My Five Night Fling by Maci Dillon
KASSIDY
Day five in London.
My last day.
This time tomorrow, I’ll be on my way back to Australia.
A fleeting sadness threatens to overwhelm me.
Jumping out of bed, once again, I’m determined to take this day by the horns and make it my bitch. But I have no idea how to spend the day yet, aside from visiting the wax museum with Jarett.
Standing in the middle of the room with one hand on my hip, my index finger on the other hand repeatedly tapping on my lip, I’m lost in thought when my favorite voice pulls me from my daydream.
“Earth to Kassidy. I said I have to go take care of some business.” Jarett sweeps in and kisses me lightly on the cheek.
“So, no church then?” I drop my bottom lip like a petulant child, and my eyebrows draw together. “I was wanting to go with you,” I joke.
“I assure you, love, if I were a praying man, I already know what I’d be asking for. But I don’t need to step foot inside a church to tell me that.” With that, he envelops me in the tightest hug and kisses me lovingly.
For a moment too long.
Now I want to rope him up and throw him back down on the bed and ride him into next week. Instead, I wave him goodbye at the door and agree to meet up with him in the early afternoon. I’m not sure what business he has to deal with on a Sunday, but I guess artists and art dealers work twenty-four seven.
Tomorrow, I fly home and have a full day off after I touch down on Australian soil before I head back to the office on Wednesday. The time off has been more than I dreamed of, though I’m looking forward to getting bogged down in creatives again.
Not so looking forward to saying goodbye to Jarett.
During my last few hours alone in London, I hit the pavement, intent on walking wherever my feet take me—along cobbled lanes, over stone bridges, through narrow lanes, and past shop fronts filled with English bakery goods and greasy chips and vinegar I’ve grown fond of but are tough on the hips. I wander through small off-street boutiques and bric-a-brac stores until I find myself out front of the cutest little parlor, their shop window filled with antiques and scarves.
Scarves for days.
A childish excitement has me bounding up and down on the spot wondering how much I can fit in my luggage without paying for excess weight charges. Once I walk inside, any thoughts I have about excess luggage go flying out the door.
Scarves and neck warmers hand knitted with thick, soft wool and summery cotton fashion scarves, ones I can wear in Australia, overwhelm me.
Their range extends to leggings of all patterns and colors, gloves, and beanies, not to mention the sarongs and a colorful array of boho-style dresses. I’m in heaven. My love for fabric and intricately woven colors is bred into me by my grandmother. I waltz around the shop silently, sensing Grandma with me as I run the plush delicate materials through my fingers.
It doesn’t take long to spend a few hundred dollars and fill a couple of shopping bags. Halfway back to my hotel, my phone starts buzzing. After it rings a few times in a row, I stop and see it’s my boss. He’s left a voice mail, so I figure I’ll wait until I get my purchases safely to my room before I return the call and listen to the message.
To say it was getting on my nerves was an understatement. By the time I walk in the door, I all but want to throw the fucking phone out the window. Setting the bags down, I pull the phone from my coat pocket and find my boss’ smiling face on the screen. The latest is a text message saying, ‘Call me, it’s urgent.’
I should think it urgent if he’s called me this many times in such a short period, so I start to panic. What if there has been an accident or something terrible has happened?
Malcolm picks up on the first ring. “Thank fuck.”
“Everything okay, bossman?”
Mal isn’t the type of guy to swear in front of a woman, much less an employee, so his greeting worries me.
“Yes, yes,” he answers hastily. “Sorry, Kassidy, for the way I answered and for calling you repeatedly. Everything is okay, but I think you may want to sit down for this.”
Okay. What the fuck is going on?
“Is my mother all right?”
“Of course, yes. It’s a business-only call, but I am so fu…” he trails off. “I’m excited for us, kid. I had a random call from Gabe Lugreno, Europe’s biggest hotelier, an hour ago and called you immediately.”
“And he wants a consultant?” I ask, channeling Malcolm’s excitement. Consulting a client of that caliber would lift my profile in the industry astronomically.
“Yes and no.” Mal continues in a fast fury of words, “They’re expanding on some current acquisitions and want to rebrand a few hotels and add a few more to their portfolio. So yes, he wants a consultant to see what we can do, but the work is extensive. He wants a hands-on consultant with fresh and innovative ideas.”
I rock back on the bed a little to remove my boots. “And you don’t think I can handle such a high-profile campaign?” The words cut like a blunt dagger I don’t deserve.
