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Holly
“This is bad.” I turned a slow circle around the Midtown Bank Café as I took in the damage caused by mere minutes of flooding. According to Beth, Manager of the café and one of my best friends, the city neglected to turn off a main water line when they were performing some routine maintenance and the pressure build-up caused a pipe to burst inside the historic bank turned coffee shop and bakery. The city claims they aren’t at fault because the pipes weren’t up to code. I’m calling bullshit on that, doesn’t much matter anyway because the insurance policy covering this place is sufficient enough to restore the damage and do some minor renovations. The only issue is, well, insurance.
Insurance adjusters are a pain in my ass. They like to take their sweet time assessing the damage, then they want to question every single decision made during the restoration process. As if those paper pushers know a damn thing about restoration or design.
What’s worse, they’re usually men. Men that don’t think I know how to do my job all because I have a vagina instead of a dick. I don’t say any of that to Beth though as I look around the café taking notes on my tablet while we wait for the adjuster that’s been assigned to her case to show up. I don’t want to worry her, because I know that irregardless of the fight that might ensue surrounding these renovations, I will win. I always win, and this property will be gorgeous when I’ve completed my work. Signed. Sealed. Delivered.
I made notes on what we could and could not salvage, sketched ideas on my digital notepad that would be sufficient until I could get back to my office and draw out the mock-ups with my ink, and I listened. I listened to the walls, felt the energy in the space, and tried to imagine what this bank was like when it was originally built. I let my mind travel back in time as I imagined the shine of the fresh laid hardwood floors and the intricate details of the crown molding; little details that most people don’t see, but I do. I don’t just see the details, I feel them. I let my mind wander until the design begins to take shape and I can imagine the potential of the space we stand in.
Until I was abruptly jerked from my thoughts by a loud knock, I internally groaned at yet another interruption. Despite pushing out numerous social media posts and a sign on the door that we had to prop open to allow for some fresh air to flow through the damp building, regular customers of the café have been stopping in all morning. Poor Beth, the look on her face every time she has to send someone down the street, it’s sheer agony for her to turn her regular customers away, as a business owner myself, I totally get it.
A sense of awareness caused my spine to tingle as I felt an odd presence at my back, and I heard a deep voice from the front of the building speaking to Beth. Something in that voice caused me to pause and listen. My heart started racing for no apparent reason, and I worried for a moment that I might be having a stroke. What the hell?
“Beth, I presume? I’m Reid Chapman, from the Chapman Group. Sometimes referred to as the entitled, pretentious…what was it?” He hesitated for only a second, and in that time, I slowly turned to see the man standing in the doorway as he rubbed his hand over his jaw, pretending to think. “Ah yes, prick.” He was repeating the words I may or may not have spoken to Beth just moments before, whoops.
I squared my shoulders, preparing to face the consequences of my words as I heard Beth squeak out my name. I hate to stereotype, really – I do, but most of the insurance adjusters and claims specialists I deal with, especially on these older, historic properties, well, generally speaking, they fit a certain criterion. Meaning, they’re usually progressed in their age, wear their pants belted over their large bellies, they smell like expensive cigars, and look like they spend time with my father at the country club on the weekend. What can I say, I just call em’ like I see them, and I’ve seen my share.
But that is not the man standing in the doorway to the Midtown Bank Café. Oh hell no. This man, well, he looks like sex and smells like…hold on. I need to get closer.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sway my hips the way my mother did on Thursday’s when the pool boy followed behind her like a stray puppy as I walked towards Reid Chapman. I don’t have much of an ass, Noel got the curves, but that’s ok, I know how to work what I do have to my advantage. I held my head up high and portrayed an air of confidence that I didn’t necessarily feel. Damn Chet for putting a kink in my self-esteem. I’m working to get it back though, and a feeling of empowerment washed over me as the tips of my stilettos touched his freshly shined, black leather loafers.
“Holly Adkins, owner of LGM Décor and Renovations. Thank you for meeting us on such short notice, Mr. Chapman.” I pronounced every single syllable in his name as I rolled it over my tongue, crossing my arms in front of my chest and popping out my hip because apparently, I’m all-in committed to my cause now – no turning back.
Dammit, just as I thought, he smells like expensive cologne and safe words. I let my eyes wander over his thick biceps, and the way his black dress shirt was neatly tucked into his gray slacks. Slacks that were obviously pressed just this morning and clung to his muscular thighs like they were tailored to fit his body. I let my eyes travel up his broad shoulders, over the veins in his neck and his carved, square jawline until my blue eyes met his behind black framed glasses that did nothing but enhance his sex appeal. His dark brown hair was cut short on the sides with a hard part set just off center, but the top was a little bit longer and styled to perfection. Not a single hair out of place.
He watched me as I took him in, the corner of his lip curving up. This is a man that knows he is sex in the flesh; the arrogance rolls off of him in waves.
I extended my hand to him and waited. A test.
Men are so easy, and you can usually dissect their entire personality from a single handshake.
Grab my fingers delicately, and you just showed me that you think men are the superior species. That you don’t see me as an equal, but as a woman that has to be treated with kid gloves, gently.
There is nothing gentle about me.
Grip my hand like we’re business partners, and I know immediately that you see me. You might not like me, but you see me for what I am – a force to be reckoned with.
Reid’s large hand engulfed my small hand, firmly, as I felt lightning shoot through the tips of my fingers and into my arm. His eyes shot to mine and his jaw firmed. He feels it too. We stood, staring at each other, neither one of us willing to relinquish the foreign sensation that linked our hands together until finally Reid dropped my hand and stepped away from me, dismissing me, and addressing Beth.
I listened as Reid explained to Beth the claims process, and that he would serve as the adjuster assigned to the claim. He mentioned something about knowing the owners of the café, and all the while I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. There’s something about him, and I can’t put my finger on it. He’s an insurance adjuster, boring with a capital B, and yet I feel something dangerous in the air, my senses are on high alert. It’s bothering me that he’s not what he’s supposed to be, who he’s supposed to be. And every few minutes, I feel his eyes on me. He’s looking at me too.
When he mentioned that his timeline was six weeks I spoke up, I pushed back. I need this job done in four. I have a signed contract for the Anderson House project sitting on my desk. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, and I will put my own money on the line before I let an insurance claim tie up my timeline.
