, surveying the growing pile of goodies stacked on her round work table and one side of her desk. Ororo had been feverishly sitting in for conference calls for budgets and fiscal year deliverables for the shelters, including the remodeling project for the one in Salem Center. Ten new rooms were being added, as well as two new shower-equipped bathroom suites. Ororo also had to drop off a few more books of vouchers for single-night hotel stays that the shelters kept when there was too full a house to accommodate new clients. It was difficult. It was always hard facing the realities of life in the harsh light of day, and Ororo was disgusted at having to spend so much time on planning a party that was costing almost as much as it was supposed to bring in to benefit the charity itself.
Betsy was always frank when they talked. “Get out while the getting is good,” she warned her over coffee one day. “Don’t spend years of your life “ which you won’t get back “ doing something you hate. When I work in the centers themselves, at least I feel like I’m doing something hands-on, instead of dealing with the bureaucratic crap.”
“I’m good at the bureaucratic crap,” Ororo sighed, licking the whipped cream and caramel sauce off the top of her latte. “I just wish that I were more involved in the other aspects of it, like referring people for aid, social work appointments, coordinating donations to the halfway houses…”
“The Worthington Center needs someone over in their grant writing unit,” Betsy brightened, fishing through her tiny purse for a business card. “This is their recruiter. Call her up, tell her I sent you.” Ororo fingered the heavy cardstock, peering at the indigo ink: Katharine Pryde, Human Resources Coordinator. “I already have a contract that won’t be up for another year, or I’d jump at it myself. This is up your alley.”
“Hm.” Ororo had tucked it into her pocket, not giving it much thought until now, as she eyed the towering pile of donations, her disorganized desk, and her multiple Post-its of calls that she had missed while she was still cold calling and arranging ads. Never mind all of the files she had to update, expenses she had to log for each center that had been spent last quarter, and the steadily creeping migraine that was making her grind her teeth.
“Anna Marie, could you grab me some water to take a few of these with?” Ororo pleaded, jiggling her bottle of Excedrin.
“A few?”
“Best I can do til I can pour myself a stiff one at closing time,” Ororo sang. “I need to go out. Desperately.”
“Long as ya promise not ta wear green tonight, since that’s my signature color, I’ll see what we can do. Remy’s outta town this weekend, and I’m jonesin’ t’go out on a toot. Whaddya think, night out with the girls?”
“I’d kill for it,” Ororo considered. She closed her eyes, then opened them. Nope, the pile of crap was still on her desk. “Ain’t gonna happen, though. I’ve got too much to do to wrap this up. I’m piss-poor and can’t even afford a bottle of that Boone’s Farm Strawberry that my college roomies and I used to drink like it was Kool-Aid.”
“Damn. That’s pitiful.” Anna stacked the last of the files into Ororo’s cabinet and bumped it shut with her hip. “Boone’s, huh? Damn.”
“What did you and your friends drink back in the day?”
“Franzia in the great big box with the handles,” she admitted sheepishly. “Hey, at least it wasn’t Everclear!”
“Lord help you,” Ororo giggled. “Drink one for me, Anna.”
“Will do.” Anna swished out of her office to assess different places where they could keep the incoming donations for the auction while Ororo went back to her calls. She checked the next name on the list…
…and nearly laughed out loud.
“Howlett Auto Parts and Repair. Son of a gun.” The majority of the list that Selene had faxed over initially had read like a Forbes 500 Who’s Who, with the exception of members of the Chamber of Commerce that always seemed to show up at functions like these. This was unexpected. And it answered the nagging question that had been lingering in her head for the past 48 hours: What excuse could she come up with to see that breathtakingly handsome mechanic with the eyes and lopsided grin that made her tingle?
Or hear his voice, anyway. That was a start…
“Good morning,” she said crisply into her phone, “I don’t know if you remember me, Nate, but I came in a couple of days ago, dropped off a red Impala for a new alternator? Yes, yes, that’s me, yes, it’s not every day you see a license plate like that!” Ororo’s chuckle was warm. “I was wondering if I could speak to whoever’s in charge of things like PR for your shop?”
