Frosting Her Christmas Cookies - Alina Jacobs Page 0,99
looking around and hoping no one heard them. “Don’t ruin this for me. I need Dorothy to sell to me. I almost have her ready to sign.”
“Is that why you’re letting Morticia treat you like a pampered dog?”
“I swear,” I hissed as we rounded the corner. There was an old studio space there that Greg had said he was just going to burn down. The door was open, and lights were on. Morticia and the old woman were visible through the windows. Shit. Had they heard my brothers?
I mimed slitting my throat at them as I walked over, hoping to salvage the situation. They had surely seen us if not heard us.
Play it cool.
Morticia was fussing with some sort of art piece. I didn’t get a good look at it, though, because I was too focused on Dorothy.
“How is the most beautiful woman this side of the Hudson River?” I asked in greeting.
“Now, I don’t think your girlfriend is going to appreciate your flirting with me, young man,” Dorothy said.
I winked at Morticia, who was flushed and wide-eyed. “I’m sure she won’t mind sharing.”
“I bet she does mind!” Dorothy said, cackling and pointing behind her to the new piece, which was now covered. “Have you seen—”
“The sketch I did of Hamilton Yards,” Morticia butted in. “I was just talking to Dorothy about all our ideas for making this a cool, marketable place. Live, work, play,” she chirped. “And make art!”
Morticia whipped out her sketchbook to show me a meticulous sketch of a bird’s-eye view of the property. “We can turn this building across the way into artists’ studios, and you can form a foundation to run it. We can also have the foundation host art-themed events like the Christmas market and also summer events that can be educational. This building you can use as an event space, of course, since Dorothy wants to host art retreats there.”
“Oh yes!” Dorothy exclaimed, “These are all amazing ideas. Morticia’s so creative, though I’m sure you’ve seen her work, especially since—”
“Gardens!” Morticia said desperately. “Lots of gardens and topiaries and sculptures. We could host all sorts of art fairs. There’s so much open space here.”
“Do you have enough square footage here to support that?” Owen asked, studying the drawing with a frown. “You don’t want to put a tower in here for a revenue base?”
“I don’t know. What do you think, Morticia? You’re the one with all the great ideas,” Dorothy asked.
“Um,” Morticia said.
I waited expectantly, hoping I was sending her thought waves communicating what I needed. Greg wanted a forest of towers. Not having towers was not an option.
“Maybe just one,” Morticia said.
I made a subtle “increase” motion.
“Two, no, three?”
“Yes,” Dorothy said. “We can have one super-tall one and then two shorter ones near it so that it looks like a cock and balls.”
“A cock-and-ball tower?” I asked Morticia when she showed up at my condo later that evening after work. She was smudged with paint. Salem was on a leash next to her. I kissed her nose.
“Dorothy seemed to like it,” she said.
“I know!” I kissed her again. “And you’ve made more headway with her in a few weeks than I have in a year. It’s nuts!”
“You have to speak her language,” Morticia said.
“I’ve been bringing her alcohol.”
“Yes, but she likes sex,” Morticia replied. I helped her out of her black trench coat. She surveyed the Italian war zone that was my kitchen counter. “I’m scared to ask what you’re doing,” she said.
“I was making lasagna to surprise you!”
She inspected the dough I had started. “It’s so cute that you tried,” she said, picking it up and throwing it into the trash.
“I spent a lot of time on that!” I protested.
“It had the texture of a cheap dildo,” she replied.
I wrapped her in my arms. “I didn’t bring you here to cook for me,” I whispered, “just to fuck you and eat you out whenever possible.”
“I want lasagna, and I want to cook in a kitchen that doesn’t have a million other women in it,” she grumped. “Honestly, anyone who says girls are clean is clearly lying. There is nail polish glued to the ceiling of the apartment.”
I laughed and kissed her.
She measured out ingredients for the dough. I hovered around her, pretending to help.
“You can stir the tomato sauce,” she finally said in exasperation and handed me a spoon. “At least your meat is only partially burned.” She inspected the ground beef and onions I had made.