The Sunday Arrangement (3 page)

I
swung my office door open. “Phone Pierce Maverick
,
and tell him I have a
meeting in the morning,” I practically yelled at Monica. So much for not
snapping at her. “Tell him that if he wants to see me, he’ll have to meet me in
my office around noon. Or make an appointment like everybody else.”

Monica’s
smile quickly fell from her face. “Yes, Ms. Hart. I’ll do that right away.”

I slammed
my office door closed.
Professional, Lauren. Real professional.

The
blueprints I had worked so tirelessly on that morning stared at me. They
beckoned me to continue with them and abandon all of my new commitments. Dad
wanted me to just give all that up. And for what? To build a stupid casino?
I
don’t think so
. I couldn’t have something so completely unoriginal on my
record, not when I was trying to make CEO and save my father’s company.

I took
a deep breath. Sitting in the limo outside my apartment seemed to be the only safe
place. Outside was mayhem. A group of photographers huddled just outside the
car like a school of piranhas waiting to strike. Faces pressed against the
glass. Their cameras flashed like lightning crackling in the night sky. They
were urging me to open the door. I gripped my black Prada bag tightly,
steadying myself.

“Ms.
Hart? I can help you get out of the car if you need my assistance,” my driver
piped up.

“Thanks,
Rob. I think . . . I think I’ll be okay. How bad can they be, right?” I said,
attempting to lighten the tension that now gripped my chest.

“If
you say so, Ms. Hart.”

“Just
let me gather myself for a minute.”

The
last time I was involved in a paparazzi explosion was in college, a little more
than five years ago, though it seemed as recent as my last breath. As I closed
my eyes, the sweet scent of Cuban cigars and the musk of my old professor’s two-bedroom
Manhattan apartment came hauntingly back to mind. His study was my favorite
room. I could still picture the green velvet chaise and the endless stacks of colorful
books in the small office. Often, while he was meticulously grading papers at
his desk, I would run a finger down the spine of each of his aged novels on the
shelves. The worn leather felt familiar somehow. I’d imagine the setting where
he had read each book, the emotion that each word evoked from the man now
stroking his imaginary beard. I’d wonder what pages were dog-eared, which words
were circled for their particular significance or uniqueness. The inner workings
of his intelligence and how he viewed the written language had fascinated me.
His eyes saw what mine could not after hundreds of careful readings.

“Darling,
you know there’s nothing I love more than to watch you finger my collection,”
he would say, teasingly. His hazelnut eyes stared at me over his wire-rimmed
glasses. His simple, crooked smile intoxicated me. He looked so regal, so wise.
The ebony marble pipe in his hand somehow beckoned me toward him.

Of
course I did know how much he enjoyed watching me fiddle with his books, which
was mostly why I performed our nightly ritual. It was my subtle hint to
Professor Tilton that I had had enough of his grading for one night. After all,
I had already seen the grade he’d given my paper, which analyzed the critical
moment in the demise of Anna Karenina’s sanity before her fatal night at the
railroad tracks. His comment in the left-hand corner, “Exquisite!” had warmed
my heart. It made me long for him that night more than any other evening we had
spent together in our short, budding romance.

At
that moment, like Anna Karenina, I had wanted to take my sexual prowess into my
own hands. I gracefully moved toward his desk, hoping he found my girlish
appeal as sexy as I viewed his regal age. Loosening the belt around my silk
robe, I licked my lips. “Come, Professor. It’s time for bed now.”

The
nature of our relationship, though sincere, was profoundly misplaced. Our
evening rendezvous had to be kept secret. Since then, I often wondered if this
was the very reason Tilton had titillated me in the first place.

When
I left his apartment that night, it was nearly two in the morning. I hadn’t
wanted to leave the warm bed or his strong arms, but propriety demanded it. We
had to be careful, so very, very careful. As I quietly shut the door behind me,
I was ambushed. Flashes of light peppered me, snapping photo after photo of me
leaving my professor’s house in nothing but a silk robe. My euphoria from the
loving night with my wise man had come to a screeching halt. The reporters swarmed
me like bees around a hive, robbing me of the precious nectar I had stored
within me. Personal space, personal feelings, were as distant a concept to them
as compassion and mercy.

