Big Leagues (7 page)

Cat respected the fact Dustin had lost a close
coworker, but she suspected his real grief centered on the loss of
a promotion. She straightened her back and looked into his eyes.
Then she casually tossed a look back at the nameplate on her
door.

“Mmm. Dustin, was it?” She didn’t wait for a
response. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I better get busy
decorating my new office. Say, where’s yours located?”

“Actually, I don’t have an office. My desk’s in
the bullpen here.”

She pursed her lips with mock consternation.
“Oh. Well, consider yourself fortunate. My office is so large, I
don’t know how I’ll be able to fill all the space.” Cat delivered
him her payoff pitch with one of her infamous—
well, at least
according to Grams—
Cheshire grins:. “A window, to boot! I’ll
have to measure it for blinds.”

Dustin’s eyes tightened and disappeared behind
the tortoiseshell frames.

Dustin’s paisley tie flipped up as he whirled
toward the break room. Suddenly he stopped, looked over this
shoulder, and said, “Careful, Rookie, in this ballpark, you’d do
wisely to speak softly and carry a big bat.” Then he stomped
out.

Cat watched him go. What did he mean? Despite
his idle threats, she congratulated herself for winning this
round.

To her surprise, Dustin returned and set a cup
of coffee on her desk. “I thought you might need a little extra
stimulation,” he said, voice laden with irony, “to keep on your
toes.”

Cat’s jumpy nerves seldom required
stimulation
, so she usually stayed away from caffeine. After
this meeting, she certainly wouldn’t ingest anything Dustin brought
her. Nevertheless, she decided to ignore his sarcasm and pretend as
if the gesture were real. After all, she was above all this
pettiness, wasn’t she? Her mind trailed back to the pages of
Iss-Yous!

Maybe I should’ve read the superiority complex
chapter, after all.

Behind the sandstone wall of Villa La Playa,
six four-story buildings formed a rectangle around a large
courtyard of colorful shrubs, a barbecue pit, a paved patio and a
sparkling pool. Each building was a clone of the first, with
identical stucco exteriors, Spanish tile roofs and wide outdoor
hallways. Cat parked her car in the closest spot she could find
near Building A, several spaces away from the stairs due to the
vast number of handicapped spots. The leasing agent had informed
her that many of the tenants were retirees and senior citizens. Cat
loved quiet. In her previous living arrangements, she had found
that college kids and swinging divorcees didn’t share her
appreciation, so bring on the AARP.

Approaching the broad staircase of building A,
Cat spotted a cluster of aluminum mailboxes. She searched the unit
for number 201 and dug through her purse, pulling out the key ring
the leasing agent had overnighted her. Once she’d opened her box,
she tugged on a large cardboard folder addressed to a Benjamin Levy
in 202. She inspected the area for the outgoing mail slot but found
only a tiny, letter-sized opening. She examined the package and
frowned at its week-old postmark. The return label provided no
clues and the package didn’t look urgent; however, for all she knew
it contained Old Man Levy’s diabetic lancets or nitroglycerin
tablets
.

Or maybe a shipment of Viagra he’s been waiting
for all week.

After a quick glance at her watch and a groan,
she trudged up the stairs to meet her new neighbor.

The brown door to apartment 202 swung open with
a whooshing gust. Before her was a set of eyes shining the softest
blue she’d seen outside of an umpire’s polo.

“Hi.”

Cat remained motionless in the arched doorway,
lips parted and eyes entranced. The sapphires disappeared with a
blink, snapping her back into reality. Her own eyes fell to the
neighbor’s sculpted jaw and movie star hair. Cat’s earlier
assumption that Benjamin Levy spent his day clinging to senility in
between naps was erased, though it did pique her curiosity on
whether or not she was holding his mail-order ED
prescription.

The thirty-going-on-gorgeous man repeated his
greeting, this time following up with an emphatic question
mark.

“Hi?”

“Oh um, h-hi. You were in my box. Down there. I
mean, this—this was in my box—uh, m-my mailbox, I mean. Downstairs.
The mailboxes, downstairs.”

Cat slammed her eyes shut and felt the blaze of
heat on her face develop into a fiery inferno. She cautiously
reopened her eyes. Her face fire cooled when she noticed that her
handsome neighbor was focused on the package in her hands rather
than her stuttering, flaming, countenance.

“Ugh! Not again!”

She handed him the mail with an attempted
casualness, but her shaky hands blew her cover.

“D-do they mix up the mail a lot?”

He reached for the package and sighed deeply.
“No, not that. This.”

He pointed to a crease in the packaging. She
peered at the wrapping and looked back at him, waiting for an
explanation.

“I’ll show you.” He tore open the package and
pulled out a comic book. “This is a limited edition
Arsenic
Volume 2: Perdition
. Only two thousand printed in this
collector’s hardcover.”

She returned his focused stare with a blank one
of her own.

He pulled the comic up to eye level, as if to
clear things up. “Alec Duval? Award-winning artist?”

She nodded slowly.

“I was waitlisted for six months. Even paid
extra for BBB.”

“BBB?”

“Bagged, boarded and boxed?”

“Oh.”

“Just to have that brute of a mail carrier
shove the envelope into those tiny mailboxes like he’s cramming a
trash bag down the garbage chute. Look at the edge of this cover.
See that wrinkle? The whole book’s worthless now.”

Cat peered at the wrinkle and followed up with
a silent, polite smile.

Dimples appeared as his smile mirrored hers.
“Thanks for bringing it up, though.”

“I take it he’s smashed a lot of your comic
books, huh?”

The blue eyes flashed like a Feller fastball.
“Graphic novels, not comics. Yes.”

“Novel?” Cat couldn’t suppress the smile
forming on her face. “It’s, like, sixty pages long. Mostly
cartoons.”

