by Cat Carmine
“Is it time for presents yet?” Daisy demands, setting her fork down right on top of the pile of uneaten spaghetti in front of her.
“Soon, honey. As soon as they take our plates away.” Heather picks up the fork and wipes down the handle with her napkin without missing a beat. I’m fascinated by the way her mom-mode kicks in so seamlessly. She can carry on a completely intelligent adult conversation while wrangling two slippery eels with opposable thumbs. It’s nothing short of awe-inspiring.
As if on cue, our server arrives to whisk away our empty plates. I order a bottle of champagne for the table, despite Mom’s protestations.
“You only turn sixty once,” I tell her.
“Thank God,” she mutters, but I can see by the glint in her eyes that she’s pleased.
“Presents now?” Daisy asks, clasping her hands together. She’s so excited you’d think it was her birthday.
“Mom?” Heather looks to our mother for confirmation, and when she nods, my sister smiles at Daisy. “Yes, presents.”
“Open mine first!” Daisy sings as she lunges towards the chair with the gifts. She grabs one wrapped messily in pink paper, with a big pink bow and sparkling pink curlicues. “It’s this one!”
“I had no idea,” Mom says with a smile. “I thought that might be from your Uncle Logan.”
“No, it’s from meeeee!” Daisy squeals again.
“Oh, wonderful. Can I open it?”
“Yesssss!” Her enthusiasm is boundless.
Mom slowly unwraps the gift, carefully setting aside the bow and the curlicues. I bite back a chuckle as Daisy promptly steals the whole mess of ribbons and sticks it on top of her own head.
“Well, isn’t this lovely?” Mom coos, as she unearths, from inside a shit-ton of pink tissue paper, a coffee mug hand-painted with daisies. Daisy watches her carefully, her chin resting on her tiny fists. “I love it, Daisy, thank you. Now I can think of you every morning when I have my coffee.”
Mom opens Jack’s gift next — a similarly hand-painted tealight holder — and though he’s not nearly as effusive as Daisy, I can tell he’s pleased that she likes it. Heather and Tim’s gift is next, and, as I predicted, it’s a sweater. Mom holds it up to admire.
When she gets to my gift, I feel a bit nervous. Will she like it? Despite what I’d told Blake, normally I’d get her something more predictable — a sweater, like my sister, or a piece of jewelry or the new must-have Prada bag.
This is … different.
Mom unwraps it with the same care she used on the other gifts. I watch her face as she slowly peels the paper away. There’s a moment of confusion, and then understanding.
“Oh, Logan.” She looks up, and in her face at that moment is everything I need to know.
“You like it?”
“Oh, honey, I love it.” She hugs the frame to her chest.
“What is it, Grandma?” Daisy crosses the table and hangs off Mom’s arm, trying to see.
“It’s a star, sweetie, see?” Mom holds the frame out. “It’s a star, and it’s named after me.”
Daisy and Jack both look on in amazement. Even Heather and Tim try to peer over Mom’s arm at the frame she’s holding.
I’m not sure where Blake had come up with the idea, but she’d really outdone herself. It turns out you can have a star named after someone. It wasn’t very expensive — and who knows if it’s even official? But Blake had turned it into something special. She’d had it printed on heavy paper that was so dark blue it was almost black. The lettering was gold embossed, spelling out the star’s coordinates, Mom’s name, and a poem she’d found.
“For age is opportunity no less
Than youth itself, though in another dress,
And as the evening twilight fades away
The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.”
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I thought the poem was a nice touch. Mom seems to think so, too. She wipes a tear away from her eye.
“I’ll treasure it always,” she says.
“You’ve always been there for us,” I tell her honestly. “This way, you’ll be there forever.”
“Thank you, Logan.” She squeezes my hand across the table.
The mood around the table turns quiet and thoughtful. Not my favorite.
“Champagne?” I ask, to bring everyone back.
“Yes, please.” Heather waves her glass, and then I’m pouring and the chatter resumes.
