Parted.

Mike lost himself in a plotless daydream, imagining that Janie’s smile was knowing rather than polite as she uncrossed and spread her shapely bare legs and crooked her finger at him. His cock throbbed in his loose suit trousers as he imagined falling to his knees and crawling to her as she spread her endlessly long legs wider. He inhaled deeply, imagining himself burying his face between Janie’s legs and licking and biting his way up the warm soft skin of her thigh, ravenously close to the sweet, steaming musk of her pussy as he drew closer to her panty-less, bare—

“Janie!”

Mike was drawn from his daydreaming by a loud but friendly masculine voice. Janie’s smile broadened naturally, and she rose from the club chair and Mike turned towards the voice. A man was walking from the elevator bank towards them.

At first sight, Mike immediately didn’t like him. The man was tall, at least six foot one, with a lean build and dark blonde hair. He was wearing an obviously expensive Italianate suit and dress shirt and expensive brogues. His stride was long and self-assured and his gleaming white smile was as broad as his shoulders.

“Hi, Chris,” Janie said as she extended her hand. Her voice was tinged with a happy lilt. The tall man took her hand but instead of shaking it, gently pulled her closer and leaned down to kiss her cheek. Mike was explosive with foolishly unreasonable jealousy.

Janie nodded towards Mike, gesturing as she spoke. “Renty couldn’t make it this morning, but I’d still like to show the property to another client. Mike Yarns.”

“Glad to meet you. Chris Powell. I’m the building’s sales manager.” Chris stuck his hand out to shake Mike’s vigorously, and then, Mike watched, furious and protective, as Chris’ tone softened and he gently brushed Janie’s thin arm. “I suppose Janie’s given you an overview of the specs?” Mike grunted and shook his head, irrationally irritated at the innocuous question.

Chris rewarded Mike with a loose grin, and then gestured for them to follow him to the elevator bank. As they stood waiting, Chris backdoored, “And I’m sure Janie has the information already, but which bank is your mortgage approval with? And what’s the ballpark?”

Mike faltered. He actually hadn’t discussed either in specific detail with Janie, and now, with Chris in tow, was embarrassed in his uncertainty of what to say. Even with all of their combined assets, but excluding only loans against their 401(k)s, Mike and Jennifer had been conditionally pre-approved only for a twenty-percent down payment at an average interest rate. “Um…. J.P. Morgan, for um, eight hundred and fifty thousand.”

Chris grimaced, his lower lip drawn and teeth clenched, and hissed under his breath. Janie’s expressive brow furrowed as she blushed slightly. She and Chris exchanged furtive looks, and Mike wished a hole could open in the floor and swallow him whole. It had been a long time since he’d felt so out of place, inept, unpolished and, well… poor.

“Now, that’s the floor, right? Or is that your cap? Because I’ve gotta tell you, in all fairness, we don’t have anything in sales left under a million. I don’t know if it’s even worth your going up to look—”

“It’s just a floor,” Mike quickly interrupted, “I have reserves. Significant reserves. If I like a place, that is.” Mike felt desperate to save face, now with Chris as well as Janie. “But I have other investment properties I’m currently adding to my portfolio, too, so I don’t want to put too much in…. You understand, of course.”

Mike felt like he was just saying words. He didn’t have the first idea of what building a real estate portfolio would entail, or if he’d even expressed himself correctly! But he held firm with his poker face, as if daring Chris to challenge him.

Chris nodded and seemed unfazed. “Sure. Give me a minute to pull some things up; that way I can show you a range of layouts and price points.”

They took the elevator to the second floor sales office, and Janie and Mike waited until Chris returned with a gift bag and hard hats. “I put the comps in the bag. You’ll both need to wear these for just safety liability. You understand, I’m sure; you’re an attorney.”

They returned to the elevator bank and went to the model floor and Chris showed them the studio and one-bedroom units. “These models are obviously not the exact layout of every apartment, but these are the exact finishes.” As they walked around the floor, Chris spoke incessantly about the many attributes of the building and its amenities. And Mike took in the polished and modern sophisticated look of the extraordinary, high-end condo units. Carerra marble. Teak hardwood. Smart home finishes.