The
articles the following weeks were brutal:
Millionaire’s daughter sleeping
her way to the top? Hart’s daughter shares more than her heart with 62-year-old
professor. Yale English professor hands out more than good grades
, and so
on. The hateful words nearly killed me; they were all so unfounded. So mean. So
ungracious. No one cared about our feelings. They cared only about the scandal
and the hundreds of newspapers they would surely sell.

My
father had been furious about the onslaught of bad publicity the company
received. He forced me to drop out of Yale and spend a few months in London
with my mother in the hopes that the whole thing would eventually blow over.
Tilton never contacted me, but I heard the tenured professor was suddenly under
a microscope—his class stripped out from under him—in light of all the
humiliation and the obtrusive loss of privacy.

I hadn’t
given those crazy journalists fishing for a bit of gossip any real reasons to
put my face on the front of the top gossip rags since then. But here they were
again, ready to pounce. Though I had nothing to hide this time, I didn’t feel
ready to face the all-too-eager cameras. They were so unforgiving, so merciless
in their quests for indecency. Dad was right when he insisted that Rob drive me
home; the muckrakers must have seen Pierce and Peter Maverick at the office
earlier in the day. I could see the headline now:
Millionaire Mavericks and
Harts make nice?

Suddenly,
a gutsy photographer started banging on my window. “Come on, Ms. Hart. Tell us
about the new deal you’re cooking up!”

Panic
flooded me. I exhaled crisply like a woman in Lamaze class.
Keep it
together. Don’t panic.

“Tell
us why you’re suddenly friends with the Mavericks!” another voice shouted.

My
door quickly opened, and someone pulled me out of the limo with a strong tug of
the arm.
Dear Kat, bless you
, I thought as my best friend led me
forward.
Immediately the flashes flickered, temporarily blinding me.
God,
you’d think I was freaking Jennifer Aniston.

“Tell
us about the Mavericks!” someone shouted. “What were they doing at Hart Corp
today?”

“Are
you and Pierce a couple now?” another yelled.

Their
raised voices bombarded me with other ridiculous questions. I kept my head down
and forced my way through the crowd, all the while praying Kat and I would make
it to the apartment unscathed. “Lauren, keys!” I heard my friend yell.

Quickly,
I fumbled in the pocket of my red pea coat for the keys. By some miracle, I
unlocked the large oak door, and soon we managed to stumble inside and away
from the flicker of the paparazzi’s lights.

I
placed a hand over my chest and took a moment to catch my breath.

“Holy
shit, Lo!” Kat said with her hands on her bony knees. “I feel like I just ran a
goddamn marathon.”

Despite
the anxiety whirling inside me, I couldn’t help but smile at her. Outside, I
knew it was Kat the second she took hold of my hand. I knew her touch. I had known
her long enough that I could be blindfolded and shake people’s hands and still
know which one was her. This wasn’t the first time she’d saved me from the
paparazzi, and I doubted it would be the last.

“Thanks
for rescuing me out there. That was crazy.”

“You
know I’d do anything for you. Though I think you need to grow some balls and
face those bitches. Give them the finger or flash them, ya know? Something
that’ll really fluff their feathers.”

I
rolled my eyes. “Yes, because that is exactly what I want.”

“You’d
think you were actually famous by all the people out there! I mean, what the
hell happened today?”

I
dropped my bag, kicked off my heels, and walked into my small living room. “The
Mavericks came to Hart Corp today. Although with the amount of publicity we’re
getting for one lousy meeting, you’d think some freakin’ strippers were
involved.” I plopped down on my red, comfy sectional and patted the seat next
to me for her to join.

“
The
Mavericks? As in your family’s mortal enemies? Those Mavericks?”

“Yeah,
they’re the ones.”

She
grabbed a throw pillow and sat down next to me. “Then I’m confused.”

“Join
the club. Apparently, Dad now thinks it’ll be a good idea to partner with them
on an upcoming project.”

