Kathleen O'Reilly - Hot Under Pressure

“You’re going to figure out what’s wrong and fix it.”

Fix it. Yeah, just fix it, Ash.

It sounded so easy, so completely staring-her-in-the-face easy. So why couldn’t she figure it out? Forcefully Ashley hacked off another square before handing the cheese to her sister. “Why don’t the women of Chicago realize that not only am I providing non-cookie-cutter clothes at a decent price, but by shopping at Ashley’s Closet, they are contributing to the livelihood of struggling fashion designers everywhere?”

Val shrugged. “You could have a sale. A big sample sale thing.”

“Sales, schmales,” mocked Ashley, sawing furiously again.

“Tell me how you really feel.”

“I need something pizzazzy, jazzy.”

“You’ll find it. You’ve got jazz.”

I need jazz.

Ashley watched as Val popped a cube of swiss into her mouth, glad to see her sister’s confidence level back to normal.

Val was a fast-spinning top that could fall off with only a word, a look, or a doubt. Unlike most people, when Val tipped over, it wasn’t minutes or hours before she got up, it was weeks and months. It was Ashley’s job to make sure she didn’t tip.

“What’s your schedule tomorrow?” Ashley asked.

“Seven to three. Why?”

“I’ve got a lot of catch-up to do at the stores. The Lakeview manager isn’t returning messages, so God only knows what disaster will befall when I walk in the door. You won’t see much of me. You and Mom have Brianna covered?”

“Yeah. We’re good.”

“Night, sis,” said Ashley.

“Night.” Quietly she took the last bit of cheese, then flicked off the light. Ashley could hear the soft sounds of Val padding down the carpeted hall behind her, and she ended the night the same way she always did.

“Val, I’m proud of you.”

“As you should be.”

Ashley smiled.

ONCE IN BED, Ashley pulled out The Card. She should have slipped him hers as well. But no, she didn’t, she’d been cowardly, and because of that, if she wanted to ever see him again, it was all up to her

Ash, you go to Manhattan lots of times. Go see that new designer on the Lower East Side. You’ve been dying to see his work. This is your chance.

And what was the polite time frame to call up a man, whom you expressly told that it would be a mistake to see again?

There was no statute of limitations on a booty call.

He truly did have a fine booty.

Her hands curled and uncurled like a happy kitten because she could remember the feel of that firm piece of flesh under her fingertips, remembered the pleasuring fill of his thick sex. Now that was jazz. And no, she wasn’t completely cheap and shallow. She liked him. He made her comfortable with herself. With everything, really.

That was the pull of one David McLean. He wasn’t exotic, or vain, or some slutty billionaire.

He was, quite simply, the man she wanted.

Ashley stared at the card, recalling how his voice whispered against her ear, and she knew. That was it. Decision made. She’d set up an appointment in New York. Then she would call him, and if things were meant to proceed, he’d be ready, willing and available.

A long-distance affair.

Decadent.

Her mouth curved up at the corner, and all that night she dreamed of David.

THE LAKEVIEW STORE was a wreck. Her manager had quit, one salesgirl was late and the strapless smocked sundresses were priced twenty percent lower than what she paid for them. It was enough to make a weaker woman cry. But not Ashley, not this time. She was still flying high on the aftershocks of great sex.

For the next week, Ashley worked eighteen-hour days to get the store back in order. Her first instinct was to promote the lead sales associate to manager, but honestly, that wasn’t smart and she knew it, so she caved and put a Help Wanted sign in the window. Forty-eight hours later, she’d hired a new manager, a gum-popping twentysomething named Sophie, who didn’t meet her eyes all the time, but her resumé was good, and she wore a great vintage Halston to the interview. That alone was enough to get her the job.

By the middle of the week, the Lakeview store was in better shape, and the Naperville, State Street and Wicker Park stores were holding their own. She was ready to make the call. It was late on a Wednesday that she decided to do it because she worried about whether he’d be alone on a Friday, or whether a Monday morning call seemed too needy. And what if he slept in late on Sundays?

Thankfully, he picked up on the first ring.

“Hello.”

“David? It’s Ashley,” she told him, praying that he wouldn’t ask, “Ashley-who?”

“Hi,” he said, completely the perfect response.

“I’m going to be in New York.”

“When?”

“Two weeks. If you’re not busy…”

Don’t be busy. If you’re busy, I’m never going to call a man again in my life. Ever.

Don’t be dramatic, Ash.

Shut up, Val.

“Not busy. We’ll get dinner. Or a show. Or does that sound too normal? We don’t have to do normal. You can stay here if you want. I’ve got space.”

“No. I’m booking a room,” she answered firmly, not the frugal answer, which was part of her problem, but hotels were dim, mysterious, sinful. Apartments were warm, homey and mundane. And if she found herself settling into his warm, homey and mundane, what would happen to all that smoking-hot passion? Would it disappear, as if it had never existed?

Not going to happen. She liked this smoking-hot passion. She was going to keep it.

“Is your hotel near the airport?”

Ashley tried not to laugh, but failed. “No.”

“Good. How’s work?”

“Not so good. But I’m optimistic.”

“Much better than defeatist.”

“Probably.”

She thought about all the other things she could say, but they sounded neither exciting, nor affairish, so she elected to hold her tongue. “I should go now,” she told him.

“Call me when you get in. Have a good flight, don’t forget to pack your bunny slippers, and Ashley—”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for calling.”

“Anytime,” she answered, before quickly hanging up.

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