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It was evening, mid August, the weather thick and balmy. I was bored, surfing the net. The heat felt like an afghan wrapped around me, light and clingy all at the same time. It snuck up on you, making you feel comfortable for a while, then suddenly making you wish that you could shed your skin like just one more unnecessary layer. As it was, my suit jacket was already draped over the back of my chair and I had unbuttoned the top few buttons of my blouse. My heels lay discarded beneath my desk, and my feet were propped up on the corner of the monstrous oak creation that Elise, my secretary, insisted commanded a greater presence. Frankly, I thought it was a desk, and a pain of one to get up the stairs.
But I'm rambling, aren't it? That's neither here nor there. So here I was, behind my desk. I left the door from my office to the waiting area open, so that I could see anyone come in. Elise was home already, reminding me that as the boss, overtime just meant less personal time and not more money. I had sent her on her way, back to her husband and children. I wasn't ready to go home, to that empty apartment with the ghosts of what could have been still clinging there. Still, there was only so much you could do on email sites and lurking on forums.
Just as I had closed the browser window, he walked in. He wasn't like the usual clients I received, women who needed information or small, nervous men who wanted a wife watched. No, he was tall and narrow, solid all the way through. The tailored suit hung well on him and he seemed as comfortable in that as a regular man would feel in jeans and a favored t-shirt. He walked in with a hand in one pocket and the other slowly removing his sunglasses. Armani, I noted, tucking that away in the mental file marked "How much should I charge this shmuck?"
I remained where I was, choosing to let him react to the scene he walked in on rather than attempting a professional composure now. "Can I help you?" I asked, cool and crisp. He smirked, looking at my stocking-clad toes in the air on the desk. "Yeah, toots," he replied after several beats. "You can get [last name] on the horn and see if he'll come in to talk with a new potential client. If you're real quick about it, I don’t see a reason to tell him that I found you behind his desk, all casual."
In the file marked "Who the hell is this guy?", I dropped "Chauvinist" along with "Rich" and "Gorgeous as sin". Still, more fun could be had before I told him just what was going on. "And who should I tell [last name] is calling?" I asked, keeping my voice at an even keel, showing him that his threat hadn't phased me in the slightest. I peered at him over the top rim of my glasses, studying this man.
"Listen, toots, I don't need you to get nosey. I want to talk to the PI directly, and I won't use a go-between like a tart of a secretary such as yourself." He rested those large hands on the edge of my desk and leaned forward. "Detective Harrison sent me over here himself, and I'm not about-"
"Harrison sent you here?" I interrupted, swinging my feet off the desk and standing. I was nowhere near his height, even bent over as he was, but it still helped. "Well. That's a horse of a different color. Now, normally, I would let you hang yourself on your words, Mr. Whatever your name is, but you must mean business." I slid my heels on carefully then stepped around the desk. "[full name], Private Investigator. Why not tell me your story and I'll see about overlooking that tart comment."