His forehead scrunched and he opened his mouth
to protest but stopped upon catching her playful expression. He
squinted his twinkling eyes. “Do I know you?”

She swept her arm behind her toward her
apartment across the hall. “I’m your new neighbor, Cat McDaniel. I
move in today.”

“Oh, where from?”

She paused, wondering whether to give him the
box score or full recap. “Um, Illinois, then California. I’m a bit
nomadic.”

“Cool. I’m Benji, uh, Benji Levy.” He glanced
down at the address label on the book’s packaging. “Oh. I guess you
already knew that, huh?” He set the book behind him and brushed the
strands of thick black hair out of his eyes.

“I think your moving company left about ten
minutes ago. I hope they were more delicate than our postal
worker.”

She shot a worried glance into the hallway and
frowned at her apartment door. “Uh-oh. I guess I should go find
out. It was nice meeting you.”

She tried to sneak one last glimpse at his
piercing eyes, but it was too late. Her new neighbor had already
spun around back into his own apartment and was grumbling at the
fate of his devalued treasure.

The alarm hissed at an excruciating five a.m.
At seven, Cat still stood in front of her full-length mirror. She
dangled a hanger holding a pinstriped pantsuit from one hand and a
tan frock dress from the other.

In this corner, we’ve got aggressive hell
bitch. The challenger, simpering office skank.

She held out the pantsuit.

Shoulder pads it is.

Cat threw the tan frock aside and shimmied into
the pinstripes. The curling iron made a soft click from the
bathroom sink, a subtle reminder she still had pillow hair. She ran
her fingers through the tangles and pulled the strands back into a
low bun. Turning her head from side to side, she frowned and let
the mess fall forward, shaking her head back and forth. A crease
again formed between her brows. She held the red locks halfway back
and studied the look for a few minutes before grabbing a flowered
barrette.

Cat checked the clock. Twenty
minutes.

She ran from room to room in a frantic search
to find the old equipment box marked
SHOES—FRAGILE!
The last
place she checked was the kitchen. She scowled. The movers had
shoved the precious package under a crate of pans.

Cat tore open the lid and began to dig.
Whenever she found a favorite shoe, its mate was missing in action.
The only pairs she was able to match were fuzzy flip-flops and
black Mary Janes. The microwave clock flashed seven forty-five. Cat
grabbed the Mary Janes and flew out the door.

Had to go with the pantsuit.

Cat glared at the reflection of her shoulder
pads in the brass elevator doors, smoothed out her linen jacket and
straightened her beaded necklace against her chest. Dressing for
the interview had been a lot easier than this morning’s closet
chaos.

Of course, then I had the ever-helpful Tamela
forcing me to wear her camisole—the one that was sure to “bring out
the green in my eyes and the big in my breasts.”

Cat adjusted the barrette in her hair as the
elevator advanced four floors.

Why did I use so much hairspray? I look like a
stripper. An aggressive stripper.

She cringed as the doors opened and she exited,
all too aware of the clop of her three-inch heels hitting the
hardwood floors.

Even better. I sound like a Clydesdale. An
aggressive, horsey stripper.

“Catriona, welcome!”

Erich König swept through the fourth floor’s
reception area. Cat’s heart fluttered. She took a moment to
respond, summoning the words she had prepared for this very moment.
Once she had called them to mind, she squeaked them out, “
Guten
Morgen
!”

He beamed and waved her over. “Ah, I love it! A
good morning, indeed. Winston informed me that you acquainted
yourself with the office yesterday,
ja
?”

“It’s the first thing I did when I got into
town.”

“Marvelous. I want to introduce you to the
whole office. They’re all very excited to meet you.”

No pressure or anything, right?

She plastered on the best professional grin she
could muster, the one reserved for IRS auditors and new
bosses.

“I’m excited to meet them, too, Mr.
König.”

“No, no. You must call me Erich. I
insist.”

“Oh uh, okay, sir—Erich.”

As he had at their first meeting, ‘Erich’ wore
a gray suit, but today’s shade was a near replica of the steely
color that surrounded his pupils. A single curl dangled from his
slicked back, wavy hair. The team owner looked every bit the
handsome bachelor every magazine in Las Vegas declared him to
be.

Stop checking out your boss.

She fought to keep her eyes elevated when he
turned around and led her into the fourth floor office.

Eyes up. Eyes up.

Her traitorous peepers trailed down to his
perfectly tailored pants.

What am I doing? I’m going to be the one on
trial for sexual harassment, not that I’m worth suing. I can see
the headline now:

BOSS SUES WORKER FOR UNWANTED SEXUAL ATTENTION;
WINS CLOSET OF SHOES AND FORTY-SEVEN BOBBLEHEADS.

They entered the double doors of the department
and were greeted by the smell of fresh coffee and the rumblings of
Monday chatter.

“Everyone, your attention please.”

Upon hearing the man who owned Hohenschwangau
Stadium speak, the keyboards stopped clicking, the voices stopped
murmuring and every head turned toward the doorway. Cat fidgeted
from one Mary Jane to the other, following their attentive stares
to Erich. He scanned the room, probably to verify that he had the
entire department’s attention.

“Everyone, this is Catriona McDaniel, our
dazzling new addition to the team. If you have not heard, she is
joining us from the Porterville squad. I think you are all going to
be impressed with what she brings to the club.”

Erich turned to Cat and then swept the group
with his eyes, giving her the floor. She smiled awkwardly and
uncrossed her arms to give the crowd a small wave. She quickly
surveyed the room. Welcoming smiles greeted her from every face,
except the only one that was familiar. Dustin leaned against the
copier and faked a yawn to make it clear she was interrupting his
day. She took a deep breath and returned her focus to the
smiles.

“Hi there. I’m looking forward to working with
all of you.”