Later, after Mom’s stifled half a dozen yawns and Daisy has fully fallen asleep on Heather’s lap, we decide to call it a night. Mom’s driver picks her up right in front of the restaurant, and though Heather tries to hail a cab, I insist on having my own driver take them to the Plaza.
“That was quite the gift you got Mom,” Heather says, as we pull back into traffic. Daisy hasn’t woken up at all and is still sound asleep on her lap. Jack is staring out the window, watching the city slip by around us, but he, too, looks ready to pass out.
“I can’t take all the credit for it,” I admit. “My assistant came up with the idea.”
“Your assistant?” Heather squints. “Not the one who kept spilling coffee?”
I grin ruefully. “No. A new one.”
“Plan on keeping this one?”
“I hope so.” I press my lips into a line. I hadn’t given any serious thought to the idea of Blake leaving, but suddenly the notion seems absolutely abhorrent.
Heather squints. “What is it?”
“Huh? Nothing.” I shake my head.
“That’s not a nothing look.”
I force myself to smile. “Just thinking of something I have to take care of tomorrow. You know me — can’t turn off the work part of my brain.”
“Uh huh.” Heather looks skeptical, but then, she knows me well. Better than most people. “Well, any assistant who could come up with something that thoughtful sounds like a keeper.”
“Hmm? Yeah, I guess she is.” I’m distracted again. Thinking about Blake, yes, but also thinking about my reaction to her. Why can’t I get her out of my mind? She’s just an assistant, after all. Sure, she’s hot. Okay, and amusing. And yes, she has a sort of persistence that I find attractive.
But surely, that doesn’t justify the amount of time and space she’s been occupying in my thoughts. Nothing justifies that.
Heather is still watching me, and I’m relieved when we pull up in front of the Plaza. I help them get the kids out and walk her and Tim to the front door of the hotel.
“You sure you’re okay, Logan?” Heather asks, before they go inside.
“Absolutely,” I assure her. Then, to change the subject, I turn to Jack. “I hear you and your sister are going to be coming to visit me here some weekend soon?”
His face lights up. “Yeah! Mom said we could. Dad’s going to win an award.”
“Might win an award,” Tim interjects, but it’s clear there’s no difference in Jack’s eyes.
“Well, I can’t wait. How’d you like to see a musical while you’re here? Maybe The Lion King?” I ask, naming the first kid-appropriate show I can think of.
“That would be awesome!” The sheer awe in his voice makes me feel like the coolest uncle in the world. I make a mental note to look into getting tickets. I’m sure Blake can handle that.
Blake. There she is. Everything makes me think of her, even the most benign things. The realization sends an uncomfortable wave of … something … through me.
I bid a hasty goodbye to Heather and her crew and promise Jack that I’ll see him and Daisy soon.
When I’m alone again, heading towards my Park Avenue penthouse, I pull out my phone and start going through my emails. Work has always been my go-to distraction. It worked after Dad. It worked after Laura. But somehow, it doesn’t hold the same power now. I struggle to compose even a single reply, so distracted am I by thoughts of unwrapping a certain muffin.
By the time I get home, I’ve come to the conclusion that this has got to s
top. In fact, it stops right …
Now.
Ten
“Good morning,” I chirp as I pass Kath’s desk. I drop a take-away coffee from Rocky Road Cafe down in front of her. “Thought you could use that.”
She looks suspiciously at it, then back at me. Her eyes travel up the length of my legs, and I ignore the judging expression on her face. Maybe the dress is a little short. So what?
Okay, maybe it’s a lot short. But it’s still professional. It’s not like I’m wearing pasties and a garter belt, here.
I force myself to keep smiling at Kath, who still hasn’t said anything. “Is Logan … I mean, Mr. Cartwright … in yet?”
She hesitates, then gives a brusque nod.
“Great.” Warmth fills my belly, though I try not to let my face betray any hint of what I’m feeling. Because what I’m feeling is very, very inappropriate.
