I opened the luxury shopping bag and peered inside. I was confused. Had they switched my bag with someone else’s? I was sure I had not requested Tamara Mellon pumps. These shoes were at least $250. The blouse was a plain white button-down in my requested size. It, too, was perfect. Wait? This blouse was a $300 Eileen Fisher. Good lord. I gulped, thinking about how that was going to come out of my first check.
“It’s great. What do I owe you?” I asked as I went to my desk to pull out my Mastercard. Between this and the renovations to my house, I was going to eat ramen for the next month.
“No need for payment, Ms. James. It’s been taken care of. As well as the tip.” The courier exited my office as swiftly as he had appeared.
That’s weird. Architectural firms had personal shoppers and accounts for associates? I had really come up in the world.
I quickly tossed my heels in the trash, ripped off my torn pantyhose, and slipped on the new heels. They were the perfect fit. I eased off my dirty shirt and tossed it into my tote bag, stuffing it all back into the large industrial bureau behind my desk. Just as I was buttoning the fresh shirt, relishing the feel of the material against my skin, my door flung open without warning.
A male voice boomed. “Ms. James. I’m so sorry for being late this morning. I…”
I turned around…
God must be auditioning for Def Comedy Jam.
Ms. Gayle’s “You’re going to love him” was a gross understatement, which included no mention of how handsome this man was. Christ! She could have warned me that Porter Harrison looked like the missing brother in a Michael Ealy/Jesse Williams doppelg?nger set of triplets. He had sparkling green eyes, and a chiseled jawline framed by a faded beard hid a slight dimple that framed his wide, inviting, bright smile.
Or maybe I imagined that. I couldn’t be sure. Having someone walk in on you in a state of undress makes one disoriented.
I hurried and covered myself, holding my shirt together so tight I feared I’d rip off a button.
“Oh, dear God! I’m so sorry!” Porter squinted, closing his eyes tightly, unsure of where to look while his face was turning a bright shade of apricot.
“Well, can you turn around, please? So, I can finish changing my shirt.”
“Oh sure. Do your thing!”
Porter turned quickly to face the corner of the office while I quickly buttoned my shirt and tucked it into my skirt in record time. I prayed the zipper would hold under the increasing pressure building up in my midsection. I could see why the man didn’t have a photo on the company website or social media. He was too fine for public consumption.
I inhaled a deep breath before responding in my most professional voice. “Mr. Harrison. You may turn around now.”
My mouth went dry as I took in his alarmingly good looks. It was a face that I would steer clear of under all circumstances. There was no way that this man was real, standing in front of me. Dude had the looks of an Instagram model. An impeccably dressed man, Porter wore a tailored gray suit and maroon tie. Too focused on his eyes, I almost missed when Porter extended his hand to me. I wiped my sweaty, quivering hand on my skirt and extended it toward him.
Porter, realizing that he was still holding my hand a beat too long, finally let go. “Wow…you’re here. I mean. Sorry. Don’t get up. I’m so sorry for the wait. I was on a call and I couldn’t get them off the phone. Forgive me, Ms. James. Let’s sit.”
I slid back down in the chair nearest to me, unsure if I was melting or just obeying. “Ari. Ari is fine,” I stammered. His voice had a twang that reminded me of candy-coated paint jobs, bayous, and Texas heat. A sweet, sticky heat.
Porter smiled a smile that was toothpaste-commercial ready. “Ari it is. Just call me Porter.”
He sat down in the chair next to me. My skirt was so tight that I knew crossing my legs would cut off circulation and lead to my death. A death witnessed by this handsome man in the well-tailored suit.
Porter continued. “Mr. Riddle has told me such great things about you. Your work is top-notch.”
My eyes darted away from the intensity of his gaze. “Seems that I can say the same about you.”
Porter’s lips curled up into a shy smile as he smoothed his tie. “I’m excited to work with you on our upcoming projects. The Serrano Group soccer stadium is going to be big for the firm. The crown jewel. Are these some of your conceptual designs?” He pointed to the black portfolio on the table.
As I watched him slide the portfolio toward his side of the table, the hair in my now frizzy kitchen stood on end.