Jeopardy Investment

A short story by Tenesha Curtis

This story contains: her and him, contemporary romance, enemies to lovers, self-pleasure, BIPOC, office

1.

“No.” 

The word comes so assuredly out of Robert Clearwater’s mouth that I want to march around the conference table and make him eat it. But the second my thigh tenses, Allia’s hand clamps down on it. 

I don’t handle dissent well. Butting heads with two donors has already cost Compassionext, my end-of-life care nonprofit, over a million dollars in annual funding. 

“We’d love to hear which parts of the proposal you disagree with, Mr. Clearwater,” I say carefully. Allia, my executive assistant, nearly draws blood with her insistent grip and black acrylic nails. 

I pinch back in retaliation and she jabs me in the kneecap. Struggling not to wince, I direct a paper smile at the large man across the table. 

Robert must be nearly 6’5” with a lean build. His black hair is faded high, the thick waves gelled and smoothed back so that the ends lick the nape of his neck. He arrived this morning in a scarlet long-sleeved button-down, crisp, expensive jeans, and thick-soled Timberlands. His wide shoulders and big hands shift in unison with his collected thoughts. 

“The thing is, I don’t work great with—well, actually—at all with someone lookin’ over my shoulder. So, if we’re gonna do this, I need space and control. You review the mockups, of course. But once they’re settled, there’s no reason you gotta be peekin’ in on me.” 

This I’ve heard before.  

“See, this is what I’m talking about. I don’t know what I’m going to get. After the mockups, I’ll know what we planned, but I’ll have no way to account for what’s actually going on the mural. How would I get things back on track if I don’t know when a problem might arise?”

“Again, Director Kalu, that’s the point of the mockup process. From the first stroke, I’ll know what you want.” I don’t miss the quirk at the corner of his lips. “I’ll do what you planned. If you’ll let me do my job.”

My fists clench in my lap. 

“I’d love to let you do your job with the proper oversight. We contacted you for this collaboration. Why wouldn’t I let you do what you do best?” 

Allia was the one enamored with Robert’s portfolio—in particular the series of stunning and edgy murals that had made his name. With Compassionext floundering, she’d mustered the courage to approach him and within a week she’d flown him from Atlanta to Louisville for this meeting. And here I am, again, dismantling her last-ditch efforts.  

“Then why are you interferin’ with the process now?” Robert asks, as Allia discreetly nudges her phone toward me. In her notepad app, she’s written “Carver Jamison, $300k/yr” and “Shopophile, $800k/yr.” The donors I scared off. 

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