Beginnings – Someone to cry over me: The eggs have broken

(Sequel to “Battered and Beaten: Eggs on the run”)

She pushed my door open slowly, almost timidly. I could see the crimson colored dress through the blurred glass. I didn’t often have unannounced walk-ins and was surprised. Still leaning back, I pushed my ball cap up so that I could get a better view of my first visitor of the week. It seemed to take an hour for that door to swing open sufficiently to reveal the contents of that colorful dress. I waited, in a reclined, lazy, detective with a desk job sort of way, soda can in one hand, two cookies in the other, crumbs on the chin and shirt, sporting my best deer in the headlights expression. Her legs entered first. They rose like my blood pressure until disappearing underneath the swirl of lipstick red cotton pleats. Smooth, toned and golden, like a sculpted masterpiece, they moved, walking towards me like two quivering machines, tightening my shirt collar with every step, her skirt giving a teasing twitch.

As my eyeballs made the Everest like climb up her creamy thighs, my beloved wingtips slipped from the desk and smacked the floor, catapulting me forward. My soda went right, the cookies went left and I slipped off the front, down the slick vinyl, as my chair scooted backwards on rusty squeaky wheels. I landed with a thud on my rear. My arms, still up over my shoulders, clung desperately to the chair’s metal armrests.

I sighed. That was exactly the impression I was hoping to make to those legs! Dropping my eyes from the ceiling, I could look right under the desk. Two, small, perfect feet perched on top of four inch open high heels, stood together in front of the desk. I could see her tiny toes. They were the type that cried to be played with and tickled.

I had lost my hat in my little detective avalanche and now scanned the carpet for it. I found it by my feet, grabbed it, pushed it back down on top of my head, tried to straighten my tie, pulling it tight, and finally, sheepishly, looked up over the horizon of the desk.

She stood about a foot away from the front edge of the desk, at a slight tilt, looking down at me, a long curled, chestnut haired goddess. Her dark eyed gaze made my stomach buckle. Her smile was like dripping honey, so sweet that my teeth hurt. She looked down at me with a quizzical “am I in the right place” expression, her thin, perfectly plucked eyebrows curved downward into sexy little question marks. The dress was short sleeved and dropped in the front to a low v-neck.

I swallowed my embarrassment and, using my best, deep, testosterone laced voice, sputtered.
“And how can I help you?”
I knew that I looked and sounded foolish, peering up from behind my desk, my cap, off centered, pushed down to my ears. But you deal with the hand that you are dealt, so I pressed forward.

Her throaty seductive voice pricked at my libido and caused me to feel even more self-conscious.
“Are you the detective? Ah… a Mr. Jake…ah?”
I smiled. I couldn’t help myself. She had the cutest little wrinkle of the nose when she tried to remember my name. I felt so important.
“Just Jake is fine.” I assured her. “And, yes, I am the detective.” I said, deep voiced, giving it my best Bogart, while struggling to get to my feet, banging my hip on the desk and then smiling through the throb of pain erupting down my leg.