8The Deli Conundrum
By Phoenix II
Summary: An underwear model meets his soul mate. The one problem: she hates him. M/F
Devon Blake was not an ordinary man. He was the son of a world-famous pop star, the hottest man in three states, and had the ability to incite orgasm in a female with just a wink. If that weren't enough, Devon was no slouch in the underwear department either, and this was readily apparent in his job as an underwear model. Devon knew this, and had taken advantage of it ever since he reached puberty.
Kelly Moore was nothing special. The daughter of a carpenter and a secretary, she had labored hard and taken on thousands of dollars in debt to put herself through veterinary school. She was a natural blonde, with ice-blue eyes and a face that required very little makeup. She had a very nice figure, but liked to hide it beneath baggy clothing. Very active in environmental causes, she lived in a simple apartment, biked to work, and recycled everything.
They had attended grade school together, but never really liked each other. In fact, there was an incident in the seventh grade which would have come to blows had Devon not run from an angry Kelly after knocking her down by accident and refusing to help her pick her books up. It had not helped matters in the slightest that Devon, just entering puberty and noting the effect his winks tended to have on girls, had tried to escape the situation in that fashion. When Kelly had left for college, she had expected – and truly hoped and believed – that she would never see that arrogant, rich asshole again.
Thus, the scene is set for this most predictable of coincidences.
Kelly sat at a table in the deli, her number clutched in her left hand while she waited for her order to be ready. While she was mulling over 23 across in the daily crossword, a five-letter word for "Dish with saffron," she heard a commotion approach the deli, and started seeing flashes of light. Thoughts of culinary creations pushed from her mind as she looked up to find two man entering the deli, followed by twenty or so people with cameras and video cameras, documenting his every move, seemingly.
The man they were all recording was absolutely stunning. He was about six-six, maybe 210 pounds, with mussed and gelled dirty blonde hair and gorgeous blue eyes, dressed in all white, except for a black muscle tee under the white jacket. He had to be some sort of famous person, which meant that the scruffy-looking people with the cameras were paparazzi, and the man in the suit was probably a bodyguard. Kelly flushed at the prospect of being on TMZ or in the National Enquirer, even just in the background, while at the same time wondered what famous guy would go to this deli. The one that all the filthy rich stars visited was two blocks down on Monument.
He approached the counter and leaned over to the girl taking orders, whispering to her what he wanted and winked at her, causing her to giggle and blush before taking his credit card and charging it. He signed the receipt with practiced ease and moved away from the counter with his copy of the receipt and his number order as the proprietor called out: "Number twenty-three; chicken salad, lettuce and tomato on wheat!" Kelly stood up and made her way forward after hearing her number. About halfway to the counter, her ticket slipped out of her hand. She quickly reached to pick it up, and as soon as she straightened up, she found herself knocked on her ass by the gorgeous man, who had been waving to a couple of fangirls outside and not paying proper attention to where he was going.
"Oh Jesus, I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, dropping to his knees to check on her. "Frank! Why didn't you stop me? You're fired!" The bodyguard looked chagrined and stalked off, punching a cameraman in the face on his way out of the shop.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Kelly said, accepting his help in standing back up. "Thanks." She continued her walk towards the counter to grab her sandwich.
"Number twenty-nine, turkey and swiss, lettuce, tomato, no mustard on wheat!" the proprietor shouted, and the man followed her to the counter, much to the surprise of Kelly and the holders of numbers twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, and twenty-eight, who were quite incensed that the man was getting special treatment, just because he was hot and famous.
"Devon! You get that to go, buddy!?" one of the paparazzi shouted. The man, Devon, turned around and waved.
"'Course I did Aaron, I've got a shoot in two hours!" he replied, grabbing his sandwich before Kelly could grab hers. She did so after a chill ran down her spine. Gorgeous man, incredible with women, named Devon, with a paparazzi detail? There was no way it was a coincidence. She had to get out of there. Hurriedly grabbing the sack with her sandwich, she began pushing through the throng of photographers blocking her exit. Halfway through, her phone rang.
"Kelly Moore, DVM," she said, answering and finishing her push out the door. She unlocked her bike while she listened to her receptionist tell her that one of her neighbors had come in with her son's favorite dog, which had been hit by a car, so Kelly needed to hurry her ass back to the office, because the intern knew barely enough to keep the animal alive.
"Janet, I'll be right there, just keep him going and have my surgical gear ready," Kelly said, shutting the phone and tossing it into one of the pockets in her cargo khaki pants, while tossing the sandwich into the basket on her handlebars and taking off back towards her office.
Devon wore a surprised look as the girl – Kelly Moore, apparently – practically fled his presence. This was almost completely unprecedented occurrence. No female ever ran away from him – the number one reason why his paparazzi detail was all-male – and not even lesbians were immune to his dashing good looks and his wink. The only girl that had ever not been affected by him was that one girl from seventh grade…and if Devon's memory served, her name was Kelly Moore too.
Bemusedly opening a package of chips and crunching one while on his way back out to the limo, he pondered his next course of action. He couldn't chase after her, since he had no way of knowing where she'd gone, but it probably couldn't hurt to talk to her. He started into his sandwich as the car started moving again, then picked up the intra-compartmental phone.
