Taking Control (Kerr Chronicles #2)(40)
Author: Jen Frederick

When I get to my office, Louis is waiting for me.

“Kaga okayed the SunCorp management. Let’s do some more due diligence about margins and ROI, and we’ll make a decision next week.” He nearly claps with glee.

At my desk, I flick through my contacts, pausing at the interior decorator that worked with me on the warehouse remodel. After a short hesitation, I delete her card. I slept with her during that remodel, and I don’t want Tiny to be the subject of any snide commentary if the decorator is miffed she’s not invited to stay the night.

Frank can give me a referral. I need to call him anyway to have his assistant pick out a dress for a fundraising event at the Frick in a couple of weeks.

“Ian Kerr!” Frank sounds unusually upbeat. “How are all the clothes for your new friend working out?”

“I hope no one from your office is in touch with the Observer.”

Frank gasps. “We’d never break a confidence!”

“I hope not. I wouldn’t want to stop working with you.”

“As if you could,” Frank chides. “I’ve dressed you for over a decade.”

“Longer, I think. I’m actually calling about two things. First, I need a recommendation for an interior decorator. The exterior is Northern European, but the interior can be anything other than modern. Tiny complained to me that the warehouse is soulless.”

“I have just the person. She’s worked all over the Hamptons.”

“I’m not looking for beachy, Frank.”

“No, no,” he reassures me. “She’s definitely classy.”

“Make sure you tell her that I’m happily attached to the woman who will be directing her efforts. If she can’t operate under that premise, I’ll work with someone else.”

Frank pauses and says hesitantly, “I’ve never had a problem with her.”

“You’re g*y. Why would you?”

“I’m still hot. The ladies still want me and mourn constantly that I play for the other team. I’d be swimming in pu**y if I were straight, I tell you.”

“Fair enough. Straight men all over the city rejoice that you are kind enough to vacate the field for them.”

“I’m a very generous person. What’s the other thing?”

“Get me samples of some bolder patterns for suits. Order a yard of each.” Tiny has been gravitating toward the more fashion forward suits in my closet. I haven’t decided whether she thinks it’s a dare or whether she really likes them, but hell, if it’s a game she enjoys playing then I figure she needs the pieces for the board. I don’t care if I walk up Fifth Avenue in my underwear if that’s what Tiny wants. A loud plaid suit? Maybe we’d start a new trend.

“He hates doing big swatches,” Frank warns. “He” is the Saville Row tailor who makes all my suits.

“I f**king hate those tiny swatches. They’re so small that I can’t get a sense of what anything is going to look like.”

“He thinks it’s a waste.”

“Tell him to sew some dolls and sell them on eBay. Also, I’m taking Tiny to the Frick Ball in a couple of weeks. It’s her favorite museum. She’ll need a dress.”

“A couple of weeks?” he shouts.

I pull the phone away from my ear as he sputters loudly for a minute about how women plan for months for this event, maybe even years, and how I’m a cretin with a bigger wallet than my fashion sense. “You have two weeks, Frank,” I state firmly and then hang up the phone.

The Frick Gentlemen’s Ball is an annual charity event that benefits the Frick’s art reference library. Tiny’s mother loved the Frick, and they went there together frequently. It was, in fact, the last outing they shared before Sophie passed away. I hadn’t told Tiny about the event yet—it had been a busy past few weeks—but I’d tell her tonight that I’d made a sizable donation in Sophie’s name.

As I think about charitable contributions, it occurs to me that there is another thing that Tiny might be interested in sponsoring. I walk down the hall and knock on Louis’s door.

“Change your mind about SunCorp?” he says, looking up in surprise.

“No, I want us to look into a charity for dyslexia.”

“Really?” He looks pained.

“It’s a good tax write-off.”

“You’re still paying 60 percent of it,” he counters.

“We can spare 60 percent of something. Have you always been against giving money away?” I quirk an eyebrow at him.

“When you hired me, your exact words were ‘your rapacious desire for success set you apart from the other applicants.’”

Those words sound vaguely familiar. At one time, I had a win-at-all-costs mentality. It’s the only mindset one can have when you’re poor, orphaned, and desperate. “We’re going to give more this year,” I say decidedly. “Get me a list of five potential charities. They don’t have to be the biggest or best but make sure the organization is spending the money wisely.” I turn to leave but then remember my plans for the weekend. “And I’m taking Friday off. Tiny and I are going to Connecticut. Pretend I’m vacationing in the Maldives and can’t be reached.”

Behind me I can hear Louis cursing. He yells, “They have phones there. And Wi-Fi!”

“Not where I’m going, they don’t.”

FIFTEEN

TINY LOOKS WORN OUT WHEN I pick her up at Jake’s.

“He’s still in his office,” she says. “I swear he sleeps here.”

“It takes time to build a new business,” I observe mildly. “Should we eat out tonight or order in?”

“Let’s make something,” she suggests.

“I don’t know how to cook and no offense, sweetheart, but do you?”

“My cooking rolodex contains about three recipes. Pot pie, shrimp with noodles, and a beef pot roast cooked in a crockpot—which you don’t have.”

Her mouth turns down a little, probably remembering all the wonderful things her mother made.

I try to cheer her up. “You do realize we live in a place where even fast food can be delivered, right? Not to mention that there are a dozen restaurants within walking distance.”

“I know, but I think it would be fun.”

Leaning forward, I tell Steve to drop us at the Chelsea Market. “Let’s cook then.”

Inside I can’t help pointing out all the food stalls with prepared items we could take home. “We could get seafood,” I say looking at the lobster advertised at the Lobster Place. “Or apparently enough bread to feed an entire city.”