Once the other women had emptied out of the shop, Joanne returned to her side. “Are you ready to hang it yet? Because I’m technically closed, and I would like to go home sometime tonight.”
Lifting the painting from the easel, Joi handed it over to her sister. “Yep. But hang it in the back, by your office.”
Joanne accepted the canvas, and Joi looked on as she took it to the short hallway that led to her office, the break room and the restrooms of the shop. Once the painting was hung, she returned. “It will only be there for a few days, until it dries. You can come pick it up then.”
Joi nodded. “I will. I’m not sure I want you to keep it on permanent display.”
Folding her arms across her chest, Joanne narrowed her eyes. “Joi, what’s up with you?”
Feeling a little uncomfortable under her older sister’s knowing gaze, she started cleaning up her paint station. “What do you mean?”
“Girl, please. You’ve got something on your mind, and we both know it, so you might as well spill it.”
With a sigh, Joi tucked her brushes into the well of cleaning solution. “Remember I told you I won that bank contract for Citadel?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“Well, what I didn’t tell you is that Marco Alvarez is the bank president, so technically, I’ll be working for him.”
Joanne’s brow creased at the mention of Marco’s name. “Marco. Marco. The name sounds familiar, but where do you know him from?”
Sliding the stool under the table, Joi said, “He was Ernesto’s best man.”
Surprise widened Joanne’s eyes. “Oh.”
“Oh is right.”
“I’m guessing he wants some answers about what happened back then.” Joanne grabbed a cloth and began wiping down the ten paint stations scattered around the main room.
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I ran into him at Mimosa Grill last night, and he brought it up.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing, except that what happened between Ernesto and I is a personal matter that has nothing to do with my work.”
“Hmm.” Joanne probably had something else to say on the matter, but she kept it to herself.
“I don’t know if he’ll bring it up again, or what I’ll say if he does. And if that’s not bad enough...” Joi let her voice trail off as she picked up a second cloth to help her sister with the closing duties.
“What? What aren’t you saying?”
“I...well...I kind of like him.”
Joanne stopped scrubbing, turning wide eyes on her baby sister. “Joi, are you trying to tell me you’re attracted to him?”
“He’s fine, Joanne. I mean, he was good-looking back in the day, but now he’s completely, totally, utterly, five-alarm smoking hot.”
Still staring, Joanne stammered, “But he’s your ex-fiancé’s friend, Joi. And he’s about to be your boss! Ain’t nobody that damn hot.”
“I beg to differ.” Joi pulled out her smartphone, and did a quick internet image search. When she found Marco’s photo on the bank’s website, she sidled over to where her sister stood furiously scrubbing a blob of red paint off the tabletop and showed it to her. “Look at him.”
Joanne’s eyes rounded even more, and her bottom jaw dropped so fast and far, Joi though it might hit the floor.
“Well?” Joi waited.
“Damn.” Joanne’s one-word response was half sighed, half spoken.
A vindicated Joi tucked the phone back into the hip pocket of her jeans. “Like I said, five-alarm hotness.”
Joanne, staring ahead into space as if she could still see Marco’s photo, had a look of amazement on her face. “He has that whole tall, dark and handsome thing going on. But he took it to the max.” After a few seconds, she seemed to snap out of it, and went back to scrubbing.
“I told you. How do you think I felt when I walked into his office for my appointment? It was all I could do not to drool on his desk during my proposal.”
Joanne, having finally removed the stubborn paint stain, tossed her cloth back into the bucket and shook her head slowly. “Congrats on containing your drool, I know that wasn’t easy. But you do know that if you start something up with him, you’ll be asking for trouble, right?”
“I never said I was going to start anything with him, I just pointed out how fine he was.”
Joanne hit her with a side-eyed glance. “Girl, please. If you’re standing here telling me all this, you’re thinking about it. Not that I blame you. That man is finer than frog’s hair.”
Joi made a fist and punched her sister in the shoulder. “Stop teasing me, Jo.”
Feigning injury from the playful blow, Joanne grimaced. “All kidding aside, be careful, Joi. I don’t want to see you get hurt, nor do I want to see your business go down in flames, all because you couldn’t resist getting busy with the Casanova banker here.”
Joi, shrugging into her coat, smacked her lips. “I’m not planning on anything like that happening, Joanne. I can’t just think about myself. I’ve got a business partner and several employees to consider, so I can’t afford to be frivolous.”
“I just hope you remember that the next time you’re alone in a room with Marco.” Joanne tightened the belt on her own coat.
“I will.” Even as Joi spoke the words, she wondered if she could really deny the intense attraction sparking between her and Marco, or if she even wanted to.
“Let’s go. I want to get home before too late, so I can look in on Marlon.” Joanne smiled as she spoke of her six-year-old son with her husband, Victor.
“Cool. I wouldn’t dream of keeping my nephew from his mommy.” Joi walked toward the door her sister held open for her, and after Joanne locked up, the two of them got into Joanne’s minivan and departed.
* * *
His eyes settled on the big-screen television displaying the Carolina-Atlanta football game, and Marco popped a cheese fry into his mouth. The open window blinds at the Brash Bull allowed the deceptively bright sunlight to stream into the sports bar’s interior, casting thin beams of light on the concrete floor. Glancing out that window might make one think it was warm outside, but Marco knew better. He’d ventured out into the biting chill of this mid-November Sunday. If it weren’t for his affection for football and the company of his friends, he would have stayed home. Again he wondered if he’d ever get used to the chill that hung in the air this time of year, making him long for the balmy shores of his home back in Limón.
Seated around the table with him were his three friends and bandmates, Darius, Rashad and Ken. Together, the four of them were the jazz quartet known as the Queen City Gents. Darius, retired and wealthy at thirty-seven thanks to his tech-savvy invention, played the upright bass. Rashad, a museum curator, sang lead vocals and played piano. And Ken, an architect originally from Japan, acted as the quartet’s drummer. Marco’s tenor saxophone rounded out the group. He liked to think his skills on the golden horn added a special depth and richness to the Gents’ music.
Rashad, who had recently returned from his honeymoon in Trinidad and Tobago with his new wife, Lina, pounded his fist on the table. “Damn. We’ve got more turnovers today than a bakery.”
Marco chuckled, his friend was right. Cheering for Carolina could sometimes be difficult, but the four of them weren’t fair-weather or bandwagon fans. “Don’t worry. Remember, we really come alive in the second half.”
Darius,