"Gary."
"Devon?"
"I need you to get me the cell and work numbers of Kelly Moore, DVM. And I need them by the end of the shoot today, okay?"
"Got it, Devon."
"Thanks, Gary," Devon said, hanging up the phone and finishing his lunch. He had a shoot for Calvin Klein coming up, and rumor had it that he was going to be the poster boy for a new line of designer briefs. It would be swimsuit season soon too, so he expected to be getting a call from the people at Speedo in a week at the most. Looking out the tinted glass of the limo, he could watch the scenery on Monument Street on his way to the studio.
He was quite lucky, really, to be so blessed. He had an easy job, and even if it didn't pay as well as it did, he was the daughter of a world-famous pop star, with access to multiple multi-million dollar bank accounts. He had a modest house that he owned outright, and had it outfitted with the best comfortable furniture he could afford. He was fit, and he had no problems at all with the ladies. Except, apparently, Kelly Moore. And that nagged at Devon.
He loved being successful. And to have a failure, any failure, was unacceptable.
"Jennifer?" Kelly asked, walking out into her clinic's waiting room. "Tommy?"
"Oh, God, Kelly, is he going to be OK?" her neighbor asked, hastily standing and looking uneasily at all the blood that covered the young vet's surgical scrubs. "When I saw all the blood, I just couldn't –" Kelly held up a hand to cut her off.
"Appearances aside, he's going to be fine. I got him stabilized, and I'll be the first to admit it was really touch and go there for a half hour or so, but Buster's going to be just fine. Tommy?"
"You saved him Miss Kelly?" the sandy-haired ten-year-old asked.
"Yes I did," she replied, smiling. "But you two are going to have to stay out of the street from now on, OK?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Good boy. Now, I'm gonna need to go in there and finish the sutures, and I'm going to keep him here for a couple days, but he's going to be just fine."
"Thank you so much, Kelly," Jennifer replied. "Call me when you get home, OK?"
"Will do," Kelly answered. "Have a great day, you two." With that, she turned back around and headed back into the operating room as the phone started ringing.
"Janet, would you get that please?" she called, picking up the sterile needle and starting the task of sewing up Buster. She heard her secretary run to the front and answer the phone, and was quite surprised when Janet popped into the O.R. holding the cordless handset.
"Kelly, it's for you."
"Who is it?"
"I dunno, some guy named Devon." Kelly set down the needle with a glare, grabbed the handset and used her shoulder to prop it up against her ear while continuing to sew up her neighbor's dog.
"Kelly Moore."
"Hey, it's Devon Blake," the smooth, suave voice sounded in her ear. "How're you doing?"
"I'm busy. What do you want?" she asked, very irritated.
"Just wanted to know if a certain beautiful lady was available for dinner tonight." If there was anything Kelly remembered about Devon, it was that he was quite incorrigible, and very much a ladies' man. And the fact that he was a douchebag. And the fact that she was the only woman she knew of that could stand up to him.
"No."
"No?" Devon sounded genuinely surprised he was being turned down.
"Devon, I'm up to my wrist in dog guts right now."
"So in a couple of hours then? I'll pick you up at your apartment, have a change of clothes there for you." There was that determination Kelly remembered from her middle and high-school years, and no girl had ever survived long once he'd set his sights on her.
"I think I'd rather kill my Aunt Sally." She certainly was determined for her own part not to become the next in his long string of one-night stands and awards banquet arm-candy girls.
"Oh c'mon! We haven't seen each other in what, ten years?"
"Twelve, and I've enjoyed every last second of them." Kelly was surprised not to hear hissing as the phone dissolved from the acidic words spewing forth from her mouth.
"OK, fine, you're still mad, but come on, Kel, that was seventeen years ago!"
"And you still haven't apologized, you asshole!"
"Just let me take you to dinner."
"No means no, Devon, damnit," Kelly growled.
"Just ONE dinner. Nice, quiet, just the two of us."
"At the table," Kelly finished, knowing full well people like Devon went nowhere alone.
"No, in the restaurant. Well, aside from the cooks and waitstaff."
"And the paparazzi."
"No, just us and the restaurant staff." That did sound somewhat tempting, but Kelly's resolve held.
"…No."
"Come ON, Kelly!" Devon was getting frustrated, which was both good and not good for Kelly. Good in the sense that she had managed to hold out thus far, but not good in the sense that Devon would certainly up his efforts.
"Why should I even want to be anywhere near you?"
"Why shouldn't you?"
"Don't even get me STARTED on why I shouldn't! And you're very well aware of the main reason!"
"Kelly. One. Dinner. Please." Devon would never admit to begging anyone for anything. He would probably call it dogged persistence. Kelly saw it for what it was, Devon desperate to try and score with her, and decided that she could cash in now and get what she wanted most from him – him to leave her alone.
"Fine. But you have to leave me alone and never contact me again after."
"OK. I'll see you at seven." And he hung up. Kelly dropped the handset on the table, scoffing at his idiocy before picking up the needle once more and continuing to stitch up the incision she'd made to save her most familiar patient.