Commitment Issues by Ali Ryecart
Chapter Three
Elliot
I’ve not heard from James for three or four days now, and that’s good because I’ve got far more pressing things to occupy my time and give me sleepless nights. Like the acquisition of an Oslo-based company.
It’s small but key, as it’s cornered the market in supplying Scandinavian and Baltic financial institutions with specialist business support software. Acquiring the company, which is playing hardball, will give me the foothold I’ve been chasing in the Scandi and Baltic markets for some time.
It’s been twenty-five years since I founded my business. I shudder. Twenty-five years, a quarter of a century. The thought suddenly makes me feel old, which is ridiculous. Since when has fifty-two been old? But there’s no denying my once dark hair has given up and lost the fight with the invading grey army.
I twist my head from side to side and roll my shoulders, easing out the stiffness that’s settled there, before focusing once more on the complex spreadsheet that’s making me go bleary eyed. When my phone rings, a few minutes later, I take it as a welcome sign I need a break.
“Elliot Hendricks,” I bark, at the same time frowning as I spot something in one of the many columns of figures that doesn’t look quite right, and I click to highlight it.
“Oh, that voice,” James breathes down the phone. “So rough, so gruff, so gravelly, growly, and manly. If I didn’t know you better, Elliot, I could half believe you have that sexy little Executive Assistant of yours pinned facedown to the table, trousers shoved down to his ankles, while you—”
“What?” I splutter. Perry, my assistant? Half-naked on my desk? And me… “ God, no. Christ. You know I’ll have to sack him now, don’t you? Every time he comes in here, I’m going to look at him and think, well you know what I’ll think. And sexy? He’s the best assistant I’ve had but he’s not sexy. He’s Perry.”
On the other end of the line, James’ sigh is long and dramatic. I don’t need to see him to know he’s rolling his eyes.
“Not sexy? I think I should book an appointment for you with my optician, because you really must be blind if you can’t see that boy is sugar on legs.”
“Please don’t talk about my assistant like that.”
I’m not making a very good job at hiding the pleading lacing my words. I’ve never, ever, crossed the boundary between boss and employee with anybody, and I’m not about to start now, but the idea of Perry laid out over my desk is sending disturbing shivers running up my body. Frustration, it has to be. Apart from with my own hand when was the last—?
“… for coffee, in twenty minutes? I’ve already checked with the very delicious Perry whether you’re free, and you are. So, you have no excuse.”
“Coffee? What are you talking about?” What have I missed as I’ve been immersed in my unwanted but lurid Perry-related fantasy?
“What I’m talking about,” James says, slowly and carefully as though he’s explaining to an idiot, “is you giving yourself permission to unchain yourself from your desk for an hour or so. Although if you were chained up with—”
“No, just don’t go there. Anyway, I’m not chained to my desk. I work hard but that’s not the same thing.”
“Really? And what time did you arrive at the office this morning?”
“It was early, but I had to make an exception because—”
“What time?”
“I got here at five-thirty,” I mutter. But in truth, it’s not really that much of an exception. If I’m not at my desk between six and six-thirty each morning, in my mind I’m running late. I wouldn’t stand for any of my staff starting at such a ridiculously early hour, but that doesn’t extend to me. “It’s my company. Which means it’s different.”
“It’s gone three.” James’ voice softens, losing the interrogative edge. “I’m in the area on business. The meeting I was at was deathly dull and I need sunlight and frivolous conversation to bring me back to life.”
I can’t help but chuckle because James has a knack of making me laugh, even when I don’t feel like it much, which lately seems to be all the time.
“And you think I’m the man to do that? There’s nothing remotely sunshiny and frivolous about me.” I wait for a denial that doesn’t come.
“Barista Boys. Twenty minutes.”
The line goes dead.
* * *
The aroma of rich strong coffee hits me as soon as I walk through the door, and I breathe in deep. I don’t drink a lot of coffee, tea’s more my thing, but I make an exception when it comes to Barista Boys. An Americano with an extra shot’s my coffee of choice, and as James has pulled me out of the office in the middle of the day, he can pay for it.
Looking around, I search for my friend amongst the crowds in the little café, but I can’t see him anywhere. I check my watch. Twenty minutes to the second. I’m always punctual, but James has punctuality honed to a fine art. He should be here, ready and waiting, but he’s nowhere to be seen, and I’m about to pull out my phone to find out where he is, when it vibrates against my hip.
“I’ve just arrived. Looks like there may be a bit of a wait for a table, so—”
“Oh, I shan’t be joining you.” A hint of laughter ripples through his words.
“What do you mean, you won’t be joining me? It was you who contacted me to—”
“Did I say meet me for coffee?” he says, laying emphasis on the word me.
“You didn’t have to. You called and invited me. So where are you?” I’m blocking the doorway, and I shift to the side.
“I called to invite you for coffee, but that doesn’t mean I was inviting you to take coffee with me.”
Again, that emphasis and the hint of laughter.
“James, I’ve not got the time to play around. You’re either here within the next five minutes, or I’m going back to the office, so—”
“I’ve arranged for you to meet somebody,” he says, cutting across me. “Take a look around. He’s blond, and rather pretty. He’ll also have a rolled-up copy of the Financial Times, which I think is an inspired touch from yours truly. Oh, and he’s probably looking very, very nervous.”
“What the…?” But I find myself doing exactly what he’s instructed me to.
My eyes sweep across the crowded café. And that’s when I see him. Sitting at a small round table for two, tucked away in the corner. And with a rolled up copy of the FT on the table.
Young, too damn young, blond and — pretty? That doesn’t come anywhere close.
He turns a coffee cup around and around in his hands as he chews on his lower lip. His hand stills, abruptly, as though aware he’s being scrutinised. Turning his head, he stares me full in the face.
“Who…?” I say, and James answers with a low chuckle.
“Judging from your rather breathy one-word question, I assume you’ve spotted him. Now go and be the gentleman you are, and introduce yourself to Freddie. You’re going to be taking him to the South of France.”
