“Well, I should be done with this tonight. I had dinner at the diner, but I brought you some of Marv’s homemade lobster pot pie. There’s a nice big slice for you in the fridge. I picked out all of the lobster.” Bless Gran, she never quite gets what vegan means, but I love her anyway.
“Sounds great, Gran. Thank you.” I take the pie out of the fridge, heat it up. Later, I’ll dump it in the neighbor’s trash. Idon’t want to hurt her feelings. I bought a nice acai bowl on the way home and sneak it up to my room.
Later, after Gran went to bed I retreat to my attic room I curl up under the quilt Gran made for me when I was eight. With my laptop on my knees, I search for every scrap of information I can find on the historic library: funding, petitions, past preservation efforts. I outline arguments in my head until my eyes blur. Somewhere between zoning bylaws and community statistics, I fall asleep.
While deep in slumber, I dream of freaking Marcel. My unconscious mind is embarrassingly vivid. I remember his fingers strumming my nipples and his mouth lapping my pussy. I really can’t stop thinking of that apparently because dream Marcel makes me cum three times, just with his mouth alone. By the time we get to the big finale, I am wrung out. I still feel his hands, his mouth, and hear the way he whispers my name when he comes inside of me …
And then I jolt awake.
He came inside of me.
I’m flushed and mortified. He came inside of me, that was real.
I immediately open my phone and look at the calendar. When is my period due? I see that I still have a week and take a deep breath. I’m good. I’m going to be okay. I have no idea if this is true, but this is what I tell myself.
I am not having the Grinch’s baby.
I decide, since he had the audacity to show up in my dreams all night, I will be wearing a corporate Christmas outfit to the office today.
I keep it tasteful and meet the stark office guidelines—with own my kind of flare. I’m Christmas incarnate, cute, cheery, and just sexy enough to irritate him. I choose a fitted red sweater that hugs my curves, a plaid skirt, tights, and black boots. My holly wreath pin blinks cheerfully at my collar. My lips shine candy-apple red and I smell like vanilla bean and cranberry. He’s gonna wanna eat me alright, but that ship has already sailed, Grinch.
I met with the Grinch briefly when I entered the office, but he was on the phone and just nodded to the empty office next to his. When I walk in, I see all the paperwork is laid out for me, so I close the door and hunker down. I keep my head down and work fast, collating plans and organizing files like a machine. Since I’ve already done the research on the library, I start with that and have a five page report ready by noon. After lunch I’ll work on extracting all the peeholes and other flubs from the document.
I don’t even know it’s one o’clock until there is a brief two-knock wrap on my door and the Grinch strides in, smooth as ever.
“Lunch time, Juliet. Burrito cart. My treat,” he says. “I’ll show you the project. And you can bring Christmas cheer to all,” he says sarcastically.
“At least someone is,” I am not at all flustered.
“If you’re springing for lunch then I’m getting you a hot chocolate. My treat.” I stand tall because two can play thatgame. He may be a billionaire, but he’s only offering a burrito. I can counter with hot chocolate. “I know just the place.”
“You’re on,” Marcel accepts my challenge.
The burrito is warm in my hands as we step into the crisp air and honestly, it is so delicious. It literally melts in my mouth.
“So is this why you chose the burrito cart for lunch? Vegan Chorizo Burrito with cashew queso?”
“Exactly why,” Marcel confesses. “And I need you to see the whole project for your work, so this is a bribe.” At least he’s up front about it.
“Show me what you’ve got.”
He takes me through the project, which is just a dream in his head at this point. He has a copy of the plans, and the company’s proposal. Over demolished middle class houses that might just need a little TLC, he’s envisioning high rises, and pools, a lake, a spa ... my mind goes numb after a while. It’s not because I’m disinterested in these kinds of things, but it’s building after building that will be displacing entire neighborhoods that have histories with families living for generations in their homes.
“Sorry to interrupt you GD, but what are you doing with the homes, the families, and the neighborhoods when you’re bulldozing Whoville?” I glare at him, because fuck him for tearing everyone’s lives down for six-thousand-dollar a month, two bedroom generic boxes.
“GD?” That’s all he cares about? A code name that is uncomplimentary. “I’m afraid of what that means.”
“Grinch Dubois. So? You haven’t answered my question.”
“We are offering everyone a healthy stipend to relocate.”
“And by healthy you mean …?”
“At least ten-thousand-dollars for each family on top of the fair market rate for their homes.”
“And where is this fair market rate coming from?”
“The entire block will be assessed for livability in its current state and resale value if a volume of houses were for sale—” I stop him right there.
