think she just gave him all the cash the doorman handed her. Yep, from the expression of joyous disbelief on his face, that’s exactly what she did.
Whatever. I’m falling behind schedule. I pull out my iPad and quickly tap out a response to the head of purchasing, then I open my planner and move down my to-do list, which is on the left side of the screen. Of course, my watch is also programmed to ping me reminders, but I don’t want to take a chance of missing anything.
We only make it a few blocks before the cab reaches a light and slows to a stop. A sudden rapping startles me. It’s Winona, knocking on the window.
Henry, that Limey traitor, opens the door for her.
She slides in and slams the door shut. And my libido wakes up and takes notice. Hello.
Down, boy. You don’t have time for this.
“Did you seriously just open the door for her?” I demand.
“Sorry, sir.” Henry smiles, his eyes sparking with amusement. “It was an instinctive reaction. I was brought up to open doors for the fairer sex.” He doesn’t look sorry. Probably because of the coffee thing. He always gets me in the end.
She’s close enough that her perfume tickles my nostrils. I find myself smiling, which I do a lot when she’s around. “Top notes of orange, heart notes of Italian jasmine, base notes of Indonesian patchouli,” I observe. “Coco Mademoiselle?” I do know my way around women’s perfume.
She doesn’t look impressed. Her brown eyes burn holes through me. “You stole my cab.”
“Stole?” I arch an eyebrow. “I paid you for the inconvenience.”
“Oh, is that you how think things work?” she demands heatedly. “You just throw money at the problem and it goes away?”
I smirk at her. “It's always worked for me so far.”
The smirk is a reflex. A defense mechanism. She looks at me, and sees a handsome guy in a ten-thousand-dollar suit, and thinks she knows me.
And she’s wrong. She doesn’t know jack. Then again, most people don’t know the truth about my family – and they never will.
A memory flashes through my mind, of a young boy sitting on a folding chair in an enormous empty living room, eating half a microwaved potato. Violently, I shove the image aside.
She jostles in her seat, almost knocking my iPad to the floor. “I seriously can't believe that you cut in line and then stole my cab."
“Your cab? I didn’t see your name on it. And I told you, I have to pick up my sister.”
“Where?”
“The airport.”
“The airport? That’s the wrong direction!” she cries out.
“Not for me.” I smile in self-satisfaction and settle comfortably back in my seat. She glares at me.
I yawn in a hugely exaggerated fashion, and stretch. “Henry, can you move my three o’clock up to three-fifteen? It’s looking like that kind of day.”
Henry nods, pulls out his phone, and starts tapping out an email.
“Yes, Henry, Gordon Gekko wants to reschedule the orphanage demolition project. Please take note.” Winona impatiently shifts in her seat, and something in her purse makes a clinking sound. Her eyes gleam in a way that I find mildly alarming. She reaches in and pulls out a bottle of perfume with a little bulb atomizer.
“I was thinking of wearing this to my job interview. What do you think?” She spritzes it at me, filling the cab with the scent of Eau de Old Lady. It smells like talcum powder had sex with a bouquet of roses.
I cough and wave my hand, fanning the air. “They’ll love you at the funeral home. Nobody will notice the embalming smell when you waltz into the room.”
“Oh wow, did Mr. Robot make a joke?”
“Mr. Robot?” I’m mildly offended. Mr. Robot, indeed. Would a Mr. Robot be able to churn out creative solutions all day long like I do? Robots are programmed. I’m a fountain of creative solutions. It’s my thing.
“Would you prefer Dove-Gray Dickweasel?”
Henry coughs into his hand. I think he’s laughing at me.
“Would I prefer what?” I demand.
“Because that’s the other name I’ve been calling you in my head. Well, that and Tall, Dark and Dickish.”
I arch an eyebrow at her. “Sounds like you spend a lot of time thinking about me. I’m flattered.”
“Are you going to get out of this cab?” She jiggles the bottle in a threatening fashion.
“After you just hurt my feelings saying those mean, mean things? Definitely not.”
“Right, like you were ever planning on it.”
She presses here finger down again, spraying a big blast of perfume