crisp white duvet, looked sterile and cold in the far corner of the rectangular-shaped loft.
Alex located her glass of wine and finished it while standing at the sink. Knowing the ritual of preparing for bed sometimes helped her insomnia, she moved toward the bedroom corner to undress. After draping the pale blue suit over a chrome valet, she dropped her matching underwear into a lacy laundry bag. From the back of her armoire, she withdrew a nappy, yellow cotton robe of her mother’s and wrapped it around her. After removing her makeup with more vehemence than necessary, she walked past her bed and returned to the comfy chair she’d abandoned when Lana arrived, covering her legs with a lightweight afghan.
But she lay awake long after she’d extinguished her mother’s light, straining with unexplainable loneliness and frustration, stewing over unjust conditions she might never be able to change. Right or wrong, she channeled her hostility toward the one person who, at the moment, best epitomized life’s arbitrary inequities: Jack Stillman. Clodhopping his way through life and having the Tremont business laid at his feet because he was a man and a former sports celebrity simply wasn’t fair.
Remembering Lana’s words, Alex set her jaw in determination. Perfect record be damned. The infamous “Jack the Attack” Stillman had already dropped the ball—he just didn’t know it yet.
4
“DON’T DROP THE BALL, JACK.”
Derek’s words from much earlier in the workday reverberated in his head. In the middle of the crisis with the IRS guy, Jack had somehow explained away Tuesday’s presence—later he’d given her a fifty dollar bill and told her not to come back—and he managed to convince Derek that he had everything under control, including the Tremont’s presentation.
Jack swore, then tore yet another sheet from his newsprint drawing pad, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it over his shoulder with enough force to risk dislocating his elbow. His muse had truly abandoned him this time. Three-thirty in the morning, with no revelation in sight. Forget the printer—this presentation would have to consist of raw drawings and hand-lettering.
If he ever came up with an idea, that is.
“Think, man, think,” he muttered, tapping his charcoal pencil on the end of the desk, conjuring up key words to spark his imagination. Clothes, style, fashion, home decor. He needed a catchy phrase to convince people to shop at Tremont’s.
Shop till you drop at Tremont’s spot.
If you got the money, honey, we got the goods.
Spend a lot of dough at Tremont’s sto’.
Okay, so he was really rusty, but at least it was a start.
He sketched out a few unremarkable ideas, but a heavy stone of dread settled in his stomach—this was not the best stuff that had ever come out of his pencil. The tight little bow of Alexandria Tremont’s disapproving mouth had dogged him all evening. The woman obviously didn’t expect much and, despite his efforts to the contrary, that was exactly what he was going to deliver. Dammit, he hated wanting to impress her…not that it mattered now.
Pouring himself another cup of coffee from a battered thermos, he raked a hand over his stubbly face and leaned back in his chair. Jack winced as the strong, bitter brew hit his taste buds at the same time a bitter truth hit his gut: He was washed up. Being at the top of his game—no matter what the arena—used to come so easily, and now he was struggling for mere mediocrity.
His college football career had been a joyous four-year ride of accolades, trophies and popularity—a young man’s dream that afforded him unbelievable perks, including as many beautiful women as he could handle, and enough good memories to last a lifetime. But for all his local celebrity and natural talent, he hadn’t even considered going pro, partly because he didn’t want to put his body through the paces, and partly because he’d simply wanted to do more with his life, to strike out and experience new settings, new people. And frankly, he’d always hated doing what was expected of him, whether it meant playing pro football or working for the family ad agency. Until now, he hadn’t realized how much he missed striving for something beyond having enough beer to wash down the native food of wherever he happened to be.
But inexplicably, the yearning that had lodged in his stomach the previous day had permeated other vital organs until he could feel it, see it, breathe it—the need to achieve. The need to make something out of nothing. The need to prove to others that he could hack it in any environment. The need to prove to himself that he still had his edge. And, he admitted with the kind of brutal honesty that comes to a man in the wee hours of the morning, Alexandria Tremont played a startling role in his reawakening. Just the thought of the challenge in her ice-blue eyes brought long dormant feelings of aspiration zooming to the surface. He hadn’t felt this alive since he was carried off the football field on the shoulders of his teammates for the last time. He wanted this win so badly, he could taste her—er, it.
The rush of adrenaline continued to feed his brain, which churned until the light of early dawn seeped through the windows. Jack discarded idea after idea, but he refused to give up hope that something fantastic would occur to him.
Around seven, and with little to show for his sleepless night, Jack heard a scratching sound on the front door. He went to investigate, stapler in hand for lack of a better weapon. To his abject consternation, Tuesday opened the door and marched inside, flipping on lights as she went. She wore an attractive flowered skirt and a modest blouse. “Morning,” she sang.
“How’d you get in?” he demanded.
She held up a Tremont’s department store credit card, of all things. “I jiggled the lock—this is no Fort Knox, sonny. You’re here early.”
“I didn’t leave,” he said, scowling. “And I thought I told you not to come back.”
“You were having a bad day,” she said cheerfully. “So I thought I’d give you another chance.” She leaned toward him and grimaced. “Oooh, you don’t look so good.”
“I know.”
“Did you finish the presentation?”
“Yes.”
“Is it good?”
“No.”
She sighed, a sorrowful noise. “Well, you’ll have to wow them with charm, I suppose.” She squinted, angling her head. “What were you planning to wear?”
He looked down at his disheveled beach clothes and shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it, but I’m sure I can rustle up a sport coat.”
Tuesday grunted and picked up the phone. “What are you, about a forty-four long?”
He shrugged again, then nodded. “As best as I can remember.”
She looked him up and down. “Six-three?”
Again, he nodded.
“Size twelve shoe?”
“Thirteen if I can get them. Why?”
Tuesday waved her hand in a shooing motion. “Go take a shower and shave that hairy face. Hurry, and yell for me when you’re finished.”
Jack wasn’t sure if he was simply too
