Olive Oil and White Bread (12 page)

The groan that escaped Angie made all the effort Jillian put into the evening worthwhile.

“Fair warning,” Jillian said. “I'm sort of winging this massage thing.”

“Wing away,” Angie muttered, her face half in the pillow. “You're doing just fine.” Jillian wrung another groan from her, then focused on Angie's shoulders and arms. She used liberal amounts of the oil and found herself enjoying the process nearly as much as Angie seemed to be. Something about rubbing her oil-slicked hands over Angie's smooth, warm skin was intoxicating, and she kept at it, kneading not only Angie's back and shoulders, but her arms, her hands, her thighs, her calves, and even her feet. By the time she felt her own legs tingling from being crunched beneath her on the bed for too long, she'd had her hands on just about every muscle group in Angie's body and had molded each one into submission. And much to her delight, her own underwear was damp.

Happy about the discovery, she hopped off the bed and quickly divested herself of her clothes, then scooted up next to Angie.

Whose eyes were closed.

Who was breathing deeply, evenly.

Who was sound asleep.

Jillian turned onto her back and blew out a huge breath of defeat, trying to think that she'd done a great job at relaxing her girlfriend, not that her plan had backfired. With a turn of her head, she studied Angie, ran her eyes over her face, the smooth skin, the full, pink lips that were the shape of a perfect bow, the chicken pox scar at her right temple, the small brown mole low on her chin. Using her thumb, Jillian stroked the length of one dark eyebrow once, twice. This was the only time lately that Angie seemed relaxed . . . when she slept. During her waking hours, her face was tenser, her brows a tiny bit furrowed. Not for the first time, Jillian worried that Angie was working too hard.

“I love you,” she whispered, and leaned forward to place a feather-light kiss on Angie's nose.

They lay face to face until Jillian followed Angie into slumber.

Ten

When the office-wide intercom clicked on and Guelli's voice filled the room, Angie and Hope were in Hope's office chatting about a couple of Angie's accounts.

“Please, everybody, let's take a moment to congratulate Keith Muldoon for closing a jacket order today with Cavit-McTavish for a hundred thousand dollars. Nice job, Keith.”

Angie and Hope blinked at one another for a moment until Hope broke the silence with a fiercely whispered, “What the
fuck
?”

Angie shook her head as muffled applause could be heard throughout the building. “How the hell does he do that?
I
want to close a hundred thousand dollar order.”

“I don't even want to think of the commission on that one. I'll want to kill myself.”

Even as they spoke, Angie was doing the calculations in her mind. On an order that size, Keith had probably marked it up by twenty-five or even thirty thousand dollars. Angie knew he got a bigger commission percentage than she did. He stood to make somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen thousand dollars. On one order.

“That prick,” Hope muttered. Keith got a larger percentage than she did as well, and judging by her face, she obviously knew it. Hope did just fine with her own sales, but Angie knew that it had to grind on her a little bit. “I'd be happy for him if he wasn't a chauvinistic asshole.”

Angie grinned, but nodded her agreement. “I know. I get that if you make more sales, you get a bigger cut. But he's just such a jerk.”

There was no love lost between Hope and Keith. Frankly, there was no love lost between Keith and most women. He had the
supremely annoying habit of calling them all
sweetheart
or
honey
or
babe
, and often expected them to do such things as bring him a cup of coffee or box up a package for him. On top of that, he didn't see anything wrong with his behavior; he actually thought he was being nice. When anybody called him on it, he'd simply shrug it off. And her previous job as office manager meant that Angie felt obligated to do what Keith asked of her, despite Hope continually reminding her that she was now his peer. She had as hard a time accepting that as Keith did—a fact that annoyed her to no end.

“His advantage is that he knows
everybody
,” Angie said. “He's got contacts all over the place, and if there's some place he doesn't have one, one of his contacts will know someone and introduce him.” Keith had locked up dozens of companies as customers before many of the other salespeople at Logo Promo even had time to think about trying to get in. His customer list was twice as long as everybody else's, and his salary reflected that. He wore designer suits, drove a Cadillac, and had the biggest, most well-furnished office in the building.

“I'd better get back to my own office and get to work,” Angie said as she stood. “I've got issues coming out of my ears.”

She'd been in Hope's office looking for guidance on how to keep the stress from making her feel like her head was going to explode. Flopping into her chair, she scoured the list she'd made of problems that needed her attention. She had three embroidery orders that were late. Six customers were waiting on quotes, and in turn, Angie was waiting on six quotes from her own suppliers. Four orders were waiting to be written, two new and two reorders. Ivan owed her art for three separate projects.

When she got this bogged down, she didn't know where to begin, so she didn't begin at all. Instead, she clicked on the small radio on her desk and just sat looking at the things she needed to do. Her head was clogged. Blinking at her list seemed to be all she could do.

Scrubbing her hands over her face helped to wake her up a little. She glanced at the clock and made a sound of surprise. It was after four. How was it possible she'd spent all day in the office and still had this seemingly insurmountable list in front of her? “Because I spent half the day bitching,” she muttered to herself. “That's how.” Frustration bubbled
up, adding to the stress; her stomach was a cauldron and whatever was in it was boiling over. She glanced up through her window onto the hall just as Hope approached. A tap on the door, and then she entered.

