Tilda
My stomach cramps down so hard it feels like a massive pinecone got wedged in my belly, but no way I’m giving any sign of that for the world to see. As I stride across the street, I let my camel-colored pea coat blow open to reveal my Pinot Noir cashmere dress. To me it’s a strong color without the aggression, which hopefully sends the message that not only am I in control, but I’m comfortable with it. The perky chorus of Frosty the Snowman makes me want to trip the badly organized carolers, and the cheery Christmas lights inside the lobby stab my brain with every twinkle.
He sees me as I hit the middle of the street, or rather, he acknowledges me there. The illustrious Cooper St. James stands there, wrapped up in his Friday "oh look, I'm at work... now I'm wining and dining you... oops did my shirt just fall off" business casual to seduce-your-socks-off best. His frozen puddle eyes widen, but then return to their bored expression. Though he does manage enough enthusiasm to lift one eyebrow.
I overslept this morning, stabbed my eye with the mascara wand, and got a ticket on the way to La Nubz. No way I’m letting him know that, though. Once I finish crossing the street, I barely glance his way before swinging the front door open. "On your way to con old ladies out of their life savings, St. Lames?"
A muscle flexes in his jaw, but then he smiles and steps into the building behind me. “Must be a doozy of a hangover to earn you those red eyes, Flinch.”
I yank my coat off as I step into the elevator, careful to block the entrance. “Oh, sorry. This one’s full. Your doctor probably wants you to take the stairs, anyway.”
His full lips curl into a semi-amused smirk. I’ve heard female clients compare him to anything from a sexy Icelandic librarian to a Viking god of old. My takeaway? The man’s a chameleon and has to rely solely on looks to get anything done. I glare at him, but he just runs a hand over his slicked back blond hair and looks pleased with himself. "Nah. I’ll escort you up. I’m chivalrous that way."
I bury my snort so hard I'm pretty sure I pull a nose muscle. And maybe you’re just another Mistakolas. My stomach lurches at even just the thought of my ex, so I shove the thought away. "You pronounced ‘shallow user’ all wrong."
He steps closer to the elevator, so I move to the side to block him, then press the door close button. We do a mini back and forth dance before he chuckles and braces his hand on the elevator door to keep it open and leans down. “Duck wants us on eight pronto.”
It irks me that Duck sent Cooper to get me rather than texting me himself. I glare at him, Janet’s teary face firmly in mind. “What did you do now, St. Lames, and wouldn’t it be a shame if I had to hold you accountable?”
He steps around me and moves to the back of the elevator where he leans back, crosses his arms over his chest in just the right way to accentuate his polished pecs, and gives me his lady killer smile. “Well, Tilda, I suppose we need a pretty face to pour the champagne when he promotes me."
I fake gag and spin to face the bank of buttons. Janet’s an intelligent woman; how could she fall for that… shallow ick? I extend one leg casually to the side, in front of the door. “Be a shame if you tripped on the way out of this elevator. Did you know there are doctors who treat delusions like yours? Not to mention issues of insecurity that inevitably lead to womanizing."
He steps closer and leans in. “If you took that chip off your shoulder you’d close twice as many deals.”
I stiffen my spine, mash the number eight, then smash it again for good measure, before trying to burn a hole through the wall of the elevator with my heat vision. He chuckles and steps back.
The esteemed offices of Edelmann and Stronk Strategies occupy most of floors two through six of the retro Denver office building, but Leonard Duckstein has a thing for the number eight, so he shares the floor with Bendy Buns Yoga for All, the Tears and Cheers Irish mortuary pub, and Timber Touché, a guy who carves bears from massive tree stumps with a chainsaw. The hallway is slammed with people and racket, so my stress level soars as we make our way to our boss. I wonder with every step if Duckstein is about to tell me my time just ran out. I’m not ready to search for a job again. It took me ninety-two rejections to get this one, and on a probationary basis. I may poke at Coop’s self-esteem, but mine doesn’t need another hit like that any time soon, to be frank. Especially not after losing my last apartment in the Mistakolas debacle. Nope. I’m going to be the best marketer this firm has ever seen so they have to keep me, and I’m never going to be that broke again.
We step through the office door only to be largely ignored by Duckstein’s secretary, Ruby. Correction. She ignores me. Coop, on the other hand, gets a sly smile and a wink. I shake my head. “Show some leg and I bet we won’t even have to wait.”
Duckstein leans his balding head and bulky torso out the door of his office and bellows, “Get your ski gear out because you're going to a party.”
I scowl. “That better be a euphemism.”
While Coop strides toward the office, not a care in the world, my stomach drops. The last few months have taken every ounce of digging deep for me to get up, shower, fix my hair, and show up to work with a smile. I’m not anywhere mentally prepared for the outdoors and cold. I don’t enjoy them in a healthy mental space. There’s no way I can do them in Struggleville.
Still, losing this job would be worse than having to freeze my biscuits outside, so rather than let Coop appear more energized than me, I skip to catch up then tug on the back of his belt so I can slide in front. “I think your reindeer’s about to get towed, Olaf.”
I can’t tell if Coop’s annoyed or just confused, but his furrowed up forehead gives me the chance to scoot ahead. Meanwhile, Duckstein doesn’t even wait for us to make it into his office. Through his open door we hear banging and, “Listen up … crazy cat broad is throwing a Cozy Cupid party… slam… at Snowflake Ridge, and you're both going as each other's … crash … dates. One of you, while you're there, is going to convince this … crunch … bat that you're the one to represent her dumb movie, and this company is gonna cash those huge checks."
We step over the threshold just as Duckstein brings a sledgehammer down on a heavy punch bowl made of lumpy green glass. It shatters, and he steps back to mop sweat from his brow. “I’ve been chasing Danksbury for years. This weekend, she’s ours.”