“That’d be Logan,” he assured her. Next it sounded like he cupped his hand over the receiver before bellowing “LOGAN! You’ve got a call back at yer desk!” Ororo giggled; not everyone bothered with mundane things such as the “Hold” button. Nothing wrong with that… Her musings were interrupted by the deep voice that was dark and smooth as syrup.
“Mornin’,” he drawled, making Ororo’s stomach quiver.
Lord have mercy…
“Oh. Hello, er…Logan. I just came from your shop a couple of days ago after you fixed my alternator…? This is Ororo Munroe.”
There was a moment of stunned silence on the other end of the line. “Well. Hi.” A beat later he asked “How’s the alternator working out for ya?”
Ororo was clueless for a split-second before it occurred to her. Shoot, he thinks I’m calling about my CAR! Better get to the point… “Oh, it’s fine. Purrs like a kitten, no problem at all. You did a really nice job.” Something soft, squishy and girly crept into her voice, and Ororo had fallen back in time to when the best that she could manage when a boy ever gave her attention was “Well, yeah, I’ve, uh, seen you around school, too.” Right, Ororo, get on with it…
“I’m actually calling you about an event that I’m coordinating through my work, and your business showed up on my list.”
Damn, a gorgeous woman who he thought he’d never lay eyes or ears on again turned out to be a friggin’ telemarketer…the fates were cruel. “What’s yer work, exactly?”
“I work over here at Alternatives Woman and Children Shelter Network,” she explained diligently, still realizing that wouldn’t mean much to him if she didn’t qualify it. “One of our sister companies, Inner Circle Management, is hosting a fundraiser for our network of shelters and other crisis centers in the community, and your shop’s name was given to me to ask as a potential donor of an item or service for our auction. It’s taking place on Halloween night at the charity ball we’re hosting.” To her relief, her spiel was occasionally broken up by faint “mm-hmms” rumbled into his end of the phone throughout, which definitely beat deafening silence. Or snores. She couldn’t handle that…
“So what is it exactly that you do, Ororo?” She was knocked off guard for a moment. That wasn’t the question she was expecting.
“Well…I coordinate fundraising, events, and other activities that help to build our presence, but if you like the short explanation, I make calls, take meetings, and push a lot of paper.” To her own jaundiced ears, it sounded boring.
“You’re much too good-looking to lock away in an office.” Ororo could hear a smile in his voice, and found one creeping across her lips in return.
“Flatterer.” Logan was still breathing a sigh of relief that she wasn’t shilling appointments over the phone. Now he was looking for excuses to keep her on the phone.
“Just tellin’ the truth.” Suddenly it didn’t feel like a business call anymore. “You get out of that office often, darlin’?”
“Every now and again, they let me out of my dungeon. I can’t see over the pile of stuff on my desk right now, though.” Ororo lazily sketched some doodles on her steno pad, and scrawled “Logan” in girlish script, adding goofy little smiley faces in the margins. “Anyway, I don’t want to take you away from what you’re doing, you’re probably busy,” she hedged, loathe to bring the call to a close. “If you decide that it’s feasible to make a donation of anything to the fundraiser ““
“What’d you say it was again? An auction?”
“Uh-huh. Goods and services. Different things can be given. From a shop like yours, a relatively inexpensive but useful service would be good, like a tune-up? Oil change? Discount on some parts?”
“I think I can come up with a little something,” he rumbled, and his hand wandered over some of the items on his desk; he played with the tab of his Pepsi can, and bent a little flexible toy figure into twisted shapes to keep his fingers occupied. They itched to touch that startling white hair that caught his attention and held his interest so strongly. “It’s always good to have a little tax write-off.”
“It’s a meaningful charity that you’d be helping, too, if that makes it any easier,” Ororo offered. “Maybe you don’t get the immediate gratification of, say, buying Girl Scout cookies or Little League candy bars…”
“Never had much of a sweet tooth, anyway.” Ororo suppressed a chuckle and doodled more scribbles on her pad. “And I get plenty of gratification helping a cause I can believe in. I can arrange to meet you at your building, or you can stop by mine again, and I can get you the vouchers and a receipt for the monetary value?”
“That’d be great,” she assured him. “And…I don’t know if this interests you, but we’re extending invitations to some of our sponsors and donors to attend the ball, if they wish.”
“Ball, huh?” Logan leaned back in his swivel chair and ran a hand through the back of his hair. “Eh.”
