The Do It List (The Do It List #1) (20 page)

Anyway, I was one for two, and I didn’t really care about the laundry.

MONDAY MORNING ARRIVED entirely too soon, and we were late.

“Is it faster to run or ride?” Bradley tugged me down the sidewalk toward Fifth Avenue, our best chance of hailing a ride.

“Run, but if you see an open cab—go for it.” I trotted up beside him.
 

We rounded the corner and Bradley whistled at a blur of passing taxis. One pulled over.
 

 
“Jeezus, you’re so good at that.”

“That’s what you said in the shower this morning.” He opened the door and tossed in his gym bag and overnight suiter.
 

I climbed in and he followed after. “Fifteenth and Eighth Avenue.”
 

Bradley looked totally hot in a black-on-black pinstripe suit, a warm gray shirt and dark gray tie. I thought about the naked body underneath the quietly fashionable ensemble. All my girl parts would enthusiastically attest to being ravaged up against steamy shower titles this morning. And he had almost succeeded again, when while we were dressing. I blamed the lavender panties and matching bra for his second attempt.
 

I shot him a sideways glance. “If you knew you had a meeting first thing, what was all that Bradley fuckery about this morning?”

“Maybe I just needed to hear a little more ooohing and aaahing.” He tucked me into his side. “You aren’t complaining, are you?”

We briefly exchanged a minty-mouthwash-flavored kiss.

 
“Hardly.”

He grinned. “We never finished plans for Mother’s dinner party. Your fault. You distracted me in the middle of pizza and beer.”

I dug for my phone and checked the calendar. “I have a body scrub and waxing at four on Thursday. I could move it, but I don’t want to wax too close to leaving for California.”

“Dinner starts around eight. Bring a change of clothes. You can dress at my house.” He angled over and I tilted my phone so he could read. “See if you can make two appointments. I could use a bit of grooming up.”

“Thoughtful of you, darling—a woman appreciates a well-groomed man.” I called the George Salon and left a quick message.

He shook his head, absently. “Not sure why I’m dragging you into this. I hate my mother’s dinner parties.”

“Misery loves company.” I looked up from my phone. “How awful could a dinner party be?”

“Let’s see…there will be the usual Wall Street hedge fund types—the Park Avenue set. She likes to stay abreast of all the latest investment schemes. And then her cronies from the Metropolitan Opera—she’s been on the board for years.”

“Bradley—just exactly how wealthy is your family?”

“Anne Getty Craig, three hundred eighty-two on the Forbes list of richest Americans.” He stole a quick, sheepish glance at me. “Old family money, plus she’s a savvy investor. She’s done well for herself.”

“And your father?”

“More of a self-made man. Plenty of income, but nothing like Mother. Workaholic—travels constantly. Mostly between London, New York, and Dubai.” Bradley studied my face. “I’m pretty sure he’d flirt shamelessly with you.”

I reached up and stroked his smooth, clean jawline. We had shared the mirror and sink this morning, and I’d watched him shave. Funny, how such a simple act of personal hygiene could feel so intimate. “I’d like to shave you with a straight razor, like Miss Moneypenny.”

“Let’s add that one to the list.” Bradley reached inside his coat pocket for his phone. “Tie me to a chair, shave interesting parts, then go down on me.” He shot me a smirky, devilish look.

“How many have we added, and how many have we checked off?” I peeked over his shoulder.

The cab pulled over in front of the building. “I’ll send over a spreadsheet this afternoon.”

I snorted a laugh.

“Not a bad pun, admit it.” He held open the door to the lobby.

“No, really bad.”

Stuffed into the elevator, he edged closer and whispered. “You do realize that every time we get in a lift together we’re going to remember how we met?”

Without looking up at him, I smiled. He’d read my mind.

The moment the doors opened onto DWD reception, we clicked into work mode. “Later, Mr. Craig.”

Bradley nodded. “Moneypenny.”

I made my way back into the creative department and glimpsed a dreamy-eyed girl in the dark glass of an empty office. No surprise there. Just for my own amusement, I did an orgasm count. Feeling a little tingly and wobbly about the total, I did a quick recount. More orgasms in one weekend, than all year with Derek.
 

Not that I was comparing or anything.

