Chapter 7
Gabriel
Monday mornings are usually my favorite day of the week. I know that sounds strange, and it hasn’t always been that way, but there’s something about creating something beautiful that gets me excited to get to work.
On my way in, I grab a cup of my favorite coffee from the café on the main floor of our building. My firm leases two floors in a high rise in the River North section of Chicago. Eventually, I’d like to design a building for us, but for now, this suits our needs. With coffee in one hand and some blueprints in my other, I wait for the elevator doors to open to take me up.
I can see my reflection in the brass fittings that surround the elevators and observe my tie is slightly askew. I’ll have to fix that as soon as I get to my office. I look at the rest of my attire and nod in approval. Don't get me wrong; I’m not a vain man––far from it. It’s just important to look the part when one is attempting to grow a business. So, my suit, haircut, even the people I date all matter. Appearances matter.
The elevator seems to be taking an extraordinarily long time this morning. So, I look down at my shoes and note a scuff on the toe of my left foot. I also note the small, red stiletto beside me. I look to my left and follow the leg up to the red dress with a print of, what are those? Candy canes?
Before I even get to her face, I know who it is. I let my eyes linger on her ample breasts for a split second. When my eyes meet hers, she smiles. “Good morning, Mr. Parker. Did you have a nice weekend?”
“Good morning, Miss. Cartwright. I did. Did you recover from your night of debauchery?”
“Debauchery?” she asks as she fidgets nervously.
“Do I make you nervous Miss Cartwright?” I say leaning in just a little bit. I’m doing that for two reasons. One, it makes her blush, and I love to watch Miss Cartwright blush and reason two has to do with her sweet scent. Candy. She always smells like candy.
When she giggles, my dick twitches in my pants, “No, of course not. Don’t be silly, Mr. Parker.”
“Well, good. I wouldn’t want to make you nervous.” Yes, I would. I’d also like to make her moan again. But, it’s too early in the morning to be thinking along those lines.
When the doors ding and open, I hold my arm up to motion for her to go first. When she does, I get a glimpse of her ass in the little red dress. It’s fitted all the way down from her back to just below her knees. The style is reminiscent of a 50s pin-up girl. It’s a good look for her. She’s got the soft curves to pull it off.
It’s then I recall her sweater from Saturday night. I growl internally thinking about the attention she drew to herself. What was she thinking ordering a sweater that small? And that pink hue? Granted, it was perfect for her peaches and cream complexion and her strawberry blonde locks. It was a little out of character for her to dress that provocatively. Her clothes have never been that overtly sexual before. I was so incensed by the display of her body that I almost asked her to change. In the end, I chose to keep my mouth shut.
Several others catch our elevator as we stand next to each other at the back of the compartment. When we reach our floor, Lexie steps off first and walks quickly to her station at the front of my office. She’s the face of my firm––the first person people see when they arrive. I was concerned when my human resources director hired her. But, her personality and charm make her an ideal first impression. That is…when she’s not doing ridiculous things.
I roll my eyes thinking of the antics she’s gotten up to in just the last six or eight months. There was the copy machine debacle. I threatened to put that image of her cleavage in her file, but I didn’t. I did keep it though. What can I say? I’m a man, and she’s definitely a woman.
Then there was that Twirling or Twerning. No! Twerking contest. I stood back and watched her for a few minutes before I intervened. I’ve seen people do that move at clubs and on television and I can say without hesitation that Miss Cartwright can Twerk with the best of them.
The last incident, or the last one that I know of, was the candy-eating contest. I was sincerely concerned she was going to choke while, at the same time, imagining the other things she could fit into her mouth. Yes, I’m a terrible, perverted man. In my defense, I don’t do that to all women. There just seems to be something enchanting and engaging about Miss Cartwright. The fact that she can kiss like a porn star is only a bonus.
Making my way back to my office, I see my assistant, Katya, is late again. I unlock my door and step inside. Sliding off my jacket, I hang it on the back of my door. Sipping my coffee, I unfurl the drawings I worked on over the weekend. I’ve got a table in the center of my office for just this purpose. It’s large enough for me to spread out eight drawings at a time.
I sip my coffee and look over my newest ideas when a knock sounds on my door. “Come in.” I look up and see Cammy Turner, my public relations expert.
“Hey, Gabriel. Good weekend?”
“Sure. What was left of it.”
“True. And, uh, thanks for giving us a ride home the other night. We weren’t in any shape to take a bus.”
“No, you weren’t.” I sip my coffee again. “So, what can I do for you this morning?” I watch her as she pulls several newspapers from underneath her arm. I’m already on alert.
“Did you happen to see any of these this morning?”
I never read the paper anymore. I seem to be fodder for several of the local rags, and it only pisses me off when I see my name printed. When it’s not associated with architecture, that is. “No.” I watch her unfold each paper, one at a time and lay it on my large table. Reading the first headline, I start to crush the cup in my hand but think better of it. I don’t want coffee on my renderings. “What the hell is that?” I say pointing at the words in print:Architectural Sensation Leaves Fiancée Alone and Pregnant.
I look at the remaining papers and launch my coffee cup into a nearby trashcan causing the contents to splash and spray all over my wall, floor, and desk. “What the fuck is that, Cammy?”
“You tell me,” she says with hands-on tiny hips.
“There’s nothing to tell. I don't even know that woman.” I look at her photo near the article. Well, I know her. We met at a party, I believe. I may have kissed her––thought about taking her home, but I didn’t. “Her name is Cathy or Christina something, but…”
“Gabriel, we talked about this.”