But his interest, though quite piqued by the condo details, was still squarely on Janie. She walked slowly through the apartments, running her long fingers admiringly over the veined marble of the countertop, and her eyes lingered over the details of the floors and fixtures and refinery. She opened the door to the tiny balcony, and looked longingly over the boardwalk.

Mike watched her lovely, delicate profile reverently. He imagined walking out behind her and wrapping his arms around her small waist as she hummed contentedly and leaned back against his chest. “Who takes care of you, baby,” he’d whisper in her ear. And he imagined her humming appreciatively as she turned to kiss him and fondle his dick playfully. “You do, daddy. This is exactly what I wanted! You always give me everything I need.”

Mike wasn’t usually one struck with smitten feelings. And truth be told, to the average observer, Janie, though pleasant and pretty, wasn’t necessarily extraordinary. But as the cliché saying goes, “everything looks better through rose colored glasses”; swept up in his daydream about an imaginary dream girl that now sported Janie’s face, Mike decided that everything about Janie was captivating, seductive and glamorous.

Janie noticed him staring at her, and she not only smiled at him but also winked gently. And suddenly, all Mike desired was some way to make her feel a scant degree of what he was feeling for her. He didn’t even take offense that was due when, in the elevator down from the show floor, Chris began to laugh in that correct, interior chuckle which so often accompanies bland dismissiveness and said, “Well, you have my card if you’re ever interested in more information. Good luck with house-hunting, Mike.” Chris didn’t get off the elevator with them, and instead kissed Janie’s cheek in a show of warm conviviality. Mike would have given all he had for the look Janie gave Chris in that moment before the elevator doors closed.

They stood in the lobby and shook hands again, and Janie thanked him for his help. “Chris is a real big-wig in this area. He’s the sales manager for a lot of this developer’s properties. I’d have been remiss to waste his time this morning by not showing up with a client.”

Mike grinned smugly, truly, as the kids say, “feeling himself.” He’d had quite an adventurous turn of events for a regular day, and wasn’t at all dissatisfied with the figure he’d cut. If not exactly wealthy and not exactly heroic, it was at least a romantic one—he was the heaven-sent rescuer of a beauty in distress! The realities of his home life and career and responsibilities were far from his thoughts; instead, all he saw before him was an auspicious start for a great romance.

For whatever reason, Janie hesitated, and then looked away shyly. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” she muttered while turning slowly on her heels. But before she could walk away, he begged for an opportunity to see her again. She reddened at his artless prodding but finally agreed to lunch.

“Anywhere you’d like,” Mike blustered, “How about San Pietro?” The restaurant, an upscale midtown trattoria, was not a place he himself had ever been, or the sort of place he’d ever likely go under other circumstances, but he’d recently read an article in GQ Magazine that described it as “a canteen for high-powered C-level executives and de facto men’s club in the heart of Manhattan”. His blithering intention was solely to impress upon Janie that he himself was a man comfortable on the “Chairman’s Row” of New York’s elite movers and shakers, and not to actually pick a restaurant.

And thus, he nearly swallowed his own heart in surprise when her eyes lit up at the suggestion. “I adore San Pietro’s! I’ve been there once for a dinner date; but I’d never thought of seeing it in the light of day! A lot of big-wigs eat there for lunch.”

Mike caught her regarding his shabby polyester suit, warped and limp as lettuce from his morning’s commute and the condo walking tour, and could tell she was trying to mentally reconcile his appearance with that of the presumed navy-suited business executive that typically lunched at the exclusive restaurant. He hoped to God that he’d not overplayed his hand; in that same GQ article, the author had gone on at length about the near impossibility of booking a lunch reservation at San Pietro! He was humbly quiet as she texted him her contact info and said goodbye.

Mike was usually flustered when he got to his law firm, Mavis McNulty Martin Martin Smith Scott & Thomas PC, and the receptionist and his secretary paid him no mind as they were used to his sterile, quickly muttered hellos. As usual, he holed himself up in his corner office—the windows of both corners facing the walls of other downtown office buildings—and slammed the door behind him. But today, rather than jumping onto a status call with Abby Polk or a follow-up call to his client, Mr. Bygazkya, or to his investigator or the building inspector, Mike instead called his credit card company’s concierge….