“Kassidy, I believe in you. I always have, you know that. What I’m saying is they want to use a high-profile agency, such as us, and one with Australian influence. They want to Aussie-fy their new hotel brand from the name and logo to the bars and dining areas. And, of course, the structure and décor. So, they don’t want an agency like us, Kassidy, they want us. Period.”
“Fucking hell.” I’m gobsmacked. This is a huge fucking deal.
“Right? Kiddo, this could make you!”
“When would I have to come back, and for how long?”
A lull in the conversation is one thing, but the silence filtering through the line is daunting.
“That’s the kicker,” he finally says.
Anxiety kicks in.
Maybe it’s hope.
Or the excitement of the unknown.
“All the details, Malcolm. I’m listening.”
“When you didn’t answer straight away, I panicked. Worried I wouldn’t get you in time, so I had to make a call. Lugreno won’t be in London for another week, so you could’ve flown home for a few days and returned, but I thought that was a bit extravagant. So, I’ve changed your flight.”
“You what? Until when?” I screech into the phone, pacing vigorously around my tiny space. I want to open the window and stick my head out in search of fresh air, but I can’t.
“I left it hanging in limbo until after the meeting. He’s willing to sign us on right now before meeting with you and without an initial consultation.”
“How is that possible?” I shriek into the phone. “What if I can’t deliver what he needs?” My anxiety levels skyrocket, but freaking out isn’t an option. The normally stoic, composed, professional Kassidy is fading quickly. Her arch-nemesis, the overwhelmed, too-good-to-be-true Kassie is slinging her weight around.
“Calm down, Kassie,” Mal says, knowing I hate being called Kassie because she’s the whiny overwhelming version of me.
Deep breaths.
“You’re the perfect person for the job. Pubs and clubs are you, Kassidy. I tell ya, it’s meant to be. And ironically, you’re already there. I’d call that fate, wouldn’t you?”
No, it makes no sense to me at all.
“How did he know I was here?”
“That’s the thing. He didn’t. He’s been looking around for a while and just recently deciding the Australian influence as the correct approach, he had another hotelier mention us. Don’t know who or how but he investigated us. I spoke to the guy for about an hour. He looked over your portfolio online and loved your work. That’s when I said you were currently in London.”
Plopping onto the sofa with a glass of chilled wine, I sigh. My head is a cloud of half-baked thoughts caught in a windstorm.
“I know you’re supposed to check out in the morning, so I’ll book you a nice apartment somewhere in the city for the week. Once you meet with Gabe Lugreno, he’ll hand over the keys to an apartment in Shoreditch, and it will be all yours, included in your salary. And Kassidy, the package he is offering is indulgent.”
Money isn’t the issue right now. I trust Malcolm to have my back with that. If it isn’t more than I was getting at home, he won’t make me stay. “Why the need to move into his apartment, why can’t I just stay in the one you book for me?” It’s not that I have much stuff to move, I simply don’t understand what’s expected of me.
“Kassidy, I know this is a lot. And obviously, you can say no, but you and I both know opportunities like this don’t come along often, if at all. And as your boss, this is what I have assigned you to do. So, hear me when I say, the apartment in Shoreditch is yours for the length of time you’ll be contracted to Gabe Lugreno.”
Geez, he’s making it sound like this rich bastard is buying me.
“And he’s willing to pay you a ten thousand retainer on top of your salary package, you know, for relocation costs, etcetera. You might want some clothes and personal things from home that you couldn’t take on a short trip.”
My wine spills over as I bolted upright off the sofa. “Relocation? You want me to move here?” My high-pitched screech is an octave or two higher than I knew it could go.
“As I said, in the beginning, he wants a hands-on consultant and the bonus, he doesn’t expect you to work alone. He’s happy to give you a budget and employ a local team to assist. You’ll be overseeing every aspect, so the parts you don’t do, you’ll be outsourcing and managing the project on his behalf.”
The opportunity is exponentially huge. More than anything I’ve ever dreamed of doing.
Glancing around my tiny space, excitement rushes through my veins. I’m moving to Shoreditch.
“And how long will I be contracted to him as you put it?”
“Initially, it will be a twelve-month contract.”
“Initially?”
One whole year in London. Yes, the idea of staying longer had crossed my mind many times over the previous few days, but twelve-fucking-months?
“Of course, you can fly home a few times a year, all expenses paid. Think of it as an extended holiday, Kassidy. And remember, you’ll be spending your days in pubs and clubs. This contract was made for you.”
Having heard all the information I can endure for the moment, so we end the call. I need a margarita to calm my nerves and wrap my head around this significant change in my plans. I plant my feet back inside my boots and grab my coat, leaving all my purchases from earlier in a pile on the floor.
Where’s the nearest bar?
