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Upon deeper consideration, heavily inspired by loud shouting, being manically stalked by HR, having midnight phone calls from his very concerned mother, as well as half a bottle of Grey Goose and three hours worth of listening to Best of the Irish Rovers on repeat, Bog came to conclusion, that he possibly might have accidentally overreacted just a bit.
So what if they hired Bella as a new head of the designer team on that project that he was headlining so spectacularly that - or so says the word of the grapevine he tastefully planted, fertilised and watered - he was in the shortlist for the Businessman of the Year Award.
So what if Bella still had hair like a golden cascading waterfall and lips like they were done by a Flemish painter in his lifetime masterpiece rendition of Madonna, and that those lips quirked into a cringe at the sight of him, no, The Cringe , that same very one that came in a combination with «We should see other people» some ten years prior.
So what if Bella might have also tried to hide The Cringe by covering her mouth with a hand that might have had a rather pathetic looking diamond ring on it, and he would know a thing or two about diamond rings, the one he dumped in the trash same ten years ago looked like boulder in comparison.
Maybe that wasn’t enough of a reason to throw a chair throw a window.
Especially when both belonged to his boss.
Who was also incidentally his father.
BUT THEN MAYBE that very same father should not have hired his son's almost ex-fiancée without asking and, after that same son expressed his displeasure at the idea, replied that the son should take his personal feelings out this equation, deal with a fact that once upon a time someone dumped him, grow up and act like a man already, he is thirty five for fuck's sake. The rest of the story is history, and will surely be printed next morning on the sixth right next to the news about some upcoming merger between Lichtenbaum assets. Who fucking cares.
Except now he was standing in his kitchen in his sleeping pants with a puddle of coffee creating itself on the kitchen floor while a woman with a small hard-set mouth examined him from under a phenomenal hyper-dynamic wave of auburn hair.
The coffee was still hot and somewhat started burning his bare toes.
"What. The fuck." Bog asked. Then he realised that it didn't quite sound like an inquiry so he added: "-are you doing in my kitchen."
This implied a whole variety of questions, perhaps excluding "where", though if prompted he could have come up with one of that kind as well, but the woman smirked (a well-measured gust of air and a micro-movement that touched the corners of her lips, only her lips):
"I'm your company-mandated psychologist."
"Uh," he said, because it was nine in the morning and he was slightly hungover and the woman was disgustingly awake and proper and producing a three-word combo he never would have thought to be applicable to his person. Ever. "What?"
"As of seven of this morning I'm employed by DF Lmtd to assess your mental health and work on your anger management."
Jesus fucking-
" How did you-” get into my appartment , his mouth wanted to continued, but the brain was slowly kicking itself to life, starting with clicking about exactly how , and it brought him more pain than clarity. “No, wait. I fucking know . Excuse me ."
Coffee soaking into the legs of his pants, Bog traversed the kitchen and made his way towards the living room, where his phone quietly rested, shoved between the couch pillows from the talk he had with his mother the night before. The screen showed ten messages, all of them from his secretary, asking if he was alright ten times in a row , as well as one very brief link from the PR manager, with a concise and pointed «ur on youtube». Coming back, call already connecting against his ear, he stepped over the his spilled first cup of the morning wake-me-up and pushed the button to make himself another one. The phone got picked up only after he made his first divine gulp.
"What the fucking hell, Dad," he greeted jovially.
"Good morning to you too, dear," his mother replied with the similar gusto on the other end. "It’s only nine and you already sound awake. Or did someone keep you up?"
"Mum, no. Put Dad on the phone."
"I'm not going to do that. He is resting after you almost gave him a heart-attack yesterday.” On the other end of the line, someone tried to discreetly cough, failing miserably, because after all, Bog couldn’t just get being LOUD from one of his parents. “I had to force him into taking his medication, do you have any idea how exhausting that was?"
Of course. (From time to time, in an attempt to completely avoid thinking about how his personal life was completely non-existent, Bog thought about how his father most definitely married his mother because well, when push came to shove, no one could shove and push back, completely derailing everyone on her path, like his mother. Which was probably a good thing, because that was a very useful quality to have in a spouse, if you thought about it from a logical, completely sober point of view of convenience, and not assumed things like mutual attraction, or love, or any other kind of emotional commitment, because that brought nothing but pain and fear and uncertainties, and Bog had enough on his plate without any of that nonsense. But then there were times like this, and he thought that this was the stupidest thing in the world, and if anyone ever married anyone, it was his mother.)
"Mom, he can't hide behind you forever-"
"He is not hiding-"
The bottom of his mug hit the counter with too much force. «Mother, coy is not for you and we both know that. There is a woman in my kitchen who claims that she is my, and I'm quoting, ‘company-mandated psychologist’. Can you explain that, Mother? Because the last time I checked we didn't have a shrink on payroll."