When bills came, Jennifer regularly complained that Mike was wasting good money on a gold status rewards card. “The annual fee alone is nearly two-hundred dollars!” she’d exclaim incredulously, and he’d feel irritated at her insinuations that they couldn’t afford such a fee.

“My God, Jenn,” he’d mutter angrily under his breath before huffing a sigh and shaking his hands in frustration. “It’s like you have no idea about how money works; the card practically pays for itself with its discounts and reward status!”

“You sound like a commercial. Maybe ‘it pays for itself’ for people who eat out a lot, or travel a lot. But we don’t do either. Instead, you’re paying for a card to use at the gas station and Chuck E. Cheese! There’s no benefit to that….”

His heart raced as he sat on hold for what felt like an ungodly amount of time. When an agent finally helped him, it was, unfortunately, only to tell him that she couldn’t help with his request. “What do you mean you can’t help,” he demanded, “I’m a fucking gold card member!”

“I understand, sir,” the woman replied monotonously, as if accustomed to such misplaced requests and frustrations, “and while we value our gold card customers, your card services simply do not qualify for the exclusive gourmet reservations service. That’s a special concierge available to our elite platinum and black card members.”

That was frustrating. Why use the gold card if it wasn’t worth any damn thing?!? Mike was steaming mad, and inordinately nervous. What would Janie think of him? He’d promised already that he’d have them a reservation at San Pietro’s; how foolish and unimportant he’d seem to her if he had to backtrack now!

“Then upgrade me to platinum status! If I apply for the card now, can you make this reservation for me?”

As soon as he said the words, Mike faltered; the mortgage broker had warned him and Jennifer that, while their finances looked steady and their pre-approval unlikely to change, they shouldn’t make any large purchases, extend any lines of credit or have any further credit inquiries until they’d closed on a new home. He barely had time to consider it all as the woman, unsure of how to handle his request, put him on hold to speak with her supervisor. When she returned, she confirmed that she could process his application, and if approved and paid for over the phone, could likewise help with his reservation request for San Pietro, and Mike was, as the cliché goes, “between a rock and a hard place."

“The one-time application fee is four-hundred and ninety-five dollars, and the card’s annual fee is the same,” the woman informed Mike. He felt himself physically blanche at those numbers. In truth, Jennifer was right; a two-hundred dollar annual charge simply to hold a credit card was a significant cost in managing the household budget for a family of five; a nearly five-hundred dollar cost even more so. The woman continued, “I can call San Pietro for you as a global platinum member, but please be advised that there is no guarantee that the restaurant will have available seating.”

Despite his worry, Mike felt a small thrill too. The feeling was perhaps akin to the rollercoaster-like rush a chronic gambler feels when he finds a way to win money back from the house. Mike slapped his open palm against his desk and announced, “Sounds good. Let’s do it,” and quite literally held his breath as the agent processed his application, announced that he was approved and put him on hold again to call San Pietro. Her monotonous cadence was unchanged as she explained, “You’re all set, Mr. Yarns. There’s a table for two reserved for you at three-thirty today.” Despite the woman’s clear disinterest, Mike was, of course, over the moon.

But then, he remembered an infuriating inconvenience: he’d forgotten that he’d promised to meet Jennifer at five p.m. for a house showing! There was no physical way for him to get to a midtown Manhattan lunch with Janie and then meet his wife in Glen Oaks! He heaved a sigh and called Jennifer. As usual, she picked up on the second ring. “Hey, mister. How’d the inspection go?”

Her question gave Mike an unexpected but entirely fortuitous out from under his predicament! “Not so good. Actually, Mr. Bygazkya was busy this morning, and asked if we could reschedule for this afternoon. The earliest my inspector can do is four, so I’ve got to head back to Coney Island this afternoon and—”

“Say no more,” Jennifer interjected. “Barbara and I can handle this viewing ourselves; this house has been on the market a while, and she feels sure it’s not going anywhere soon. If it’s anything worthwhile, you and I can go out to see it this weekend. There’s an open house.”

Mike mumbled a few platitudes and apologies, and then that he loved his wife, too, in response to her endearments before hanging up. His flying fingers made every spelling mistake as he quickly texted Janie the reservation details. He waited anxiously and in silence for several minutes for her reply. His phone finally dinged with her response:

“OK.”