“Wait, Blanche Elspeth Danksbury III, the Denver Dish gossip lady?” I glance around at the wreckage covering a gray tarp on his floor. Mangled cooking pots, flattened patio furniture, and splintered glass in every shade litter the surface. “Are you redecorating?”
Duckstein grunts and throws a stone planter onto the tarp from a pile of junk near the window. He hefts the sledgehammer over his shoulder and swings. “Nope. Helen’s taken up mosaics or some crap like that, so I’m her ‘art medium’ supplier. Gotta keep the wife happy. Besides, smashing this stuff does something nice inside, you know?” Cronch.
Coop clears his throat. “Well if it’s a party, why don’t you just send me and let Tilda get the background stuff rolling? I’ve got this. I can take Molly as my date. I’ll have Danksbury dined and signed by midnight, and you can move me into that corner office on five."
I kick at the side of his foot. “That’s my office.” Okay so technically it’s not, yet, but I want it. That particular window looks out over a quaint outdoor space where this old couple walks every day at eleven thirty-seven. I take my lunch break up there every day just to see their daily adventure, and I even sort of named them. Every day “Felix” tucks “Ethel’s” hand in the crook of his arm, and she’ll lean in and snuggle him, then they’ll walk the same exact path and point out the slight differences in the same things they see every single day. Sometimes they chat, other times they just walk together, like they’re in their own little world in the midst of the Denver chaos. Dozens of people walk past them without ever noticing, but I see them. And that wholesome sharing, that utter comfort and closeness, I want that. Somehow. Someday. But I’m not even sure love like that exists anymore in my generation. But for the twenty-four minutes they’re meandering through that green space, it gives me a quiet kind of joy. If Christmas magic existed and wishes were real, I wouldn’t wish for fame and riches. I’d wish for that.
Coop glances down sideways at me. “It’s no one’s office; it’s a glorified storage closet. You don’t want that. You strike me more as the in-the-center-of-everything-on-three kinda woman.”
“This from the man who can’t remember his latest girlfriend’s name. It’s Melanie, by the way, not Molly.” I scowl at him then face Duckstein and straighten my shoulders. "Let me land this deal, Mr. Duckstein. St. James could do wonders on the ear wax removal campaign, particularly with his unusual schedule these days.”
I cast a sly glance back just in time to see his face redden. Serves him right for taking off early, partying so hard he comes to work hungover and full of mistakes, and then there’s the whole stealth napping at lunch thing.
Duckstein throws a plastic gnome on the tarp. "You’re my two best marketers right now, so you’re both going. Tilda, you're smart, strategic and have killer instinct. But Coop is spontaneous, excellent at reading people, and face it; he’s fun. Life of the party. Together you're just the team to win this deal, so cozy up. Because when it comes to this weekend, you’re head over heels for each other.”
I take a step forward, but then step right back again as the sledgehammer lands on the poor gnome’s hat. He shatters into three surprisingly even chunks. “I don't need to take the human disco ball. I can be fun. Who organized the last Christmas party? Huh? We had a secret Santa, candy cane guessing game, and oh, oh that caroling sesh? We even had candles."
Coop makes his way around the tarp and leans on Duckstein’s desk. “You just used the word ‘sesh.’ No fun person says ‘sesh.’ I’ll take Melanie, then I’ll put a treadmill right in front of that window on five.”
My heart squeezes in my chest. Him mindlessly running on that belt and staring at nothing would be blasphemy during Ethel and Felix’s time.
I consider throwing a chunk of gnome at his head. When I was hired, Mary Steambacher was chief of staff here, and she showed me that spot. “Remember why,” was all she said. I didn’t really get a chance to ask her what she meant by that, because shortly after that, she retired, and Duckstein took over. Everything changed, and not for the better. It feels like overnight we went from philosophical musings at a window overlooking a greenbelt to smashing gnomes. If that doesn’t just sum it up neatly.
He takes aim at the piece with the gnome’s belly. “You’ll go together, with ski gear, and you’ll ham it up as much as it takes. I’m talking Colorado's sappiest love story. Danksbury’s into passion. Rivalry is passion, but you’re gonna make it look like love. Get one of those nicknames people give to celebrity couples, like Brangelina or Kimye.”
“What, we’re gonna be Tildoop?” I swing my arms out in a slicing motion. “No way. I know she dabbles in the matchmaking business, but surely that’s not the only way to sign her as a client? Which business of hers are we targeting? Real estate, right?”
Please say real estate. Danksbury is one of the bigger names in Denver’s old money scene. No one even knows for sure where her fortune came from. Some say the old mining industry, others say rum running during the prohibition, and still others claim she has ties to the mafia or something. Two facts, though, are beyond question: she owns some very choice real estate in this city, and she’s made the news regularly along with The First Three Dates matchmaking service for some rather high profile and extremely unusual matches. There were football players, con artists, and even a prince-falls-for-pauper match at one point if I’m not mistaken.
The sweet little plastic belly crumbles under the sledgehammer, and Duckstein smiles. “That woman has turned me down every week for two years because she thinks this company lacks heart.” He takes a swing, and next, the gnome’s butt splinters into shards. “How can she say that? So, starting tomorrow morning, you're gonna go and lie your fannies off, give the schmucks at that party the fake romance of a lifetime, and show her what softies we are.” He kicks the head into place. “Get her to sign on the dotted… crunch… line. Hear me? I want that fat marketing budget.”
I notice he avoided my question, but even if it’s not her real estate portfolio we’ll handle marketing for, how bad could a marketing job for matchmakers be? Could be fun, actually. And I need this win.