Sarah and I agreed to postpone lengthy weekend updates until lunch break and made huge progress on two different campaigns, Fusion Sportswear and themes for the A/X Spring Collection. Both were due to present internally.

We worked well into the early afternoon, before breaking for lunch. We ordered tuna salads and iced green teas from the deli downstairs and ate in the near empty lunchroom.

Sarah finally couldn’t stand it any longer. “Okay, so now that I know you spent the weekend on your back watching Bond movies.” She rolled her eyes. “Let’s get to the anatomical details—the important numbers. “Double oh seven?”

I stared over my salad.

“Double oh eight?”

I raised a brow.

“Eight and a half—and I’m beginning to be concerned for you—largely concerned.”

I leaned closer. “Like, I’m really going to tell you details about his vagina impaler.”
 

“How many times?” Her eyes narrowed. “And did you…you know?”

“Do you have to know everything about my sex life?”

Sarah sat back, arms folded. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’m an open book.”

“And when are we going to get to the erotic chapters?”
 

She grinned. “I’m working on it. Mr. Rabbit says my body is a wonderland.” She shifted in her seat. “How many over the course of the weekend? No dodging.”

I did a quick scan of the lunchroom and held up five fingers. Sarah’s eyes grew wider when I set down my fork and added another two fingers. “But only if you count this morning in the shower.”

She lowered her voice. “Jeezus—are you sore?”
 

I nodded. “The good kind of sore.”

Just watching Sarah’s eyes bulge made my day.

“I demand a recount.”

“Friday night in the Bentley, and then later at my apartment.”

 
Sarah pushed two imaginary abacus beads from left to right.

“Saturday got off to a rocky start. There was an Audrey event, which turned out to be a misunderstanding of sorts.” I told her about the waffle truck encounter in Union Square, including the forkful of raspberries and whipped cream.

Her gaze narrowed. “There is something wrong with her. What did Bradley do? He saw you right?”

“He tried to chase me down, but I lost him in Green Market.” I told her about Bradley’s phone call and texts. “So…I sent him the shot of me and my middle finger.”

Sarah stared. “And he still came over.”

I nodded. “Turns out Audrey is moonlighting as a real estate agent. She was showing him a couple of her listings. Did you know her husband had cancer?”

Sarah rocked her head. “There have always been rumors. Most of them started by her.” She leaned closer. “Great make up sex?”

I smiled, adding a fist bump.

She lowered her voice. “You don’t think Audrey’s doing it again? First with Derek and now Bradley?”

Admittedly, I blinked. “She might be. We ran into her again on Sunday at Chelsea Pier. According to Bradley, she recommended a pick-up basketball game. I got the impression she was waiting for him, only he invited me along so I could try antigravity yoga.”

Sarah grabbed my forearm. “Isn’t it amazing? Please join so we can go together—they offer it twice a day.” Her gaze shifted darker. The devil girl part of me loved it when Sarah got pissed. Her anger was righteous and funny.
 

“Derek once compared Audrey to Bebe Glazer.”

“Who’s Bebe Glazer?” I asked.

Sarah dropped her fork in her salad. Something about the gesture reminded me of Hannah.

 
“You never watched Frasier?” The princess of pop culture eyeballed me with one of her how-could-you-not-know-this looks.

I grinned. “Not regularly, sorry.”

“Bebe is Frasier’s agent. Niles calls her Lady Macbeth without the sincerity. She has morals that would raise eyebrows in the court of Caligula.”

I nodded. “So…she’s intensely manipulative and seductive.”

“Derek once quoted Niles. ‘“She’s the devil, Frasier. Run fast, run far!’” Sarah siphoned up some iced tea.

I nearly choked on the thought. “Didn’t stop him from fucking her.”

 
Sarah sat back. “You were smart to never let him get too close.”

“Should I be worried about Audrey?”

“Not…” Sarah flat-lined a grin. “Fatal Attraction worried.”

I nodded absently. “The fight is on tonight, between Bradley and Derek.”

Sarah stared at me. “Aren’t you just a wee bit worried?”

“Here’s how Bradley describes it, ‘We’re just going to knock each other about like sparring partners.’”

I spent the rest of the afternoon writing copy for banner ads and had just sent them over to Sarah when she arrived at my door holding an ad proof in her hands.