“Ehhh??” Ororo echoed him good-naturedly; she wanted him to at least say he’d think about it. “I can’t persuade you?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her what she could persuade him to do. “Since it’s on Halloween night, can I assume it’s gonna be in costume?”
“That’s the assumption. Actually, that’s the truth,” she sighed. “Costumes, or whatever business people define as a costume that reflects their status. There’ll be several different interpretations of it, that much I can tell you right now. Or, whatever won’t mortify them to see in the society pages of the Daily Bugle.” Logan heard the laughter in her voice and pictured her rolling her eyes. The image pleased him.
“We’ll see. In the meantime, let me know when you want me to stop by.”
“You don’t have to go through the trouble,” she insisted, but her heart fluttered traitorously. He wants to come HERE.
“A man’s gotta take a lunch sometime. I’ve gotta get outta my dungeon every now and again, too, darlin’.” Ororo proceeded to give him the address and road directions there.
“I’ll be in my office. Ask Anna to buzz you in.”
“I’ll be sure ta wash off the engine grease before I show up, how’s that?” She tossed out a hearty laugh that made him want to hear more of it, before she told him that yes, that was fine. Ororo logged the call on her spreadsheet and went back to her list, humming a little tune as she got down to work. When she went to put away her steno pad, she was embarrassed to see that she had drawn a crooked little heart with an arrow through it.
The rest of the morning progressed as expected. Ororo teleconferenced in the caterer and wrangled over menus, informing the owner that Inner Circle Management would be handling the expense, but they balked when they realized that she was not employed by that office, and they wanted to know by what authority she was charging it to their account and cost center. Ororo put the caller on hold to bang her head on her desk blotter, then came to her senses.
“Would you like me to patch Emma Frost into this call? She’s the director, she might be able to set a few things straight,” Ororo suggested sweetly.
“Perhaps I should be speaking to Miss Frost going forward,” he suggested back.
“I’ll have her office get in touch with you! Have a good afternoon,” she sang before terminating the call. “Just wait’ll I sick Jean and Selene on your sorry ass,” she muttered to no one in particular, glaring hard at the phone. Knowing she wouldn’t appreciate being called without having anything to offer, Ororo faxed over a cover letter and copies of the menus to Selene, with the note “Escalated issue re: account authorization for expenses, catering.” There. That oughta light a fire under someone’s…
“Ororo?” Anna’s voice squawking out of her intercom wiped away the fantasy that she had of someone lighting a blowtorch and aiming it at Emma’s Anne Taylor clad, Chanel-drenched tookus.
“Yes?”
“Ya appear ta have a visitor.”
“Could you have him sign in and escort him on back?”
“Sure could, shoog.” Ororo heard the none-too-subtle note of curiosity in her voice and grinned like a Cheshire cat. She really wished she was going out with her tonight, now. Then they could at least dish.
Ororo cleared a space at her work table and retrieved her spare chair, moving it in front of her desk. She pushed the stack of items to one side, and accidentally knocked off a rolled-up art print from a local art and framing gallery from the top of the stack. “I hate this, I HATE this, I need more room,” she groused, bending to retrieve the poster, leaning over the chair for balance as she picked it up…
…looking for all the world like she was shooting the moon in her short, tapered skirt that rode up the back of her thighs as her office door swished open.
“Knock, KNOCK!” Anna sang, nearly startling Ororo out of ten years of life. She lost her grip on the chair for a moment as she craned her head around, peering over her shoulder at…oh, SHIT. Her hand slipped, she dropped the poster again, and she clotheslined herself practically in half, landing hard against the chair with an unladylike “OOF!”
And of course the friggin’ chair had wheels. Funny thing about chairs with wheels is that it doesn’t take much momentum to…
WHACK! “OW!”
…accidentally bop your forehead against the wall. Ororo saw a star or two, wondering to herself, just for a brief moment if the Fates hated her for some act of inexcusable bad karma that she had committed in her youth. Until she felt a strong, warm hand encircle her upper arm, pulling her upright. Too big to be Anna’s, she realized.