And thus, Mike was free to take Janie to lunch! San Pietro was a bit over his head; the custom-built wall paneling of the small dining room was lined with white Italian ceramics and although it was only lunch, the wait staff were in elegant Monaco cut white coats, and even the table linens were high-end white Frette napkins and covers. But Janie seemed quite at ease and familiar with not only the ambiance of the place but also the rustic menu and the staff, too, and so he faked his way through a modicum of the same assuredness.

He ordered oysters on the half-shell and a bottle of Barolo to share and the ossobuco for himself. He thought it girlish and polished that Janie ordered the scallops—such light healthy eating surely did well for her stunning figure!—and grumbled to himself at the thought that Jennifer would most likely have ordered both a heavy pasta dish and a steak, and then needed a doggy bag at the end of the meal.

They made small talk over the shared oysters and caviar and a few glasses of wine. Janie told him little bits about her family and growing up in Garland, Texas. Her anecdotes made him feel sentimental and protective as he, unreasonably and without any real knowledge of the place, extrapolated to imagine her as a little girl growing up in a small, backwater town too addlepated to let her fully shine. He stopped listening to what she was actually saying, a habit he was inclined towards when women were speaking, and instead enjoyed the sensuous shapes and curves of her full, delicious mouth as she chattered and dined. And rather than listen, he built a wildly romantic vision for himself; that Janie had come to New York City, wide-eyed and innocent, searching for a life big enough for her dreams, only to discover that the city is harsh to innocence and beauty!

Because he was hardly listening, he was quite stunned when tears fell from her eyes and she reached to wipe them with her napkin. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” she mumbled, and then chuckled softly. Her cheeks were flushed and her chest was gently heaving as she looked at him, and her chocolate brown eyes were enormous and glassy and shining with her unshed tears. And though he felt a touch of sympathy, Mike was truly moved by a quick surge of arousal as he imagined that Janie probably looked the same way when she was about to come.

“Maybe it’s because we don’t know each other; maybe that makes all this easier to say. I haven’t told anyone else that I’m about to lose my apartment. I’ve tried to think of every possible way to keep it, but I’m at my wits end. I simply can’t afford it now that Bethany’s moved to Cleveland. But I can’t afford to look anywhere else either! You’re an attorney and investor. You seem like a man who understands money, and contracts and things. What should I do?”

While Mike usually fumbled for answers, here he quickly responded with a thought so ridiculous and illogical that it bypassed even his own scant logic and reasoning.

“Well, I’m considering the condo you showed me. I think it could be an investment.” She nodded tightly and gave a fairly professional smile; she looked glad for the potential business, but disappointed that his announcement did nothing for her own immediate concerns. He enjoyed stringing out the explanation since she didn’t make the connection.

“Perhaps not the one bedroom,” he fudged—he’d never possibly be able to afford the one bedroom unit!—“But maybe a studio. So maybe we can help each other out. Maybe if I purchase the studio, you could be my first tenant?”

Janie’s expressive face lit up momentarily in surprise, but then her brow furrowed and she shook her head as she chucked embarrassedly. “That’s very generous, but no. I doubt I can afford that. I show apartments like that all day. But in reality, I am just a regular girl. I live in a walk-up in Astoria. The rent on my two-bedroom apartment isn’t even as much as the maintenance fee on that studio!”

Had he mentioned to her that he himself was from Long Island City? He couldn’t have; he would remember that, and that they had already discussed something so significantly in-common. Had she already told him that she lived in Astoria? Mike extrapolated such details created a sameness and commonality between them that they simply did not.

“Then how about this? Why don’t you pay what you can afford, and stay as long as you need.”

Janie cocked her head at Mike questioningly. “Why would you do that for me?”

He beamed and sat back in his chair. “I like you. And I like helping people.”

Which certainly sounded like an admirable thing to say, but in truth, Mike wasn’t one to offer great levels of charity to strangers in any previous circumstances of his life. In truth, he made the offer because Janie’s troubles felt like a godsend to him: an opportunity to seduce the extraordinary and beautiful girl by providing something she needed. The term “sugar daddy” was perhaps a step too far, but certainly was a step in the right direction of describing how he wanted to feel.