“It's after four,” Angie said as she reached for the cupboard door above her credenza. Her fingers closed around the bottle of Absolut. “I have a ton of work to do, but I need to relax for five minutes. Join me?”

Hope hesitated.

“Come on, Hopie. My day has sucked balls, and I need to de-stress before I have a heart attack. I don't want to drink alone, but I will.”

“Okay. But just one. I've got to get home.” She scooted down the hall to the company kitchen and returned with two cans of 7UP and two plastic cups with ice.

Angie poured, and they touched glasses.

“Sixteen thousand, one hundred twenty-seven dollars,” Hope stated. “That's what Muldoon is making on that order.”

Angie shook her head. “Why can't I find a client as big as Cavit-McTavish? Do you know what I could do with money like that?”

“I've been trying not to think about exactly that since we got the announcement. I could pay off my car. Go on a trip. Put a new roof on my house.”

“I would take Jillian away somewhere,” Angie said. “I feel like I never see her. I practically live here.” As if on cue, her phone rang. She glared at it until it went into voicemail, changing the little 4 on its screen to a 5. “I feel like I can't catch up.”

“Yeah, that's one of the things I like least about this job.” Hope took a sip from her cup. “There's never any plateauing. In most sales jobs, you spend years building your clientele, but once you have one, you can ease off and relax a bit. Not here.”

“‘Any customer can desert you at any time. There will always be somebody who can do it cheaper.'” Angie sighed, quoting one of the first rules Hope had told her when they began working together.

“That's why our customer service is so important; it's the only thing that sets us apart from everybody else. And
that
's what you need to keep focusing on.” Hope leaned forward, caught Angie's eye, and said, “And that's why you shouldn't let your phone click over to voicemail when you're sitting right here.”

Angie grimaced, then nodded.

Hope took another sip of her drink, reached across the desk, and spun Angie's list around so she could read it. “Okay, first things first. What on this list is going to make you money?”

Angie didn't need to look. “The orders and reorders.”

“Exactly. Do those first.”

Angie nodded.

“Taking care of the late stuff consists of—”

“‘—nothing more than quick, angry phone calls.' I know. I know.”

“So get the embroidery shop on the phone and rip them a new one. One late order is understandable. Three late orders are unacceptable.”

“Okay.”

Hope tapped the paper with her forefinger. “Then get these quotes done. Same thing with the suppliers. Get angry. They are holding you up. If they don't get numbers to you, you don't get an order, which means
they
don't get an order, which means
they
don't get any money. Tell them so. And tell them there are a dozen people just like them who supply the same item, and you'll be more than happy to go to them.” She glanced once more at the list and rolled her eyes. “And get in Ivan's face. He is slower than molasses in January. My god. It might be time to scream at him.”

Angie grinned. “Wow. You're a hard-ass.”

“And you're not enough of one.” Hope shot her a pointed look.

“I know.” Angie blew out a breath.

Hope finished her drink. “If you want to close orders like Keith does, you need some balls the size of his, and you need to get tougher with some of these people.
They
work for
you
.” She stood. “There's no reason you and I can't make that kind of money, too. It's all about how much you want it.” With a wink, she left.

“Sixteen thousand dollars in commission,” Angie whispered. “God, would that be nice!” Gulping down the remainder of her drink, she made herself another, then picked up the phone and left a message on their home answering machine for Jillian. She had a staff meeting after school today and wouldn't be home quite yet. Angie left a message that she'd be working late.

Then she got to work on her list. She could make more money.
She absolutely could. Dominick wasn't the only Righetti who could rake it in. She could. And when she did, when she hit the next big order, she was going to take Jillian on a romantic getaway weekend.

She deserved it for being so patient.

“God damn it.”

Jillian slapped the delete button on the answering machine after listening to Angie tell her she was going to be late. Again.

“‘Don't wait up?' Really?” Boo cocked her head as Jillian spoke. “A girl could start to worry that she was having an affair.” She stopped, looked at her dog, blinked several times. “No. She's not. She wouldn't. I know her.” Satisfied she'd curtailed that train of thought, she grabbed Boo's leash off its hook and clipped it to her collar.

Jillian hadn't had a dog growing up. Her friends had, and she'd enjoyed them whenever she visited somebody else, but her mother had never wanted one in her house. So Jillian had never understood till now the head-clearing peace of simply walking her dog through the neighborhood in the evening after work. It helped her to decompress from her day, to slow down her racing mind and body, to just take some time to breathe in the fresh air, admire the trees, and smile at passersby and their dogs.

Boo loved everybody and every dog; she always wanted to say hi. There were a few people who would get that look when they saw her, that
Oh, a pit bull I think I'll cross to the other side of the street
look, but many of them recognized Boo and knew she was anything but a threat. Dog owners were funny. They rarely introduced themselves, but they were quick to introduce their dogs. She didn't know the names of any of the people they crossed paths with during their walk, but she recognized the older woman and Gus the pug, the retired couple and Molly the miniature dachshund, and the young jogger and Sofie, her black Lab mix. She was fairly certain she was known as the blonde woman with Boo the pit bull mix.