Chapter 4: Stone & Brae Incorporated
664 Words
Chapter 4: Stone & Brae Incorporated
The lobby looked as if it had been designed by the state of the art architectural firm. Slate-colored tile made up the floor, and the furniture resembled blocks of black and steel hues. Crisp, clean lines detailed the aqua-tinted windows. Behind a chest-high desk sat a brunette young man with horn-rimmed glasses, Johnny Bravo hair, and a box-shaped chin.
The host gave me a smile, nodded, and asked, “How can I help you?”
I placed the cardboard shipping tube on the high counter that separated us. “I have these blueprints for Mr. Brae.”
“You can leave these with me,” the young man said.
Just as he started to lift the cardboard shipping tube off the counter, a tall man with blond hair entered the lobby. The executive’s suit framed his lean and muscular body. He carried a thin portfolio in his right hand, along with a slim laptop.
Never in all my thirty-five years had I seen such a handsome man. His appearance blew me away. He resembled a model out of GQ with a bad boy edge and blond hair. Dimples accented his cheeks, and narrow eyebrows rested above his bright blue eyes.
“Mr. Brae,” the young man behind the counter called out. “There’s a package here for you from…” He gave me a quizzical look.
“Paul Avery.” I reached out for a handshake from the handsome executive named Brae.
The astute man took my hand within one of his own and slowly shook it. “Dugan Brae. A pleasure to meet you.” He studied my frame: pretty boy face, wide shoulders, solid stomach, and meaty thighs. I was pretty sure he liked my blond hair and green eyes, and my five-eleven muscular scaffolding. His stare hung at my middle, just below my belt.
Invincible and superhero-like came to mind when our gazes met. His grin resembled something out of a Walt Disney movie, and his eyes danced. The guy literally took my breath away and melted me into a puddle of emotional and dreamy mush. I think all the color in my face washed out, leaving a blank stare and pale cheeks behind.
He drew me out of my perplexed state, glanced down at the tube he held in his left hand, and quickly read its label. “You’re Faye Vesda’s friend, the English professor, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “We pal around all the time.”
“Yes. She’s told me. You teach literature, right?”
I nodded again. “At Castling College. Four years now.”
“I should read more.” He scratched his chin in thought. “The last book I read was something by John Irving.”
“Good author. Funny. Lovable characters. He’s quite skilled.”
“Do you write?” he asked.
“Never. I couldn’t put a complete sentence together if I tried.”
And then he told me about his cousin, who dabbled in short erotic fiction. “Mostly erotic love stories between men and women, and sometimes more. She’s quite good at it.”
“Beverly Brae.”
The woman delighted the world with such naughty titles as Do with My Skin What You Will, Save Me from These Chains, and Dire Desire. His cousin had hit the best-seller’s list numerous times, fulfilling s****l fantasies for her across-the-globe readers. I had read two or three of her fun-filled erotic adventures, enjoying her masculine, edgy, and bear-like male heroes, which were total turn-ons for me. Not once had she bored me. Rather, Beverly Brae, just as I had assumed happened with all of her other readers, had me in the steely clutch of her storytelling travels and entertained me to the gills, without failure, on every occasion.
Dugan raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Yes. That’s her. The woman’s a prodigy. I don’t know how she keeps all of her balls in order. Mother. Wife. Professional writer. Book club host. I need to take a lesson or two from her.”
“I’m sure you do just fine,” I said. “This building you designed is amazing. Everyone in Pittsburgh and across the country knows the Diamond.”
Being humble, he said, “Thank you. I rather like this old gem. She’s brought some fame to my world, but nothing out of control. Designing buildings passes the time. It’s what I like to do, ever since I was a child. I guess we all have our different interests. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“We do, Mr. Brae.”
“Dugan,” he corrected me. “Call me Dugan.”
And Dugan I called him from that moment on.
- Writer
