“So, where did you meet?” Mom asked as the elevator doors shut.
“At the cafe,” I said, only tailoring the truth rather than outright lying.
“Ah, workplace romance.”
“Technically, though, we work on different floors doing different things,” I pointed out.
“She approached you, right?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” I said, smiling to myself.
“Shame it came to that, but I’m happy she did,” Mom said.
This was really saying something, Mom’s opinions on male and female roles peaking in the 1960s, and she was firmly of the opinion that it was the man who was supposed to ask. At least she hadn’t asked who had proposed.
“So am I,” I said, playing along.
“Do you have a date set yet?” she asked
“We were thinking of April the first,” I said, the elevator doors opening on the fourth floor. Smiling at Mom, I got ready to lie my ass off.
Chapter Twelve
Noah
I pulled up behind Emma’s hearse at her apartment and cut the engine on the hotrod. I really wasn’t sure it would be there in the morning. At home, I had taken the precaution of having it valeted, and they tended not to screw around with customers as rich as I was. If I wanted to leave it with them overnight, they would let me. No such luck at the office, the best they were able to do was a reserved spot in a parking lot, which always seemed to me like a great place to get mugged.
Putting the club onto the steering wheel, I locked the door and headed for the main entrance. Emma’s unit was unnamed. The tag next to the buzzer button only said OCCUPANT. Only those who knew her knew that she was there. Very clever, I thought. I pressed the button, holding it for a few seconds as I had been taught in the etiquette classes I was forced to take as a child.
“Hello?” Emma said, the static of the old intercom doing little to malign her beautiful voice.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Me who?” she asked.
“Me, Noah.”
“You, Jane?”
“Good one,” I laughed.
The door buzzed. I was once again granted entrance to the building and made my way to her most precious and sacred sanctum.
I gave three light raps on her apartment door and already started wiping my feet, even though there wasn’t actually a mat, just a carpet. An unconscious reflex that might qualify as OCD if it were a bit more consistent, rather than only coming up when I was nervous for one reason or another. Though to be fair, it that case I was nervous because I didn’t want to screw things up because I was really starting to like her.
“Come in,” Emma said, opening the door and heading back into the apartment.
She was dressed comfortably in a tank top and a pair of boxer shorts. It was a bit odd seeing her wear shorts because I’d never seen her wear anything but skirts or dresses, but they still looked good on her, doing wonderful things for her already beautiful ass.
I ignored the sudden and vehement swelling in my pants and followed her into the apartment, closing the door behind me.
“Thanks for doing this,” she said, turning her head back towards me as she walked. “I’ve always wanted a catering job like this but then I realized I don’t actually know how to do it.” She giggled.
“I’m here to help,” I assured her.
“And I really appreciate it. I looked some stuff up online, and one of the main points of the agreements was that I should have a clear menu set out before I go in and start cooking on the day.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” I agreed, taking off my coat and setting it on her couch.
“I know, right? So, what I did was to make a list of the dishes I think I can make the best, my strong points if you will.”
“Good call,” I said.
“Thanks.”
“What do you need from me?” I asked.
“Two things.” She swung around and held up two fingers to emphasize her point.
“Okay.”
“First, I need your help with preparation, okay? Some of the dishes are pretty complex, and I only have two hands.”
“At your service,” I said, with a deep cordial bow.
“Great,” Emma said with a slight giggle at my intentional exaggeration. She turned and started for the apartment’s small kitchen. I followed.
“What’s the second thing?”
“I need you to taste the food when it is done. I want your honest opinion, okay? If something tastes like kaka, tell me, okay? I really want to make my best stuff. Ann and Jim have some really powerful friends in really high places, and if they like my work, it could be the making of me.”
“I’m not exactly chopped liver, you know?” I said, with faux-insult.
“Oh, yes, of course, I didn’t — you’re yanking my chain, aren’t you.”
“Just a bit,” I said with a big grin.