For Real
*(1/6)
By Sakata Ri Houjun
~****************~
"The course of true love never did run smooth?"
Issac Ido sat motionless at the head of the highly polished, smudge-free table that bisected the boardroom of his New York office. He steepled his fingers together, and frowned. Instead of gazing directly at his newest associate, who sat midway down the table to his left, he studied his reflection in the sleek ebony. The only concession he made to acknowledge that he had heard him was an almost indiscernible arch to one elegant dark eyebrow.
Too new to Phoenix Advertising, Inc., to realize what that arched brow indicated, the young man licked his lips a little anxiously and continued. "It's already a familiar phrase. It would make for a memorable slogan."
Issac relaxed his eyebrow, tilted his head back to observe his associate more fully, and folded one hand over the other atop the proposal sitting previously untouched before him on the table.
The young man swallowed with some difficulty. "We, uh, we could call Malcolm's new perfume 'True Love,' and the whole campaign could revolve around Shakespeare. It's all right there in my prospectus."
Issac gazed at him levelly, but remained silent.
The young man tugged restlessly at his discreetly striped necktie. "The, um, the possibilities for mining Shakespeare's plays for ideas would be endless. We could easily carry the campaign well into next year, and we could include Malcolm's other fragrance products with it as well."
Issac drummed his fingernails over the shiny gray folder before him, and then slowly, very gradually, he smiled. "Mr. Harper," he began softly. "Did you by any chance have a minor in college?"
The young man smiled back at him and visibly relaxed. "Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. English."
"I see. So you must have a great love for literature."
"Yes, I do."
Issac smiled again. "Especially Shakespeare, I'll bet. Am I right?"
"You're right."
"Well, I think that's lovely. Has it occurred to you, however, Mr. Harper, that your average perfume buyer, regardless of her education, might not be particularly well versed in her Shakespeare?"
Harper's smile fell. "Um, no. I didn't really consider that."
"Consider it now."
The young man's eyebrows arrowed down in a deep V as he followed his instructions. He stared at his own reflection in the table for some moments, and then looked up again when he seemed to reach a conclusion.
"Well?" Issac asked.
"I suppose that if a consumer wasn't familiar with Shakespeare, then…"
"Then what?"
"Then a campaign that relied on his works might potentially be…um…"
"Yes?"
"Completely ineffective."
Issac nodded. "Yes. It would." He arced his gaze around the table, scanning his nine remaining associates. "Any other suggestions?" he asked idly.
A wave of silence was his reply.
He sighed heavily, pressed his fingers to his forehead in an effort to thwart an oncoming headache, and muttered, "Fine. Well, we have until next week. Keep working on it. Thomas?"
Thomas Ray, his aide, snapped to attention in the chair to his immediate right, and Issac tried not to flinch when he did so. Although he had been with Issac for nearly two years now, he still wasn't used to his uptight demeanor. His lively eyes were more black than brown, his complexion smooth and fair and unlined. In spite of that, it was impossible for him to gauge his age. He might be twenty-six or fifty-six, he had no idea. He wore his bluish-black hair swept straight back from his forehead, and he was always impeccably groomed, favoring dark, conservative suits.
"Yes, Mr. Ido?" Thomas replied quickly in the crisp, quiet tenor that always put Issac at ease.
"Are there any matters we need to address this morning?" he asked him.
He glanced quickly at the palm pilot before him.
"Only Mrs. Parmentier's Midsummer Masque."
Issac groaned. "Oh, no. Is it already that time again?"
"You've kept putting this off because of your new client, and now we have only a couple of weeks to prepare."
Adrienne Parmentier had been a Manhattan fixture for what seemed like an eternity, a widow with far too much money and time on her hands. As a result, two decades ago, she had begun sponsoring an annual fund-raiser for the arts which she had decreed the Midsummer Masque. Every head of every major corporation that claimed offices in Manhattan was invited, along with a hefty check for Mrs. Parmentier's charity.