"Well.” Griselda made a pause, and that was a first. “My idea was to introduce you to some nice Jewish girl, but this can work too. It’s about time your father listened to me. Should have done this way back when that blonde girl dumped you."
"Fine. I'm going to ask like this: is she really a shrink or is this a complicated way of the two of you pushing a hooker at me?"
He was fully aware what that sentence sounded like, well, it sounded exactly like the very weird sort of thing his parents would do. Which was why he was asking.
"Does she look like a hooker?"
Bog peeked back over his shoulder. The woman raised her head from a notebook she was writing something in - hopefully not that he was discussing hookers with his mother - and silently arched a finely plucked eyebrow.
"I don't know. She is wearing a pantsuit, and not a cheap looking one. And very sensible shoes. Best dressed hooker I ever saw. A little plain though.»
The line went silent with indecipherable whispering, but the tone his mother was taking didn’t promise anything good, until it exploded into his ear, making him wince in pain.
“Oh, Boggy, I got to love your father, he is a brilliant man,” that was accompanied with a giggle that made him a bit sick to his stomach. “Who, by the way , confirms that she is a shrink. Also asks to actually work with her since she is a damn good one. And expensive as well.»
«Then how about I save him some money, shall I?» Call dropped, polite face on, his whole body turned on a spot, and he stared upon the intruder with a defined dislike. “Miss-”
The notebook was carefully closed, a Dupont fountain pen with what looked most like gold lining sheathed and tucked into a breast pocket, and her legs crossed one over another. “Doctor Legrand.”
“Le...grand? Seriously?”
Thin lips pursed. “You find something funny, Mr King?”
“Well, aren’t you a bit…” He tried to look for a word that would not alienate his uninvited guest any more than he was planning to, but none came. Oh well, she wasn’t going to think this to be funny anyway. Not that he was trying to be funny. “Short. You are really short for that name.”
Case and point, the psychologist’s face didn’t change an inch.
“Legrand is my mother’s name. She was French.”
He was an asshole - what’s new - and his almost psychologist was French. Good to know. Sort of. “Uh, alright, yes - Doctor Legrand, terribly sorry for the inconvenience but your services won’t be needed, so you can just pick up all your things and evacuate the premises-”
The notebook, picked at with a really short stubby nail - strange detail to notice, but he would have expected a french manicure or something, Bella always had innaculate blood red nails, and he is not going down that trail of thought, not while standing in the middle of his kitchen in just pajama pants with this woman he just met who looks like she is about to lay it on him - opened with a loud swing.
“On the contrary, Mr King, your father thought it to be necessary, and now, after a primary assessment, I would think that is absolutely right.” Elbow leaning on the counter, chin resting on a bended wrist, she flipped through the pages. “There are quite of few points of interest I would like to draw your attention to-”
Stepping forward, right into the now cold coffee puddle - he really needs to do something about that - he very politely banged his fist against the table, curling over her with all his height allowed and it allowed a lot .
“Doctor, I think you are not getting something - I’m firing you .”
Paradoxically, Legrand leaned forward, the second elbow joining the first, making her complete lack of breasts completely obvious, even if he could see the strap of her black bra slipping and crossing the thin line of her delicately protruding clavicle.
Subtle. That’s the word he was looking for.
And just to prove him wrong, the cheekbones, really sharp, puffed under brownish-yellow cat-like eyes. “No, you are not. Because you don’t have the power to.”
He didn’t think it was possible, and his back was notifying him that his spine didn’t work that way, but he insisted and pushed himself even further into her face, descending into a low rumbling growl. “I owe this company, damn bloody right I can fire you.”
“Actually,” the eyes before him crinkled with mirth of an erupting volcano. “Your father owns the company and you are, while still an heir, you are not the CEO quite yet. More than that,” she trailed, studying his features with kindling curiosity, glances like sparks, and while bounced over his face, Bog really hoped that they would remain there, but this woman continued to be stubbornly uncomfortable , and then she moved on to his ears, and further down his neck, the stiff bob of his adam’s apple, and down his bare chest of sticking breastbone and ribs, all with detached interest of a artist studying a new model. “Mr King Senior made it clear that he hired me and therefore he is the only one who will fire me. Now,” and suddenly her irises, aflame , shot straight into his, “I suggest you put on a shirt, sit down and we can begin.”
We can begin , she said as if there was absolutely no any other way they could proceed out this situation, that he had no other choice.
Bog breathed in - and it came difficult, like thick rubber bands spun around his chest, as if the breath he would take would take all air out between them, and she would have to get closer or get away and what was at first a very clear choice of action became a difficult decision.
She decided for him - they all decided for him, his mother, Bella, this woman with a slender neck and some bloody form of hypnosis, whatever the hell that was - by pulling away and and leaning against the back of the chair. “I would like some tea, if you please.”