Ever since yesterday, I haven’t been able to get that kiss out of my mind. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the way Logan’s lips felt on mine, the way his hands felt tangled in my hair, the way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me.
Because ever since yesterday, I’ve found myself wondering … just what it would be like to be devoured.
I know my sisters think I’m a party girl, and it’s true that I love going out and having fun. No one can dance up a storm quite like me. But I don’t really sleep around. The last guy I slept with is my ex-boyfriend, and we broke up over a year ago. He was a fun guy but, well, he was sloppy. Both in bed and out of it. You know, the kind of guy whose car is filled with fast food wrappers and who always seems to have that single dirty sock on the nightstand next to his bed?
Something tells me that nothing about Logan Cartwright is sloppy. Something tells me that everything about him is finely tuned, like a sleek Ferrari. I shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. I know I shouldn’t. But all the shouldn’ts in the world can’t stop the way my body comes alive when I’m in the same room as him.
Kath clears her throat, and I realize that I’m still standing there in front of her desk. And that I might be panting a little.
“Well … enjoy the coffee!” I bleat. She grunts something that I’m going to go ahead and assume is a thank-you, and I make a mad dash out of the lobby.
Once I’m at my desk, I take a couple of fortifying swigs of my own coffee and then grab the cappuccino I picked up for Logan. I’m still on a high from yesterday’s win with the gift for his mother, so I figured presenting him with a proper coffee — instead of one of my crime-against-humanity cappuccinos — was a better way to go. Might as well at least try to stay on top for a little while longer, right?
I take a minute to fix my hair and reapply a slick of pink lip gloss, and then I take the coffee to this office. I find him already sitting behind his desk, focused on the laptop in front of him, as always. He’s got on a navy suit today, and it sets off his dark blond hair perfectly. If I could see his eyes, I know they’d look bluer and icier than ever.
Nope, definitely nothing sloppy about Logan Cartwright.
Except, to my eternal dismay, Logan doesn’t look up.
“Blake. I need you to run an errand.”
“Oh. Okay.” I try to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “I brought you a cappuccino. From Rocky Road.”
Instead of answering, he just points to an empty spot on the desk next to the laptop. I scurry over and set the cup down. I straighten my skirt and wait for him to notice me, but his eyes remain steadfastly trained on the computer screen.
“I need you to get three tickets to The Lion King,” he says. “For next Saturday. First or second row. Nothing further back than that. And certainly nothing with an unobstructed view.”
“For Saturday?” I squeak. “Um, I’m pretty sure tickets are sold out. At least, all the good seats will be.”
He finally looks up, but only for a fraction of a second. “Don’t be silly. The show’s been out forever.”
“Yeah, but it’s still really popular.”
“Blake,” he sighs. “Do I pay you to argue with me?”
Ughhh. Here we go again. Hot and cold. So much for my plan to stay on top. “No, sir.” Did that sound sarcastic enough?
He doesn’t look up, but I swear I see the corner of his mouth twist up into a quarter of a smile. “Good. My niece and nephew are coming into the city next weekend, and I promised them we’d go see it. I don’t want to disappoint them, Blake. Got it?”
“Got it.” Now it’s my lips that turn up into a tiny smile. I guess if he’s going to be an ass, doing it for family isn’t the worst reason.
“Of course, if you can’t get the tickets, there’s really no reason for you to come back here.”
I blink in surprise. Is he seriously insinuating that he’ll fire me if I can’t get the stupid tickets? “Oh, I’ll get them,” I assure him. And then I’m going to shove them right up your…
Logan starts typing something on the laptop, and by the way the air in the room shifts, I know I’ve been dismissed. I straighten my skirt once more, tugging at the, okay, way-too-short hem. But Logan still doesn’t look up. With a silent sigh, I leave his office.
Still, as I make my way down the long hallway, I swear I feel his eyes on my ass. I just can’t bring myself to turn around and find out for sure.
Ten hours.
That’s how long it takes me to get the stupid Broadway tickets.