"It seems like I just put away last year's costume," Issac muttered. "What kind of theme does she have going this year?"
Thomas consulted his pad again, then threw him a pitying look and made a quiet tsking noise. "This year's theme is Mystic China."
"Terrific. Is that all?"
"Yes, Mr. Ido."
"Then we're through here."
Ten people rose at once and exited single-file through the smoked glass doors that divided the boardroom from the reception area. When they were clear, another individual entered. The man made his way toward the collection of lush potted palms that lined like sentries before the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked down on Madison Avenue on the other side of the room.
"Hello, Shawn," Thomas said absently as the man passed.
"Hi, Tommy," the man replied, turning casually to lift a hand in greeting. When he saw Issac, he stumbled a bit, but quickly righted himself. After a moment's hesitation, he added, "Hi, Mr. Ido."
Issac glanced up briefly at the man's arrival, but when he had seen it was only the guy who came to water the plants every Tuesday, he dropped his gaze again. At his greeting, however, his head snapped up in surprise. "Oh, hello," he said.
He was about to return his attention to Harper's prospectus, hoping to find something salvageable in the campaign, but the man turned again to make his way to the other side of the room, and, for some reason, Issac's gaze followed him. He had never noted how tall he was, nor how well built. His muscled shoulders strained beneath his shirt, tapering to a trim waist, and a truly remarkable derriere housed snugly in his jeans. When his gaze wandered upward again, Issac arched his brow once more. He noted the wild orange hair bound at his nape in a ponytail and frowned.
A grown man with a ponytail, he thought derisively, returning his attention to Harper's prospectus. Honestly. Some people refused to grow up.
"About Mrs. Parmentier's Masque?" Thomas asked him.
Issac leafed through the prospectus and only half-listened to his aide. "What about it?"
"You'll need an escort."
"Mmmm."
Thomas issued a sound that might have indicated frustration in a less reserved man. "Issac, if I may be so bold, you really must find a nice woman who would be an asset for occasions such as these."
"No, Thomas, you may not be so bold."
Thomas hesitated a moment, and, with much reluctance, capitulated. "Very well. Your usual?"
"My mother?" Issac shook his head. "There's no way she'd ever risk going in costume with me, even to a high society function."
"Your sister, then?"
"No can do. The new season started and so she'll be touring."
"Ah, yes," Thomas recalled. "The drama queen. But you still need an escort," he repeated.
For some reason, his attention returned to the man on the other side of the room, who was bent over one of the smaller palms, inspecting its leaves.
"Is that really necessary?" he asked. "Can't I go stag?"
Thomas threw him a chastising expression. "Mrs. Parmentier would be scandalized. You'd never hear the end of it."
"But you don't have to worry about it."
"It's my job to worry," he countered loftily. "And as I said, it would be most helpful if you knew of someone who would be…convenient…for these purposes. I can't tell you how many times I've-"
"Thomas."
"Yes?"
"Petulance doesn't become you."
He sighed impatiently. "My apologies."
"No need to apologize. You are my friend and, without question, the best aide I've ever had but matchmaking is not in your job description."
"Issac, just because you don't believe in romance doesn't mean-"
"Thomas."
"What?"
"Let me worry about Mrs. Parmentier, okay? I'll take care of an escort myself."
Obviously not satisfied by his reassurance, but clearly unwilling to press his luck, for the time being anyway, Thomas pocketed his palm pilot and stood.
Issac scarcely noticed his departure; so thoroughly disgusted was he by Harper's nauseatingly sweet campaign. True Love, he repeated to himself. Ick. What person in their right mind would wear a fragrance called True Love? The very suggestion of such a thing turned Issac's stomach.
"Issac?"
"Yes, Thomas?"