“Geez. That didn’t tickle,” soothed that yummy baritone voice that sounded even better now that it was filling her tiny office, instead of just chuckling on the other line. “You okay, darlin’?” Ororo pawed futilely at her hair, which had fallen forward and was caught randomly in bits and pieces by her lashes, brows, and lipstick. She blew a strand or two out of her mouth and smiled weakly into those eyes that still resembled chocolate drops.
There was, however, a mixture of concern in their depths, mingled with barely suppressed laughter. Okay. It was official. She could die now.
No. She could die NOW…a feather-light graze of work-roughened fingertips against her cheek freed the final strand of hair from where it clung to her full, plum-kissed mouth.
He looked good enough to eat. When she’d seen his face peering at her over Anna’s shoulder, the first thing that she’d noticed was the glossy, damp waves of hair that looked like he combed it into some semblance of order straight out of the shower. His face was clean-shaven, but she could almost see the faint hint of follicle threatening to restore new growth to that proud, perfect jaw by the middle of the afternoon. Now that Anna was leaning against the doorframe, eyeballing her with one brow cocked in the air, Ororo had a nice, unobstructed view of her charity’s new donor.
She drank in his slightly faded Levi’s, button-down 501s, she noticed, not those frat boy Silvertabs. They cupped and hugged every manly slope and contour and made Ororo want to say “Honey, HUSH!” His beige, short-sleeved Dickies work shirt was clean as a whistle and neatly pressed, with the top two buttons left open to expose a pristine white cotton tee. Dark brown Ropers, well broken in, shod his feet.
“Me? Am I okay?”
“That’s what the man asked ya, Ororo, he probably was hopin’ for an answer,” Anna murmured blandly.
“A yes or no’s fine,” he offered, and her arm felt a faint rush of cool air when he removed his hand. He cleared his throat. “I left the vouchers and receipt on Anna’s desk, if you need to take a look at ‘em.”
“Not a problem. I can do that. Sure.” She nodded to Anna, “We’re fine now, thanks for bringing him on back.” Her expression was calm enough, her tone pleasant, but Anna read something ominous in Ororo’s baby blues that shouted “Get the hell outta here, girl, I’m WORKIN’!” She read it loud and clear.
“Ah…Ah think Ah have some filin’ t’do. Ororo, I booked a conference room that you can use for storage.” With that, she made her escape. Logan watched her slightly hasty exit before turning back to Ororo, his eyes sweeping over her again, taking his time, giving her a good look. She floundered, looking for words, any words, that wouldn’t make her sound like a jackass.
“It was nice of you to head over here. You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah. You told me that earlier.” Of course she had. “I didn’t mind.” Ororo’s hand drifted up to tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear. The gesture made him study her hands. “They’re different.”
“What’s different?” Her brow quirked.
“Your hands. Your nails, I mean.” Ororo held her hand out and studied the back of her hand, wondering if she’d grown any new fingers she hadn’t noticed. “You had ‘em with one of those manicures that make the nail look like it’s not really painted. Y’know, the ones with the white stripe painted over the edge?”
“Oh. Right. French. Those are French manicures.”
“What makes it ‘French?’” He actually looked interested in the answer. Ororo was at a loss.
“You’ve got me!” Her chuckle was silenced before it found its full voice when he reached for her hand. Idly his thumb stroked the tip of her index nail; he made a small sound of approval as he stared at the tidy, plum-colored ovals.
“I like these. If you were to ask me what kind of manicure this was, I could answer ‘They’re purple.’ No explanations necessary.” Her hand relaxed in his warm grip. “You’ve got nice hands.”
“Th-thank you, L-Logan, it’s…nice of you to say so.” She cleared her throat with a barely audible “ahem.” His thumb flicked over her knuckles, sending that little quiver back into her belly. “Am I keeping you from anything?”
“Only if we stay here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Lunch. I came out here on the way to lunch.” Gently he released her hand, and again, she felt bereft at the broken contact. His touch lingered on her skin, imprinting her with its memory. “And I’d like t’know if you’d like to come with me. Ya gave me a reason to escape my ‘office,’ such as it is,” and Ororo beamed before her eyes drifted down to her shoes. They met his again when he added “How about I help ya spring yours?” She thought of her shoestring budget, her earlier decline of Anna’s offer of drinks, and the mountain of work on her desk…
Her lips wouldn’t see reason, nor form the appropriate rejection. “I’ll grab my purse.”
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