Marina didn't sleep a wink that night, and for that, she blamed James Wesley.
It started off innocent enough. James had offered to pay for delivery, and she'd agreed more to avoid dealing with him than any real desire to eat Chinese. While they'd waited for the delivery, however, James made use of her shower.
She should have known, looking back. There was just something disarming about a man leaving a shower smelling of woman rather than man that was oddly enticing. It had felt as though she'd claimed ownership over this man, and he had accepted. After all, what rational man would be content to leave a shower smelling of sweet pea, lilies, and cherry blossoms?
He'd had nothing to change into, so he'd redressed in his shirt and pants, though he'd left off the jacket and tie, which he had draped over the back of the couch.
He'd looked like he belonged there, in her apartment, as silly as it was to see him draped over her old flowery, worn couch. He shouldn't have looked like he fit in, not as posh and rich as his clothes screamed that he was, but he had.
And oh, he could make small talk with the best of them. She'd stubbornly avoided his attempts, but he'd drawn her into light conversation, and only the delivery man had saved her from anything further.
She'd fled to her room and eaten dinner on her bed, and thankfully, he hadn't pressed the issue. Somehow, she figured that was more because he lacked the ability to pursue her, than any real choice on his part.
Either way, she'd picked her way through dinner while doing her best to ignore any and all thoughts of the man in the other room. She'd been distracted enough, however, that Blanca made off with a third of her dinner before she'd even noticed.
Still, she'd been grateful to find that James had already fallen asleep back on the couch when she'd finally dragged herself out of the bedroom to toss her food. The lights had all been turned off, and she could almost pretend that he wasn't even there to begin with.
But when she'd gone to shower herself later that night, the shower was damp, and she was reminded that he'd used her shower. That he'd been naked in her shower.
She couldn't fall asleep that night.
.
Once again, James Wesley woke on the infernal couch.
This time, however, he was in an infinitely better mood. He was still sore, of course, but there was no way he could have mistaken the look in Marina's eyes the night before. She'd been aware of him, as a man, rather than a problem.
He had intended, of course, to gently ply her with words and his charisma the night before, until enough of her doubts were soothed. But her attraction worked even better than any of his tactics could have, because he could easily convince her that her heightened sense of caution was directly tied to her attraction.
He slid his glasses onto his face as he hummed Beethoven's Fifth. He slid his jacket back on before adjusting his handkerchief and retying his tie, doing his best to portray his usual professionalism.
It was a look that was almost ruined when another cat jumped into Wesley's lap and began purring just moments before Marina opened the door.
Instead of looking dignified, James Wesley looked domesticated. And it was then that he remembered exactly why he didn't like animals. They were unruly, unpredictable, and undignified. And this woman had far, far too many of them.
But when Marina laughed, softly at first, before she finally caved and began howling, he decided that the cat, perhaps, might just have helped relieve Marina's odd behavior.
"Come on," she told him a moment later. "Stop playing with Guapo. We're going downstairs to open up the shop. Lucky'll be by with breakfast and coffee later."
He paused in his actions of prying the cat from his lap. "Lucky?"
Marina chuckled, and he smiled at how natural it sounded. "Keandre. He's my part-timer," she explained quickly as he finally dislodged the cat. "He also works at the coffee shop a block from here, so he brings coffee when he takes a break. Says it lets him stretch his legs."
He mulled over that for a moment, curious about the nickname—and what it suggested about the woman's relationship with her employee. "Why do you call him Lucky?"
"He's been hit by a car—twice—but hasn't broken a single bone." She grabbed her keys and shoved her feet into her shoes as she answered him—at the same time; the woman clearly excelled at multitasking. "He also was shot when he was sixteen in a drive-by, but the worst it did was graze his liver."
He pushed himself off of the couch. "And that's why you call him Lucky?"
"He was working for me at the time," she explained, ushering him out the front door and into a small stairway. "When I visited him in the hospital, his uncle kept telling him he was damned lucky, and it just stuck."
She proceeded down the stairs, but when she reached the bottom, she turned around and leaned on the railing. "That's enough back story from me. And don't expect me to help you down the stairs, either."
He smirked as he slowly made his own way down the stairs, but she didn't notice. Before he was halfway down the stairs, she had already unlocked another door, and entered what he assumed to be her shop.
But he didn't complain, because what she had just shared told him that she was far more empathetic than she'd ever let on.
And he would take shameless advantage of that fact until he was well enough to leave, because it was the only way to ensure all of his efforts wouldn't be in vain. One day, people like Marina and her "Lucky" wouldn't live in squalor simply because of innate poverty. Fisk's plan was so close to culmination.
It was only a matter of time.