“I don’t have any tea!” Shoulders jerking, he straightened up, somehow so very… upset about himself, like if someone back-handedly pointed out that he was disproportionately lanky - Bog was perfectly aware of that fact, but it still would have stabbed at him, despite a bitter remark he would have thrown in turn. And this woman managed to do that without basically saying a single thing. She managed to do that by simply existing in the very same space that he did.
Rude.
“Did you run out or is this a natural occurrence?”
What did he say? Very rude.
“I don’t drink tea therefore I don’t have tea - why are we still having this conversation? I’m not participating at this medschool attempt at psychoanalysis.” Grabbing his phone, he marched out of the kitchen, followed by determined heeled footsteps. “I don’t want your help. Don’t need your help.”
“So what would it take for you to take it then?” Legrand gained on him, and he made it a point to briskly stop so she would crash into him.
She did. Her non-existent breasts pressed against his back and became very existent. Her hard mouth knocked against the ridge of his spine and that produced a whole bouquet of excruciating feelings he immediately threw out of the window in lieu of his own smart-assery.
“Oh, I don’t know,” teeth bared at her, not even attempting a smile, he turned. “How about you kick my ass ? Make me , if you can.”
Somehow his whole six feet and whatever inches made that sound like a highly improbable scenario, but the shrink sighed - sounding almost disappointed - and started undoing her jacket, feet slipping out of her shoes.
“If that is what you want,” now even shorter, like that was even possible but hey, she folded her suit jacket over the nearest chair, rolling the sleeves of her dress shirt, perfectly fitted and perfectly white, except for the shade-like outline of a black bra underneath. “We would have to discuss this need for self-punishment as well. Might have a systematic nature, and be a symptom of some deeper disfunction. Ready?”
Fringe combed from her face, she stared into his eyes, bouncing, springs under her feet.
“Sweet haven, you are actually serious,” Bog barely managed to pull through, reaching out towards her, not even to hit or shove, but maybe to make sure that this sudden vibrating energy that filled her, threatening to spill out right through her pores, was a real thing.
Except he didn’t get a chance to.
A blink of an eye - and the shortass wasn’t where she was before, and two hands wrapped around his wrist, and the sofa drastically changed its angle of existence in the universe of things, somehow going from horizontal to vertical.
And just when he decided that the planet simply changed its gravitational pull and all was fine, he noticed his feet, long, flat and callused, with knobby joints of someone who spend life on foot, sailing pass, the chandelier of his living room reflecting the whole thing in the backdrop.
The next moment he was gently settled face down into the carpet with his arms twisted behind his back and with someone happily plopping herself on top of him.
“So how are we feeling?” She asked, falling forward against his shoulder blades and breathing heavily into his ear, trying to catch her wind. “Ready to participate yet?”
And then she grinded. Once. Bog wasn’t even sure if she did it on purpose.
“I need a moment,” he wheezed, and urgently tried to think of anything non-intimate, not related to prim and proper three-quarters of a human on top of him twisting him in a pretzel and how he would really like for her to twist him in a pretzel what the fuck.
Three quarters of a human seemed to have some sort of a mind-reading ability, because she tensed on top of him for the whole of three second, and then slowly let his hands go. “Is this your usual response to experiencing violence? Or does this have anything to do with me personally?” Her calm voice vibrated against the skin of his back.
Felt rather stupid to lie to her at this point. He pressed his forehead to the cold board of the flooring: “I don’t know.”
“How about we figure it out then? Together with the rest of your issues. Agreed?”
Bog nodded. But as an afterthought, reached back and touched her sharp knee. He didn’t know why, felt like a correct thing to do.
“One condition: none of this gets to my parents.”
“Of course. Patient/doctor confidentiality.”
“No. No one must even know that you are my shrink. Come up with something. Anything. I don’t care.”
“And you will work with whatever treatment I choose?”
“Do I get a choice? Or are you trying to give me a false of security and freedom?”
She chuckled . It felt horribly casual and pleasant . “There is always a choice, Isaac.”
“One more thing: never call me that. Even my mother doesn’t call me that, and she was the one to give me that horrible name.”
“Perhaps she hoped you’d become a happier man.”
“Well, look who’s laughing now.”
And then she laughed .
She laughed, in a rocking motion, like a burst of light amidst downpour, like a unexpected xylophone solo in a middle of a heavy metal anthem, slipping on her hip by his side, with a charming snort before her hands could cover her mouth, to stuff it right back where it came from.
He caught it in its final form of a soft feminine surprise, the most human of all her expressions, and there was something so sincere about it, the sight of woman confused took him off guard. Raising himself on his elbows, he studied rounded cheeks and a button nose over tightly shut fingers, nostrils flaring with pinkish hue that less covered and more enveloped her whole being in a misty haze of palpable embarrassment.