 
“Please look at this and tell me what you think—honest opinion.”

“Do you ever get anything else?”

“That’s why I’m here.” Bright-eyed, she appeared a little breathless. I stared at the two-page spread of a young woman’s torso. A man’s thumb hooked into the belt loop of her jeans, pulling them off her hip. Beautiful, sensuous light and shadow defined the model’s ample curves—definitely not fashion model skinny. The tastefully small headline read: These hips don’t lie.

The first print ad for Lucky plus-size jeans was fucking hot. “Sarah Springer your awesomeness goes far beyond sauce.”

“Do you love it? You have to totally love it.”

Frankly, I couldn’t take my eyes off the proof. This was Derek Moubin level work, and one of Sarah’s best as a solo art director. “I’d say this goes well beyond love.”

“Can you spare a few minutes?”

I knew that voice. Bradley stood in the hallway.

I hadn’t seen or heard from him all day. “How many minutes?”

“Like…twenty?”

“Ten.”

“Fifteen.”

I sighed. “What’s up?”

“Axel’s in a new business meeting. He wants to introduce us. In and out—he promised.” Bradley leaned in to get a closer look at the ad proof.
 

“Do you think she’s plus-size sexy?” Sarah asked him.

“Why are normal looking women called plus-size?” His gaze moved over every curve in the ad. “Men like a bit of meat on the bone.”

“New York Art Director’s Club Gold.” I predicted.

Sarah squealed and hugged me. Grabbing hold of each other we danced around the office. Bradley looked up from the proof.

“You’ve never seen our lesbian high school cheerleader dance.” We repeated the simple routine—a hip bump, a step around each other and another hip bump.

 
Bradley got out his phone and Sarah and I mugged, cheek to cheek, for the camera.

Derek dipped his head into my office. “Do the Madonna-Britanny kiss—the one that shocked Justin.”

Before I could tell Derek to fuck off, he disappeared. I stuck my head out the door.

 
“We’re going down to the Boom-Boom Room, strip down to our panties and mud wrestle hot little Asian chicks.”

Several masculine woots, emanated from offices along the corridor.

“And only Bradley’s invited,” I turned back into my office.

“Sounds filthy and slippery—I’m in.” Bradley turned his phone toward us.

“We are so darling!” Sarah exclaimed. “Email the shot?”

I nodded. “Me too.”

He checked his watch. “We need to be in the meeting, like now.”

I gave Sarah one last hug. “Great work.”

Axel trotted us into his new business presentation, and we each gave a practiced spiel on our respective departments. Axel then proceeded to trap us in the conference room by opening up the meeting to Q & A.

Bradley took a seat across at the table from me with an apologetic shrug. We were both swamped today and needed to be elsewhere. I’d spent the day playing catch up on a number of jobs and he still had more prep to do for the man on the street interviews tomorrow. Nevertheless, his potent male sexiness distracted me.

I texted:
What color underwear am I wearing?

He returned:
Is this a test?

Yes. Are you thinking about my panties and bra?

He texted:
More like what’s underneath. What kind of test?

Your crayon color vocabulary. Color?

He didn’t look up from his phone, but there was a tug at one side of his mouth. He answered:
I’m thinking.

Think hard.
I return texted.

And if I get it right?

Me, you and Sappho—tomorrow night.

I waited, one brow raised.

Periwinkle.

Not only had he remembered the pale lilac hue of my undies, but he had named the crayon color.

I tapped out:
Smexy, Mr. Craig. Obviously your mother bought you the big box of Crayolas.

 
I cannot tell a lie. Wikipedia got it right.
His cute devilish grin saved him.
 

The rest of the day was a blur. I left the office late but relatively caught up on assignments.

For the first time ever my apartment felt a little empty. I phoned my sister Carly, ate leftover pizza, and did the laundry. I also reviewed the dresses in my closet for the dinner party. Bradley’s mother—first impression—no pressure there. I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

It came down to two dresses, ironically, one black and one white. I suspected Bradley hadn’t mentioned anything about my mixed-race heritage—one part African American, one part Hispanic, two parts white. I had done the dinner-with-parents scenario with other boyfriends, but this one felt different. Why did the stakes seem so much higher? I chewed on my bottom lip and avoided the obvious answer.