Authors: Kristi Rose
“Yeah, you?”
“Yeah, I like to cool off in the water.”
“Well if we stand here any longer you won’t need to cool off.” I take several steps back and stretch my hand out, reaching for the bike’s seat and something to ground the electrical current sparking between us, yet am unable to pull my eyes from his.
“I can watch your stuff for you,” I say in a breathy voice.
“What?” He blinks several times.
We’re shrouded in a cloud of lust, and the palpable air and erratic, loud beating of my heart makes sound muffled. It’s good to know he’s experiencing it too.
“Your phone and shoes. If you’re going for a swim I can watch those for you.”
“Got it.” He gestures for me to precede him.
I lock up the bike with clumsy fingers then scoop out my bag of stuff from the basket. When I pass him the energy around us crackles.
I find a spot on the beach, kick off my flip-flops, and drop my bag on top of them. After laying out my towel, I shimmy out of my shorts and pull off my T-shirt, leaving me standing before McRae in nothing but a skimpy red and white polka dot bikini.
He stares at the art across my belly; his gaze travels along the path then dips below the top of my bikini bottom and holds.
“OK, I’m ready,” I say and his pupils dilate.
If there weren’t a smattering of families around us, I’d jump him right here and now. There’s little doubt he’d stop me.
“I beg your pardon?” he asks, his eyes jerking back up to mine.
“For your stuff.” I sweep my eyes across his finer-than-fine form. “I’ll put it with mine. In my bag.”
“Right,” he says and gives a small shake of his head. “My stuff like my phone and watch.”
I nod and step back to my towel, where I lower myself down and stretch out.
He kicks off his shoes, drops his phone on my bag, and jogs to the water, diving in when he hits the spot where the waves break. Knowing his attention is on his swim, I fan myself. Embarrassed that such a simple exchange of words combined with his presence could make me weak in the knees.
After the third buzzing from his phone, I turn it off.
By the time he’s done with his swim and coming out of the water like some Adonis kissed by the sun gods, I’ve moved on to a paperback, but I’ve read the same paragraph three times. My attention was focused on him. I slam it shut and clutch it tight, using it to steady me.
“Have a good swim?” I ask as he reaches for his things.
“I did. That a good book?” Beads of water evaporate off him. Others rest in the hills and valleys of his defined chest, occasionally breaking free to streak downward and drip onto me. My body is already past inflamed, so it wouldn’t be a surprise if the drops began to sizzle.
Is this a stupid conversation? Yes, it is. We should stop tiptoeing around what we really want to say and get down to business. But I don’t suggest that; he’ll need some priming to abandon control. Instead, I answer his question.
“It is a good book. I’ve read it before. Several times actually. It’s my favorite.”
He leans in to look at the cover before he bends to put on his shoes. “Science Fiction. Looks heavy. I wouldn’t have figured you for the sci-fi type.”
I shrug and go for broke. “Maybe if we run into each other again we can get to know each other better.”
“Maybe. Chances look good, seeing as how we’re neighbors now.” His eyes drift to my henna.
“I imagine I’ll be spending most weekends here if I’m not at the bar,” I hint.
“I always run by here on the weekends.”
“This is a good time. Not too crowded.” I watch him over the rim of my glasses.
“Yes, it is.” He lifts his delectable mouth and produces a crooked smile. “Well, enjoy then. Thanks for keepin’ an eye on my stuff.”
“No sweat.” I lie down and adjust my top before wiggling back into my spot.
His phone buzzes and a soft expletive escapes when he looks at the screen.
“Work,” he says. “I gotta run. So, again?” He gestures to the beach.
“Yes, please,” I say and meet his gaze.
With a curt nod of his head, he heads back to the boardwalk.
Lord, that man.
I fall back on my towel, a quivering mess.
The address for the job I found in the classifieds takes me to a portion of the business district that’s not based on the International Speedway but instead aviation. The building is really a hangar housed in a row of hangars within a stone’s throw from the Aeronautical University and the international airport.
