"I promise, my guy, she'll change your life. She'll take care of everything you need, and you'll actually be able to concentrate on the stuff that matters. But I'll be honest, she's not great at multitasking."
I felt a pang of guilt in my chest. Sara really was a qualified candidate for the job but Ben was leaning into his sales pitch hard, probably harder than was necessary. I hated the process of interviewing and more than that, I hated having to make that call after to let them know that "we totally loved your interview and your energy, but we're looking for a candidate with more of a background in office administration". Especially when what I really wanted to say was "Your interview was weird. You showed up eighteen minutes late to the interview, covered in croissant crumbs, and asked how many vacation days you'd get in the first month."
But in this case, Sara truly had the background we were looking for, was great at client-facing communications and had successfully managed a family of five without killing anyone as a stay-at-home mom for the last nine years. So, with her twins finally in kindergarten, at 36, Sara was ready to re-enter the workforce. It also helped that it meant I wouldn't have to make the "thank you for your time, we'll keep you in mind for the future" call to someone who had regularly seen me Saturday shitfaced in green and orange.
Ben and Sara had been some of the first friends I made when I arrived in Charleston four years ago, and they didn't hold my choice of college football fandom against me. As a recent college graduate new to the city and without knowing a soul, they took me in like a stray and kept me coming back with a seemingly endless supply of wings, beer and ACC football. When that first football season ended, our regular Saturdays turned into afternoons out on the boat or out at the sandbar. On more than one occasion, Sara had to steer me--more than a little drunk--into the back row of their family vehicle and tucked me into bed in their guest room, even supplying a glass of water on the nightstand to stave off the impending hangover.
Hiring Sara at Parker Whithouse was probably the least I could do to return that favor, all things considered.
Technically, Sara's title was "Client Administration Liason", but in practice, she was the perfect pinch hitter. Her job description ended with the phrase "and will complete other duties as assigned," and that summed up about all of it. She scheduled check-in meetings between clients and partners, kept track of the jumble of shifting deadlines and even assisted in brainstorming sessions before pitch meetings. More than once, Sara had shown herself an adept graphic designer, sketching storyboards and logos on takeout napkins when one of the partners struggled to define his vision. She didn't belong to any one particular person in the office, but I couldn't deny that I found myself a bit territorial, and always made it a priority to seek out Sara when I had a project I needed an extra pair of hands on.
It was one of these such projects I found myself dealing with in the Spring of 2021. One of our long-standing clients, a construction materials firm, had asked us to facilitate a full overhaul of their branding, online presence and customer interface, with a deadline to roll-out the new designs in time for their annual trade show expo. The process had been mostly painless, until three weeks before rollout, when their senior VP of marketing was caught with his pants down at work, literally. The ensuing domino effect resulted in a shake-up of their leadership and a sudden new vision for the rebrand. So, instead of putting the finishing touches on the project, we were now back to the planning stages with a new VP who seemed to relish her ability to make our lives as inconvenient as possible.
"I just think it needs to be sleeker, sexier, you know, Jackson? We're not trying to be boring and frumpy, we want to excite people. So, let's figure out how to get it sexier, and then send me the next draft by the end of the day tomorrow."
I gave a cursory agreement and closed the Zoom meeting. I'd have had a whole lot more patience for her desire to make things "sexier" if she hadn't moved the goalposts with such irregularity. As it was, I barely had time to make my own life sexier. The pressure of the project had grown to the point that I didn't have much energy for going out on dates, especially not to the kinds of hipster wine bars that were the current obsession of every single woman I met on Tinder.
Sheepishly, Sara cracked the door to my office and peered in, her auburn hair cascading like a curtain around her.
"God, that was brutal. I'm not sure that woman would know what sexy was if it gave her a lap dance and bit her earlobe. You held your composure pretty well, for what it's worth."
I struggled against the sudden desire to imagine Sara giving that exact lap dance and lob bite combo. God, it had definitely been too long since I'd gotten laid.
Sara shut the door, and flopped down in the leather chair across from my desk. She crossed her ankles and threw her legs up over the side of the wooden armrest. Sara had a habit of treating any piece of furniture as a couch, a trait she once referred to as the "bisexual urge to sit weird". I put my elbows on the desk and pressed the heels of my palms against my eyes. I exhaled the tension I hadn't realized I was holding in.
