Skirting The Issue

“Uh, right here.” The broker fumbled in his breast pocket.

Claire linked her arm around the other broker’s. “You and I are on crowd control. Thanks for coming everybody!” she called and waved them toward the door.

“Hey!” French Twist wasn’t budging.

“Ta-ta, Meredith. Just think, you won’t have to walk Cleo.”

“I would have hired a walker for that damn poodle, and you know it!”

“As you did last time. Mrs. Higginbotham said that Cleo was very stressed.”

Poodle? Was dog sitting part of the deal? Sam blinked. She couldn’t help it. Fortunately, breaking eye contact didn’t seem to diminish her strange power over Tavish. “Do you have a dog?” she asked in a breathy voice.

Tavish shook his head.

Okay, then. Things were just hunky-dory. A.J. was handling the contract and Claire was making everybody leave.

Sam’s hand was sweating. Or it could have been Tavish’s. Probably both. How was she supposed to extricate herself? She now not only believed, she thoroughly understood the “magnet” part of the skirt’s legend. Except how did she turn it off?

“I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DID IT!” A.J. gave her a high five, which Sam was glad she could high-five back, because she thought she’d never get her hand back from Tavish. Then Claire high-fived her. Then they high-fived each other—or low-fived, since they were both so much shorter than Sam.

Then Sam took off the skirt. They were alone after having made enemies of a significant percentage of the blondes in New York City, but Sam didn’t care. She’d found an apartment—and for a ridiculously low rent. Don’t ask her how that happened.

A.J., who’d turned out to be a lawyer—and how handy was that?—had put the amount right into the rental agreement.

“I’ve got to get back to the hotel,” Sam called, hating to abandon her new roommates before getting to know them. She’d been really lucky there. The three of them appeared to be on the same wavelength, which was reassuring considering how many different wavelengths there were in New York City.

Carefully folding the skirt—she wasn’t mailing it anywhere after today—Sam put it on the top shelf in the second largest bedroom and put her suit skirt back on. “Let’s have dinner together here,” she called.

“I’ll get takeout,” A.J. offered.

“Sounds fab. If I can, I’ll see if the pastry chef has an extra Sacher torte and contribute that.”

“What’s Sacher torte?” Claire asked.

“Think dense chocolate. Sin on a fork.” Sam grabbed her purse. “I hate to leave you guys like this, but I really need to get back to work.”

“Like I’m going to complain after you rescued me,” Claire said.

“Ditto.” A.J. shooed her away. “Go.”

And Sam went. She was on top of the world. She didn’t know if it was fate, or the skirt, but Tavish had practically given them the apartment.

The other potential renters hadn’t been pleased, to understate matters, but Sam didn’t care. She’d taken a chance and look how it had paid off.

Today, she was invincible. Invulnerable. Triumphant. The promotion was as good as hers.

Humming—it was the Beach Boys, but who cared after the day she’d had—Sam strode into the lobby of the Carrington and punched the button for the executive offices. The doors parted immediately. It was just that kind of day.

Going to the top floor without stopping—she was on such a roll—the doors whisked open. Sam stepped into the foyer of the executive offices half expecting a general hush followed by a trumpet fanfare.

Look out world, Sam Baldwin has arrived. She strode, yes, strode, toward the skimpy temporary office she was using. She should really ask for something better. With her luck today, she’d probably get a corner office.

“Tiffany, any messages?” She’d always wanted to say that.

Tiffany, the receptionist, gave her an annoyed look, completely failing to notice Sam’s aura of power. “I don’t know—check your voice mail. Oh, actually, you might go see Mr. Hennesey. He was looking for you right after lunch.” Tiffany pointedly looked at her watch. “Like, about an hour ago.”

“Too bad he wasn’t looking for me at seven-thirty this morning when I was at my desk.”

Tiffany was clearly going nowhere. She’d be singing a different tune once Sam was promoted.

Sam went in search of Mr. Hennesey. Odd. She would have thought he’d still be in the meeting. But no. She could hear him talking with someone in his office.

“Mr. Hennesey?” Sam knocked on the open door before stepping inside. “Tiffany said you were looking for me. If it’s about the profit comparison for Happy Hours with and without complimentary buffets, I came in early this morning and finished the report. I left it with Tiffany.”

“Great. I’ll check with her in a bit.” Mr. Hennesey leaned against the corner of his desk, clearly in no hurry.

So much for early-morning brownie points. Sam felt her aura dim just a bit.

“Actually, I was looking for you because I understand you’re acquainted with our new sales consultant.”

Sam’s neck tickled as the hairs on the back stood up. It was her only warning that her roll had ended, splatting right into the figure she hadn’t noticed sitting in Mr. Hennesey’s leather love seat.

Her aura tarnished.

Her luck came up snake eyes.

Her good mood fizzled.

She slid off the top of the world.

Slowly, she turned her head, something within her already knowing the identity of the man, the one aura-tarnishing person she knew…

Josh Crandall.

He grinned—no, leered…no, it was a smirk. Definitely a smirk. “Hiya, Sam. How’s tricks?”

How’s tricks. Nobody said that anymore—nobody outside of Mr. Hennesey’s generation. Doing a little intergenerational bonding, Mr. Crandall?

On the other hand, being tricky was Josh’s modus operandi.

He didn’t bother to stand because that would show respect and heaven forbid Josh Crandall should show respect for anyone he didn’t have to.

Sam would rise above the situation, which meant she could lower herself and still be above him.

“Mr. Crandall.” What was he doing here?

“Oh, take the ruler out of your—” He shifted and unrepentantly cleared his throat, his meaning crystal clear. “I told Bill, here, we were buds.”