“You’re
shitting me.”

“You
haven’t even heard the best part. Guess who he wants to run it?”

“I’m
afraid to ask.”

I
pulled my legs toward me to hug my knees. “You’re looking at her. My new title
will now be Pierce Maverick’s Official Babysitter.”

Kat
threw the red-and-white floral pillow that she’d been holding to the other side
of the sectional. “I think I need a beer.” She quickly got up from the sofa and
walked across the dark hardwood floor to my kitchen, a scant twenty feet away.

“I
don’t often drink beer after work, but when I do . . . I drink Dos Equis,” she
quipped, mimicking the bearded man behind the cheesy beer commercials.

“Kat,
you
always
drink beer after work.”

She
made her way back to me, beers in hand. “Ah shit, you’re right.”

I
grabbed the bottle from her and twisted the top off. I took a long pull from
the cold beer. Nothing was more refreshing.

With
her one free hand, Kat ran her fingers through her short, blond pixie cut. “So
what exactly are you telling me here, Lo?”

“I’m
screwed, basically.” I shook my head, still not believing my dad had the nerve
to venture out on this ridiculous project. “It was all Dad’s idea too! That’s
what I don’t get.”

Kat’s
eyes went big. “What’s he smoking and where can I get some?”

“Right?
It’s so unlike him. Our families hate each other. That’s the way it’s always
been.”

Kat
paused a moment, letting my words hang in the air. “What’s your job going to
be?” she finally asked.

“I’ve
got to make sure the kid doesn’t mess everything up or pull anything shady over
the company, I guess. Though I can guarantee you, if Dad thinks I’m going to be
on diaper duty, he doesn’t know me very well.”

“So
who is this Pierce kid anyway? Obviously, he’s a Maverick so we hate him,
right?”

I
willed my face not to turn scarlet. Kat could read through any of my bullshit,
and I didn’t need her to know that I thought Pierce was the most gorgeous man
I’d ever seen. “Pierce is eldest. Straight out of college. Thinks he’s all that
and a bag of chips.”

“Sounds
peachy.”

“Yeah,
he’s pretty arrogant. The next few months aren’t going to be real pleasant I
suspect.”

She took
a sip of her beer, her eyes never leaving mine. “So I’m guessing by that forced
expression on your face that this guy is hot?”

Damn.
How does she always know?
“What? What do you mean?”

Kat
folded her tattoo-covered arms and gave me a stern look. “How long have we been
friends now? Fifteen years? I think that’s long enough for me to know when you’re
holding something back.”

“Fine,
fine,” I said, throwing my hands up in surrender.

“Oh,
is he now?”

I
playfully nudged Kat in the arm. “Yes, if you must know. The man is gorgeous.
In fact, he may even be enough to tempt the lesbian out of you.”

Kat
took another sip of her beer. “Unless he has some breasts to play with, I
highly doubt that.”

I
laughed until beer fizzled out of my nose. Kat could always make me chuckle.
Her charisma and wit captivated me. It didn’t matter what she said or what she
did, I wanted to be close to her because I knew we were going to have a hell of
a good time. Not only was she a blast, but she also understood me. She was the
only person I felt comfortable around, the only person I felt I could be normal
with. Around family and the public, I was constantly walking on eggshells.
Look
pretty. Be smart. Date successful men. Make everyone like you
. With Kat, I could
wear sweat pants, drink beer, and not worry about whether or not I was wearing
the latest Gucci shoes or how I was going to explain to my mother that I was still
not dating anyone.

Because
of this, I’d always had a small girl crush on her, which really confused me as
a teenager. I couldn’t figure out what I liked. The taste of men, their soft
tongues on mine, had always aroused me. It left me curious, always wanting
more. With women, particularly Kat, I connected on an entirely different level.
It was more than the insatiable heat between our bodies. It was understanding,
compassion. Eventually I discovered that I wanted to be with men, in spite of
the rotten eggs I’d dated the past few years. They all reminded me too much of
my father—too prideful and too ambitious to see the importance of being with
the loved ones who surrounded them.