A large neon number hanging over the door lets me know I have the right building. Outside, a crew of guys are building up a post from which I can only assume a business sign will hang. There’s nothing on the door to let me know the company name or specific business. The hangar is constructed from the typical gray aluminum and behind it sits two planes, a Cessna 152 and Cessna 172. The hanger door is ajar and inside is a Beech Sierra and Piper Seneca. If it didn’t look legit, with the crew outside and the planes’ noses sticking out the hangar door, I’d have turned around and left.
The planes make me think of McRae, specifically his hot as hell body. Scanning the parking lot, I don’t see the truck that brought me to Daytona.
I come face to face with a freshly scrubbed-face kid with bleached out hair. He’s tall enough to be confused for a basketball player but is so thin it’s a wonder he can defy gravity and remain upright.
“How’s it?” he says, wiping his hands onto a towel. It’s as if he’s used to seeing me every day and this is our customary greeting, no response needed.
“Hey. I saw an ad in the paper for an administrative assistant. Is this the place?” I smile at him and relax my shoulders. This kid doesn’t scan me up and down or stare only at my chest. He looks at me with no never mind whatsoever.
“Yeah, this is the place. You’re looking for Mark, the owner.”
“Is he here?”
“He’s through the door and down the hallway. That’s where all the offices are.” He nods toward a door on the far wall that’s labeled Employees Only.
“Great, thanks. I’m Josie by the way.” I stick out my hand and wait. When he shows me his still greasy hand, I shrug and take it.
“I’m Zach, Zach Smith, nice to meet you. I sure hope you stick around. You seem all right and we need that around here.” He does an eye roll and offers me the rag to wipe my hand.
“Fingers crossed.” I hand the rag back. “Nice to meet you,” I say with a backward step. We smile at each other before I turn around and stride through the doorway.
The layout makes sense to me now. When I pulled up I saw the doors that lead to the office portion of the hangar but they were on the side of the building and out of sight of the parking lot. It’s a quirky design to say the least. Through the main door is an outer office and waiting room of sorts. The desk is piled with papers lying askew and some have fallen to the floor.
Thin floor-to-ceiling partition walls divide the space into three rooms, all sitting behind this one. I consider waiting patiently on the faux leather couch that rests against one wall but it’s unlikely this Mark character, who I’m assuming is the man I hear yelling at someone from the far left inner office, will even think of looking out here.
I walk up to the door leading into the inner office and give a closed-lip smile. The man is tall and wearing the typical man clothes: a golf shirt and shorts. Unfortunately, he’s paired it white socks and Crocs. He takes off his baseball hat, uses it to wave me in, then scratches his head before he puts the hat back on.
“Fine. I’ll pick up milk,” he shouts and slams down the phone. “My wife. She stays home all day. Why she can’t get the freaking milk is beyond me. Please tell me you’re here about the job. Please don’t be a half-wit. I’m Mark Thompson. I own this mess.” He plops down into the large executive chair behind his desk.
“I’m Josie Woodmere and I’m pretty certain I’m not a half-wit.” I don’t offer my hand because he has no interest but instead pass him my resume. He’s given me the once-over, twice, but he’s at least making an effort to not stare. He scans my resume, which excludes my Juris Doctorate but includes my business management bachelor’s, and the name of my alma mater. I’ve found omitting my education altogether works in my favor. But this job is for an administrative assistant, so I figured having a degree in business might work to my advantage.
With brows raised, he looks between me and the paper in his hands. “Yale? Well according to this you’re either pretty damn smart or the biggest half-wit I’ve met to date.”
“My father’s a very active alumnus.” I catch myself mid eye roll.
“Any particular reason you’re not out putting that Ivy League education to good use?” He puts a cigar in his mouth.
“I’m here because I want to be, not because I have to be. I’m here because this is what
I want
to do.”
“You sound just like my daughter,” he mumbles before leveling me with a stare, sizing me up presumably.
He chews on the butt end of a stubby cigar and I continue to meet his gaze. “Take a good look around, lady,” he says, tossing the cigar onto his desk. “We’ve got nothing but foul mouth men here and horny college boys. Someone’s going to say something obnoxious or crude. Definitely disrespectful and I can’t stop them. You think you can handle that without running out of here in tears?” He pulls out a fresh cigar from his desk drawer and taps it on his desk.
