Porter Harrison’s office was meticulous. With its leather couches and gorgeous, industrial art pieces, his space was very modern. His Hampton and NYU diplomas hung on the steely gray walls. On a shelf was a photo of people that I presume were his family. Next to it was a portrait of a man in a military uniform who was the spitting image of Porter. Next to what I guessed was his father’s photo was a photo of an older, near-identical man, shaking hands with former President Carter. His grandfather, I presumed. Along the shelves behind his mahogany desk were a plethora of vinyl records. His Instagram was spot-on. He could open a record store with the number of albums he owned.
Along the far side of the wall was a large drafting desk and stool, along with a nice, bright lamp. Above the drafting desk were several paintings that were very modern and abstract. The paintings were a lot like Porter: a mix of old and new, with an expert eye for design. I liked it.
I bent over the drafting desk and spread out all my designs. I turned to address Porter, but he was right there next to me. Startled, I jumped, and papers flew across the desk. We both reached for the papers, attempting to put them in order.
“Sorry,” Porter said. “I was just eager to see...everything.”
There was something about the way he said “everything” that made me hot between my newly pantyhose-less thighs. His voice was like butter on a hot pan.
“Here are my designs. I was thinking of a retractable roof. I was looking at some old designs of the Rio Olympics soccer stadium by Claudio Velez and I wanted to play on that. The south is a new market for soccer, so we should give them elements that work with the climate since we usually have glorious weather during soccer season.”
Porter nodded and pointed at another design. “And this one?” he said flatly.
Oh Jesus, maybe he hated it. So much for me trying to be innovative.
“Well, are you familiar with where the Toronto Blue Jays play?”
“The Rogers Centre. Sure,” he said, smiling. “Do you like baseball?”
I smiled. “I love baseball. Ever since the Braves went to their first World Series in 1991. I was twelve and crazy about David Justice.”
He laughed. “That’s pretty dope... I mean... That’s interesting.” He folded his arms and inched closer to me. He smelled amazing. At that moment, I was also glad that I put on extra deodorant because I could feel sweat percolating under my pits.
“Well, um. This design plays off the existing design of Rogers and its retractable roof, but see here, there is some extra room here for the dimensions of the soccer field and an interactive area here for the fans and soccer clubs, so they can feel close to the game.”
Porter looked closely and then nodded. “I like it, but...it feels a bit cramped. Like right here.” He pointed, and the sleeve of his arm inched up to reveal a vintage diamond-encrusted Chopard watch that had to cost a fortune. My daddy used to say you can tell a lot by a man and his watch. And this man had exquisite taste.
“But I do like where you’re going. It’s a good start, Ari,” Porter continued. “Better than what I had. They hated my initial ideas. But you’ve really done your homework.”
“Thanks. I’ve studied the aesthetics of the firm. I wanted to be in line with what you all do. But...”
“You also have to be yourself. Put a bit of you in every design that you do, right?” he said, nearly completing my thought, eyes twinkling. Green eyes on Black men must be the Lord’s way of making people even more jealous of their handsomeness.
“Yeah. My thoughts exactly.” My heart was beating a millisecond too fast.
“Can I show you my ideas?” He walked over to his desk and typed away on his iMac. I sat in the chair directly in front of his desk.
“Why are you over there?” he asked as he looked at me seated in front of him.
“Oh, I was just...waiting until you pulled everything up.” There was absolutely no way I would stand next to him for fear that I’d faint. I didn’t need to add that to my catalog of embarrassments today.
“I see. You can come over, Ari. I won’t bite.”
Listen, with those perfect teeth, I wish you would take a bite out of me. I clenched my thighs so hard that I was sure I heard a seam burst in my skirt.
I looked around, realizing that neither his desk nor my thighs would allow for me to move the chair to his side of the desk to view the screen. Standing next to him and bending over, I was more worried about my skirt ripping or my boobs hitting him in the face. I took a deep breath, barely smiling. Dear God, Allah, and Buddha, don’t let me make a fool of myself or have my tits go tumbling out of this blouse.
I stood next to him. His renderings were pretty good but not great. I bent over to get a closer look. I could feel his breath, a low whirling heat, on my neck and had to reposition myself as to not get lost in the feeling. It was warm and smelled familiar, like sweet peppermint from your grandma’s candy dish. Perfect teeth. Intoxicating eyes. And fresh breath? Well, that’s just not fair.
“These are pretty good,” I declared, trying to distract myself from everything about this man.
Porter smiled, a little. “I started with hand-drawn drafts, then REVIT.”
He moved the mouse around so I could get a 360° view, and then an interior view of the stadium. Everything was so detailed, down to the shape of the seats. His eyes caught mine, waiting for me to say something. I had to think of a question fast.
“I, uh, was just wondering. Why didn’t you open it up more on the left for more natural light? Instead of closing this off for this large scoreboard?”
He looked puzzled, leaned back, and scratched the stubble along his chiseled jawline. I wanted to take my index finger and trace along its ridges. Feel the roughness against my skin. Dammit. Focus, Ari. Focus!
“Oh, I didn’t really think about that. Maybe for our next design, we can try that. I’ll make a note of it.”
I smiled and moved back around to the other side of the desk. I had to sit down. The cologne, the peppermint-smelling breath, the stubble—I felt light-headed. Maybe I needed something to eat. I had nothing but cappuccino in my stomach. Did the dudes here even eat, or did they go to the gym on lunch breaks? The guys I’d passed in the hallway were ripped. Including Porter. Not that I’d noticed.
“Lunch?” asked Porter.
Was he reading my mind? “Huh?”