“Bree-Anna. You’re late. Again.”
I cringe. Malcolm always uses my full name, his voice gruff and proper. I’m not a fan of my given name, preferring to go by Bree, but my boss refuses to get the memo. Literally. I sent a memo to the entire office within weeks of starting there.
I grip the steering wheel tighter and take my exit. “Sorry. There was a traffic accident.”
He barks a sharp laugh, making me jump in my seat. “Seventh time this month. I suppose we should all be glad that you didn’t go with a death in the family the first time.”
Wow. That’s dark. Even for Malcolm, whose humor always swings to the far left. Buildings close in around me, growing taller as I maneuver through the traffic toward Global’s offices. “Sorry, Malcolm. This will be the last time.” It won’t. “I guarantee it.” I can’t. As long as that billboard is there I can’t guarantee that I won’t be late. In fact, I can probably guarantee that I will be.
“Good to hear it,” he says. “But that doesn’t help me now. I needed you at your desk ten minutes ago.”
“I’m almost there.” The Global Insurance building comes into sight. The huge bronze Globe attached to its roof is visible from a block away. “Five minutes max.”
“No. Don’t come in.”
What? Oh shit. Is he re-evaluating my position with the company? I can’t afford to lose this job.
“I need you in River North to assess a new client. I’ll text you the address and get Marissa to email you the information we have on file.”
But my coffee is in the office. I almost sob at that thought as I change direction, the bronze globe growing smaller in my rearview mirror. Bye, caffeination. Sayonara, vanilla latte. Arrivederci, all ability to function like a human being. I’ll see you again soon. “Who’s the client?”
“Parker Kent,” Malcolm says.
“Holy fu...” ck balls. No way. No. Just no. Not him. How does a terrorist get insurance anyway?
“What was that?”
I cough. Sputter. I almost cussed in front of my boss. Shit. “Parker Kent?”
“Yes. That’s correct. He requested we send someone to his residence to make the assessment.” He clears his throat. “This is a high-profile client, Bree-Anna. It’s important we accommodate him.”
I want to ask him why he couldn’t send Tim. Marissa. Anyone other than me. Come on, I have a picture of Parker Kent in my cubicle. I push thumb tacks into it when I’m riled up. Surely Malcolm must know I’m not the right case manager for this particular client. At least not if he wants the man’s business.
Maybe he doesn’t. That has to be it. Otherwise he’s a sadistic spawn of Satan. Also possible. He is keeping me from my coffee, after all. Christ, I’m going to have to stop somewhere for java if I’m going to deal with Parker Kent. And yes, I know I’m a teensy bit judgemental, considering I’ve never met the guy. But that’s what you get when your first impression is a fourteen-foot high motherfucking billboard that gets you into shit with your boss.
“Okay.” It’s not like I can say anything else. I need this job. “I’m on my way.”
“Good. And Bree-Anna?”
“Yes, Malcolm,” I respond sugar-sweet, glad he can’t see the waspishness I’m sure is adorning my face.
“Don’t stick thumb tacks in the man.” He hangs up.
Sadistic prick for the win, apparently. My phone beeps a few seconds later with an incoming message. Parker Kent’s address. I could arrange a hitman. Kidding. Only sort of kidding. It’s okay if that thought crosses my mind, isn’t it? As long as I dismiss it. I don’t really mean it. I blame it on my under-caffeinated state. I’m bitchy without coffee. Hardly fit for human contact. That and I don’t have the patience to deal with smug men who think they’re God’s gift to women.
***
The building Parker Kent’s apartment is located in is nice. Situated close to restaurants and the club scene, but far enough away that the street itself is quiet. I chug the last of my coffee before climbing out of my car and shoving the door closed with my hip. A wrought iron and brick fence proudly surround the brownstone building. A secondary line of box hedges provide privacy from passers-by.
The gate doesn’t squeak as I close it behind me. Someone must take great care on the upkeep. My heels click on the concrete path that divides to perfect halves of a lawn so well-manicured it could pass for a bowling green.
Huge terracotta pots full to the brim with African violets sit on alternate steps that lead up to the glass panelled door. I study the addresses and names on the intercom before pressing the one for Parker Kent’s apartment. A moment later it buzzes and the door latch clicks, allowing me into the building before I can even manage to open my mouth to introduce myself.
It’s a quick ride up in the elevator and before I know it I’m knocking on his apartment door.
There’s movement and then voices. A woman opens the door. She’s wearing a man’s dress shirt, her lavender colored hair rumpled and loose around her slender face. “Oh. I thought you were food.”
They say you are what you eat. And if that’s the case then I guess I’m food, whereas she’d be toothpicks. But since I’ve managed to imbibe my favorite beverage before showing up to this meeting, I don’t tell her that. I plaster a smile on my face instead. “My name’s Bree Jackson from Global Insurance. I’m looking for Mister Kent.”
“Parker?” She uses her foot to scratch the back of a calf the size of a ten-year-old boy’s.
“Parker Kent.”
Her eyes widen. Perhaps she didn’t know his last name, but considering his image is gracing more than one billboard in the city, she’d have to live under a rock or in a convent for that to be true. Besides, the man is everywhere at the moment. Magazines, television, on the side of every Chicago bus. The only place he doesn’t seem to feature is on the side of a milk carton. He has a movie coming out soon too.
“We have a meeting.” I glance at my watch. I’m not early; I’m barely on time.
“Come in,” she says, moving out of the doorway so I can pass through. The interior of Parker’s apartment is even nicer than what I’ve seen of the building so far. Exposed brick, high beams, and polished floorboards shine in the sunlight filtering in through tall windows.
A gourmet kitchen and airy living space filled with metal and leather furniture makes me sigh. It’s a little masculine, but considering I’m currently living in a one-bedroom shoebox above a Chinese restaurant, I feel like I’m in the waiting room for Heaven.
“I’ll tell him you’re here,” Parker’s whatever-she-is says, walking out of the room. Girlfriend maybe? No. I’ve read enough articles and seen enough photos of the man attached to various women to find that hard to believe. Plus you don’t get nominated for the title of Sexiest Bad Boy of The Year by being in a relationship. Their only requirements are the guys are hot, single, and rough.
Huge black and white portraits decorate the walls, and I walk over to study one of them. Parker Kent stares back at me. The depth in his chocolate eyes isn’t diminished by the lack of color in the photograph. Neither is the cockiness of his half smile.