"Their logo is literally a hammer and a nail, and they refuse to change it. I'm about to just slap the slogan 'We'll get you nailed' on it and send it back to her. The pressure is getting to me, I'm not even sure I know what is sexy anymore. It's been too long."
Sara ran her fingers through her hair and chuckled.
"What about Cassie? Didn't you guys go out for drinks last week? Her texts seemed like she was planning to have a lot of fun!"
"So, apparently many women do not appreciate when you cancel on them at the last minute. Or forget to respond to their texts for 48 hours. Especially Cassie."
Sara shook her head and rolled her eyes.
"Ok, seriously Jackson, how long has it been?"
"Since I had sex? Or since I've had anything at all?"
"I guess it doesn't really matter, since I'm going to be sad for your answer regardless."
"Let's see, my date with Olivia from the coffee shop ended with a blowjob, before she started crying about how much she missed her ex. So, what was that, a month ago?"
Sara stuck out her bottom lip exaggeratedly then laughed again.
"Poor Jackson. No wonder you can't make a sexy logo. You're all backed up."
"You have no idea." The words escaped my mouth, and I immediately tried to catch them, like a child who accidentally tells on themselves.
Sarah bit down on the inside of her lip, and walked back to the door. I had crossed a line, and the friendly banter had died. I muttered an apology but was interrupted partway through the second "Sorry" by the click of the lock and the latching of the chain on the old wooden office door. Parker Whithouse had recently, in an attempt to capture the creative aesthetic, had relocated their offices into a turn of the century building in the old downtown district that was definitely not massively gentrified.
"It's my job to help, right?"
There was a mischievous curl to her lips, and a villainous glint in her emerald eyes.
"Sara, I..." I stumbled through my words, trying to pull the mental brakes on the moment.
"Don't make a whole thing about it, you need help to clear your head, and I'm good at clearing it."
"Ben would kill me, I can't, you can't, we can't."
She stopped and cocked her head at me, raising her eyebrows.
"One--who's telling him? Not me. And two--don't pretend like you aren't well aware of what happens on his 'sales retreats'. He once came home with a receipt for Plan B in his pocket. So at least I know he's not paying for a secret side family too."
I looked at Sara again, this time letting myself feel that hunger I had shut down earlier.
"I really do need the help."
Sara reached behind her, and gathered the waterfall of red hair into a messy bun, and secured it with one of the hair ties she always kept at the ready on her wrist. As she walked across the office towards my desk, I took in the power of her. Years of chasing kids, building playsets and carrying diaper bags and laundry baskets had toned her arms and the weekends of soccer practices and playdates had darkened the constellation of freckles that splashed across her skin. Her wrists jingled with the gold bangles that adorned her arms and she made a shushing gesture as she slipped them off into a pile on the cabinet underneath my window.
With a twirl, she spun herself around as she pulled my chair out from behind my desk, carrying me away with it.
"Like I said, she wouldn't know sexy if it gave her a lap dance," she cooed as she lowered herself down onto me, swirling her hips back against me. I gripped onto the edge of the desk with my left hand and bit down on the knuckle of my right index finger.
"Fuck, Jackson, you really are tense. On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it right now? Be honest."
I took a deep breath and steeled myself, trying to seem casual. "About a seven."
"Oh that's far too low, we'll have to work on that." She leaned in and pressed her lips to my earlobe, capturing just the barest edge of skin again her teeth.
"Nine..."
She turned herself around, straddling me, and swung her head to the other ear. "I'm going to wear your cum out of this office, like it's my makeup," she whispered in a voice I'd never heard her use before. She circled her hips, slower but with more pressure this time.
"Twelve."
"That sounds more like where I was hoping you'd be."
Sara pulled down the straps of her dress, revealing the dark blue lace of a pushup bra underneath, and she shimmied the dress down to her waist. While years of carrying toddlers had hardened her arms and legs, motherhood showed through in the softness of her stomach. The slight wrinkle where pregnancy had stretched her skin hid what remained of her abs and reminded me that she was not a woman who was naively falling into this decision. She was mature enough to know what she wanted and to take the opportunities in front of her.