Actually, make that ten hours, thirty-seven frantic phone calls, one huge favor, a cab ride out to Long Island, a near-collision with a belligerent homeless woman and a runaway shopping cart, a pigeon shit incident, and what I think was a marriage proposal from a cheesy radio DJ. Oh, and top it all off with a freak downpour. It’s been … a day. But when I walk triumphantly back into the Cartwright Diamond offices that night, it’s with four tickets to The Lion King nestled safely in my purse.
It’s past seven o’clock by that time, and I don’t expect anyone else to still be in the office. The hallways are dark, and Kath’s work station looms empty when I pass by. I intend to just leave the tickets on Logan’s desk — no way am I going to risk taking them home with me. With my luck, I’d end up dropping them down a sewer grate or something.
As I walk towards Logan’s office, I yank out my wet braid. Did I mention the freak downpour? My long hair is drenched, and it drapes heavily against my back. My dress clings to my body, and what was once just too short is now borderline obscene. Even my feet are squelching in my pumps. All I want to do is go home, shower, pull on one of my many pairs of leggings, and sample whatever sweet treat Lucy’s spent the day concocting. I can practically already taste the wine I’ll no doubt be pouring myself.
I round the corner towards Logan’s office and freeze when I see him sitting there. Head down, fingers on the keyboard. Exactly how I left him this morning. I could swear the man hasn’t moved all day.
I slow my pace. I wasn’t prepared to face him tonight, and especially not now that I look like something the cat hacked up. I pause long enough to wring out my hair, but so much water squeezes out that it makes a spattering noise as it hits the lacquered floor.
Logan looks up, startled. Then his eyes darken when he sees me. Even from here, out in the hallway, I can see it happen. His fingers are still poised over the laptop, but his eyes are trained on me.
“Hi,” I say, trying to recover. I force myself to start walking towards him again. My shoes make wet squeaking noises with every step. It seems to take a painfully long time for me to get to his office door.
Logan doesn’t answer. His eyes travel up and down my body, lingering where my dress clings to my chest, to my hips. Pausing over my bare thighs.
“It’s raining,” I say, somewhat stupidly.
His lips turn up into a fraction of a smile. “I see that.”
He gets up and wordlessly goes through a door at the back of his office. When he emerges again, he has a fluffy white towel.
“Thanks.” I reach for
it when he holds it out, and for a second, our fingers brush. A shiver runs through me, all the way from the sopping wet roots of my hair to my frozen toes. “I didn’t know you had a linen closet back there.”
“A whole bathroom, actually.”
“Really?” I stop toweling my hair long enough to gape at him. “I had no idea.”
“See for yourself.” He steps aside, gesturing for me go past him. I creep by, self-conscious about the sounds my shoes are still making, and find myself in a full bathroom, complete with a modern marble shower.
“My father had it installed years ago,” he explains, when he sees my incredulous expression. “He used to spend a lot of late nights here.”
“I see the apple didn’t fall far from the tree in that regard.” I try to focus on running the towel through my hair and over my exposed skin, but Logan is standing so close to me now that it’s hard to even breathe.
“No. I suppose it didn’t.”
He’s so close that I can see the way his chest rises and falls. I can see the fine silver threads that run through his tie. I can see each hair that makes up the dark shadow covering his jaw. I can see his lips twitch slightly as he watches me.
“I got the tickets,” I say, taking two big, safe steps backwards.
His forehead wrinkles. “The tickets?”
Oh my God. Is he serious? I fish them out of my purse and thrust them towards him. “To The Lion King. For your niece and nephew.”
“Oh.” His eyes widen as he takes the tickets from me. I grit my teeth when our fingers touch again. “Ohhh. Really? I thought they’d be impossible to get.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Well, they almost were. But I made some calls …” I let the sentence trail off, hoping that it makes me sound like a worldly and capable person. You know, the kind with connections, the kind who can just call someone up and make something happen.
Logan’s lips purse into something that’s almost a smile. “You made some calls,” he repeats, as if this is amusing to him.