“That was funny,” Legrand mumbled, swallowing. “Contextual, but funny. And here I though you lack a sense of humour. Color me surprised.”
Her eyes squinted with a beginning of a relief.
He wanted to hear that stupid snort again.
“So what now?” he subverted, rolling over and sitting in front of her.
“Now, Mr-”
“Bog. Mr King is my father. And I, when there is official paperwork to be signed. Or if you are my employee which you made explicitly clear you are not.” Long legs reorganised and folded into a lotus pose, he watched her fix her shirt, the seams making it really difficult to judge where did all that fitness hide. “What are you to me by the way? If not a brain-wrecker?”
Collar fixed, the woman got off the ground. Whatever that was that he just experienced, it disappeared behind the mask of calm reservation. “First, you’ll get off the floor and clean up. Then, we are going for a run.”
Bog glanced out of the window into a starting snowfall just to make sure he didn’t miss anything.
“Excuse me? A run?! In mid December?”
“You heard me.”
She padded back to the kitchen, small feet patting the tiled floor. He wondered, if the slight sway in her step, the tiniest of confident ‘umph’, was intriguing or concerning, or if it was concerning that he was intrigued.
“Oh, and you can call me Marianne,” she stopped by the brown puddle, now in a messy swamp, bending down and rolling the edges of her pants up to mid-knee. Knee that went on to a decent thigh and to a somewhat attractive round buttox.
If he had to have an opinion. Not that he was going to voice it. He already met the floor one today. He doubted the second one would be as pleasant.
“Alright, Marianne,” getting up, as smoothly as he could, he stretched, joints popping in a choir, but no comment came. Curious, he picked after her.
Marianne was cleaning coffee off the floor. Paper towels thrown about, she drew the puddle into itself, moving soaking bits together with the toes of her foot. “This is the first and the last time,” she said sensing his presence. “I’m your psychologist, not your cleaning lady.”
“You’d be a really bad cleaning lady. Missed a spot.”
She leaned down and picked the sogging brown rags. They hang in dripping mess between her delicate thin squeamish fingers. Even in a weird rolled-up pants suit, she looked like belonged .
Or so he thought before a splash of wet against his chest and a Wink that hit like a bullet.
“Don’t talk to your girlfriend like that.”
P.S.
Dr Marianne Legrand-Lichtenbaum was simultaneously the long-awaited and the unexpected guest of the Annual Lichtenbaum Charity Gala, first because it was a high time the heiress showed up to her family’s Main Event of the Year, and second, well, it’s been ten years and no one really expected her to actually appear.
Except when she did.
Marianne Lichtenbaum wore red and she was lustrous .
“You said a ‘nice Jewish girl’ and she was the nicest Jewish girl I knew,” Gregory Arthur King snuck another canape into his mouth, taking advantage of his wife’s short stature, as well as her current good disposition, hence less chance to chastise him for disregarding his ulcer.
“So you found him a Lichtenbaum, and not just any Lichtenbaum. Marianne Lichtenbaum. ‘Dunk her ex-boyfriend/fiancee into a punch bowl’ Marianne Lichtenbaum.” Griselda swirled red wine in her glass, and it left a translucent film of burgundy, much like the swirl of the oldest Lichtenbaum’s skirt. “And what does Albert think about it? Or you want to make it a surprise?”
Caviar gave him a heartburn. Pity.
“Albert wants her to just get married already. He doesn’t even seem to care who anymore. Husband, business, children. Something in that order.”
“Look at you, so cunning,” his wife grinned, tucking a run-away hair into her hairdo. “Have you seen that girl though? Doesn’t she look like a husband-business-children type to you?”
Leaning on the small table, arm finding his wife’s waist, he whispered into her ear. “You tell me, woman: does she?”
And Griselda never disappointed.
“She looks like she can rule the world. Just look at them, Greg.” He did, beyond glitter and expensive champagne, and trust-fund children, finding the reason for his wife sigh. “They are perfect .”
Marianne Legrand-Lichtenbaum wore red like it was the blood of her broken heart and her vanquished foes. Marianne also wore the future CEO of DF Lmtd on her arm, yes, the one with the chair, who surprisingly, cleaned up well, but then again, the man just signed a contract for couple of hundred million with the Chinese, so he probably would be allowed to not even shave if he really wanted to.
He did anyway.
Because how else he would light up the whole room with his eyes when he looked at her.
And collectively, despite the chair and the punch and a most undisclosed relationship that made everyone and their mother unbearably curious, it was decided there was absolutely nothing wrong with Marianne Legrand-Lichtenbaum and Isaac Gregory Broggard King.
Not that they cared.
Chose not to. There was, after all, always a choice.