“I can handle myself.” I sit back in the seat, folding my hands in my lap. I can bring him to his knees in three or fewer moves.
“I sure hope so because if you can’t you’ll need to leave now.”
“What exactly are the job duties?” I ask.
“Whip this place into shape. My oldest, a girl, graduates college at the end of summer. She has yet to find a job and if she doesn’t she’ll be coming in here as the office manager. This job is until then. That’s all I can offer.”
“That’s fine. September is a long way off. I don’t make plans that far out.”
“It’s three months.”
“Exactly. I’m pretty good at whipping things into shape. I might be able to get it together sooner than the end of summer.” Clearly this place is up and running. It’d be a different story if they were dead in the water. All this place needs is some organization and streamlining.
He nods in appreciation. “You manage that and I’ll give you a bonus. I’m trying to spend more time on the course, like to get involved in some other business ventures, but mostly I want to spend less time here. I have a GM, but look how that’s working out. This place needs someone who can organize it.”
“You have a GM?” From first appearances it looks like the GM is pretty useless, but I hold my tongue. This time.
“Yeah. He’s new at the GM stuff. He’s my instructor. Whip him into shape too,” he says with a chuckle.
“You want all this done today or can I do some tomorrow?” I smile.
His laugh is a short bark. “I like you. You can start right now.” He hands me a stack of paper to fill out.
“Any chance we can keep quiet about where I went to school? I’ve found people tend to...treat me differently when they find out.”
“Listen, this is the south. We only care about your college’s football team. It’ll work to your advantage to keep it mum where you went to school. Have they
ever
been to a bowl game?” He guffaws and slaps his hand against his desk. “Call down to the kid if you need any help.” He tosses the new cigar into his mouth and chews on the end. He picks up the phone, dials a number, and nods for me to leave. Clearly we’re done.
I walk out to the desk and throw my purse onto the chair. I pull open the drawers and find them in worse shape than the top of the desk. I decide to get the lay of the land first. Other than the waiting room and front office combination, Mark’s large office, a smaller office, and a storage area make up the last two spaces. The storage area is poorly organized with filing cabinets, a folding table, several five shelf racks, and a box of office supplies and forms thrown haphazardly into the space. The other office is sparse, as if it rarely gets used but there’s an inbox tray, pencil holder, and a computer on the desk. A fine layer of dust coats the entire area and not a potted plant can be found.
I know nothing about running an aviation company, but it appears this place has grown with little attention to the administrative aspect. It’s a wonder they make money. What I do know is how to put this place back together. I’m exceptionally good at doing that. I clasp my hands together with anticipation. I love a good challenge.
I enlist Zach to help me pull out the folding table and set it up behind my desk then I stack all the loose papers on top. We move the filing cabinets to the far wall of the storage room so we can access them easier and I pull all the papers out of those as well. It’s lunch before I realize and I stop briefly for a taco and a large iced tea. The room looks as if I’ve made it worse, not better, but inside the storage room looks amazing.
I love this shit. More importantly, I’m good at it.
Zach found me a stepladder and I’m stacking old files and forms on top of the shelves, feeling pride at my achievements, when I hear the GM come in.
“Mother of all that’s holy. What the hell has happened here?”
“In the storage room,” I call and try to push the box onto the shelf.
I know he’s come into my space when his hand reaches over mine and shoves the box into place.
“Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” he says.
I turn on the ladder and come face to face with McRae. He’s in dark cargo pants, a white T-shirt, and a dark navy flight vest that stores a small notebook, pens, and I’m guessing whatever else he uses when flying. Aviator shades hang from his front collar and his hair is mussed. In a surprising response, my knees buckle from the impact of immediate attraction and I lean against the file cabinet for support, half sitting on the top of the ladder. The space is small and narrow and I’m very aware of how he fills it completely.
“McRae. We meet again.” I let the smile come.
There’s no use fighting it. Something warm fills me; I like seeing a face I know. Especially his. I totally cyber stalked him over the weekend. After seeing him walk out of the sea, water streaming down his body, I became so hot for this guy it seems obsessive. I’ve yet begun to understand any of it.