But when he looked up again, he realized it wasn't Thomas who had summoned him. It was the plant waterer. He was about to apologize for his error, but his breath caught in his throat. He had never been this close to him before, had never paid attention to his face. Now that he did, he realized that his face was quite extraordinary, narrow and strong, with beautifully arranged features. His nose was sharp, his lips turned up slightly over straight white teeth. And his eyes…
A deep sigh bubbled up unbidden inside Issac. His eyes reminded him of those belonging to a night creature he'd once seen on the cover of a National Geographic, so angular and bright, ringed with sooty lashes, and a vivid golden color he had never seen on another human being. Yet instead of being cool and distant, this man's eyes were warm and inviting. Too warm, he decided when an odd heat began to spiral up from his midsection. And way too inviting.
"I…I…I'm sorry," he finally stammered. "I…I…I thought you were Thomas."
"No, I'm Shawn," he said, his mouth broadening into a roguish smile. "Shawn Hane. I'm-"
"You're the guy who waters the plants every Tuesday," Issac finished for him without thinking.
His eyes fairly sparkled with delight. "Among other things, yeah. I'm flattered you noticed."
"No, I didn't-" he began to protest before realizing his statement indicated just the opposite. "I mean…um…"
Shawn towered over him, so he pushed his chair back and stood. Unfortunately, he found himself a couple of inches short of meeting his eyes, so instead he diverted his gaze a bit at his chest. And a rather noteworthy chest it was, he thought before he could stop himself.
Shawn laughed, a rich, rumbling sound. "Anyways, I wanted to tell you that you have a fungus on one of your palms here."
Issac relaxed a little. "Oh?"
He scrubbed an open hand over his rough jaw. Issac found fascinating the gesture, and his gaze fixed on the long, blunt fingers that curved over his chin. "A little fungicide will take care of it," Shawn continued, evidently oblivious to his attention. "But you might want to avoid the boardroom for a while after I spray. I only use organic products, but the smell is kind of strong. I was just wondering when a convenient time would be to do that."
Issac inhaled deeply, filling his nose and lungs with the fragrance of him, something earthy and primeval and completely outside his experience. And to his utter embarrassment, he realized he had no idea what he had been saying.
"What?" he asked in a very small voice. "What did you say?"
He tried to convince himself that his smile was smug and dismissing, and that he should be offended by his insolence. Unfortunately, his smile seemed anything but smug, and it made Issac feel all warm and gooey inside. And much to his horror, he found himself wanting to smile back. How very odd.
"Is there a day of the week that you don't use this room?" he asked.
"Thursday," he replied, his gaze still lingering on his eyes.
"Would it be okay if I came back to spray on Thursday?"
"That would be fine."
Still he stared at his eyes, unable to look away. Shawn seemed to finally notice his fascination, and he dipped his head lower to his, fiery silk falling into his eyes. "Is there a problem, Mr. Ido?"
"Your hair…" he began softly.
"My hair is a problem?"
He shook his head. "No, it's…"
A single good-natured chuckle erupted from inside him. Without thinking about what he was doing, Issac lifted his hand towards Shawn's face, brushing the long bangs from his eyes, and then reluctantly withdrew his hand.
However, Shawn circled his wrist with strong fingers and didn't let go. For one long moment, he held his hand, his fingers mere inches from his mouth. Issac realized that if he wanted to, he could reach right over and run his fingertips across his lips. Or, if he wanted to, he could tilt his head just so and kiss those same fingertips. Perhaps even draw them into his mouth, one by leisurely-
Issac jerked his hand from his grasp and thrust it into his pocket. "Thursday would be fine," he repeated, his voice sounding shallow and inconstant, even to his own ears.
For one brief moment, Shawn's hand lingered in the air between them, as if he wanted to reach out and touch his hair. Then his smile still maddeningly innocent, he dropped his hand to his side. "Great. I'll see you then."
And before Issac could say another word, he was gone, leaving him feeling as if they had just made a date, but for the life of him, he had no idea what kind.
