by Lily Flowers
“I’d love to,” she assented, again reaching for her purse. “I brought some Handy Baggies filled with two day old noodles and chocolate chip granola bars—I could meet you in the commissary in five or ten…”
She took in her breath as Trey leaned over her desk; pinning her with a dazzling smile and intense azure eyes.
“Let me let you in on a little secret,” he purred, voice barely above a whisper. “Can I tell you something truly confidential?”
Helena grinned.
“Please do,” she coaxed him, peering at him over her spectacles with a narrow eyed expression she’d seen only in perfume ads—or in those movies you see later in the evening while your six sisters are fast asleep, and only until your parents catch you and promptly cancel the cable. “Lay it on me. I want the truth.”
His smile softening and turning more sensual, Trey leaned forward, slowly and deliberately, until all distance was erased between them.
“Well OK then, Darlin, here comes the truth,” he whispered, adding with the subtle but marked flash of his gem blue eyes, “The food in our commissary sucks far worse than any of the books we release.”
Covering her disappointment at this less than scintillating revelation with a loud, sharp laugh, Helena sat back in her chair and once again gestured in the direction of her purse.
“Hey, it’s not a problem,” she reassured him. “I always keep enough two day old noodles and chocolate chip granola bars on hand for several people, or even a small group. I mean, you never know what might come up—a really long snow storm, a full-fledged zombie apocalypse, or just a really weird day that finds everyone in the vicinity just really, really hungry for snack foods.”
Trey laughed.
“Good to know Helena,” he winked, adding with a shrug, “While I myself have always been partial to chocolate chip granola bars, I was thinking more of a three course gourmet luncheon at Le Jardin, my favorite French restaurant downtown.”
Helena shrugged.
“That works too,” she allowed, nodding with approval.
Chapter Five
Although set in the glamorous luxurious setting of the Le Jardin restaurant, the first luncheon that Trey shared with Helena did indeed seem more like a business meeting; with Helena offering her ideas and input on author Kathleen Huddleston’s Victorian romance series “The Flame and the Arrow.” And while she had no trouble offering constructive, articulate advice on the focus, content and direction of this series—one of the best she’d read during her time at Elmhurst Publishing—she had considerably more difficulty in deciphering the lunch menu at their eatery of choice.
That was why, when he suggested a return to the restaurant the next day, she was somewhat reluctant to do so—waiting a full 5.56 seconds before saying, “Yes.” Quietly.
She’d been the valedictorian of her high school class, gained entrance to the English honor society and graduated cum laude from university with an English degree. She’d composed thoughtful literary analysis of works that ranged from “Gone with the Wind” to “War and Peace.” But blast it if Helena Vance could understand a solitary word of Le Jardin’s lunch menu.
“I’ll have the chicken.”
Throwing down her menu with a heated grunt, Helena turned with a surrendered sigh to her grinning lunch date. “I’m assuming you know the word for chicken in French?”
Trey nodded.
“The word chicken translates to ‘le coq’ in French,” he informed her.
Helena gritted her teeth.
“OK then, I guess I’ll have to order something else,” she rolled her eyes heavenward. “If I said the word ‘cock’ aloud at home, Mom would promptly wash my mouth out with some mildly edible but not at all tasty form of laundry detergent. I fear to think what would happen if I say the same word aloud right square in the middle of Manhattan.”
Trey guffawed.
“You certainly do have a way with words,” he told her, adding with a wink, “Just one of the many things that makes you perfect for this job.”
Helena shook her head.
“Thank you so much for all your kind words, of course,” she allowed, adding as she re-gritted her teeth, “I just can’t believe you’re being so generous and welcoming to someone who—on a number of occasions—has totally insulted your book line.”
Trey shrugged.
“The last thing I want in an editor, Helena, is a yes person. I myself am much more of a numbers person than a creative type—that’s why I need people like you on my team, to give me honest—not to mention—expert opinions on all work submitted,” he told her. “An editor is meant to improve a book, to enhance it—not just to praise it to high heavens and give it a high pass, sending out a weak and inferior product to our readers.” He paused here, his voice lowering as he added, “Of course, as I get to know you better, I kind of wish that you did have more of a romantic side.”
“Oh I do, trust me!” Helena answered quickly, at least somewhat impressed that the gorgeous, charming man beside her would express such a keen interest in her ‘romantic side.’ “I love me some romance, and how. When it comes to romantic movies and TV shows, bring on the huggin’ and the kissin’ and well—whatever is appropriate to talk about in the presence of your boss and your waiter.”
Jumping in his seat, Trey looked up to acknowledge the arrival of a tall, snow-haired server clad in a smart black suit.
“Ah, bonjour Philippe!” Trey greeted the older man with a broad smile, “I do believe we are ready to order.”
With this he broke in to a flawless sprawl of flawless French dialogue; speaking quickly but clearly as he ordered lunch both for himself and for an open-mouthed Helena.
Meeting his order with a simple “Merci” and a warm, broad toothed smile, the distinguished waiter withdrew to the kitchen; leaving Helena to look after him with wide eyes and a wider mouth.
“Are you quite all right, dear?” Trey inquired, brow furrowed in a show of acute concern.
Helena nodded, but slowly.
“Um, yeah,” she assented, adding with a shrug, “Let’s just say that I myself worked food service back in Indiana, and my uniform consisted of a highly unflattering polyester pantsuit in an off shade of mustard yellow, plus an equally unbecoming hair net. I didn’t know that anyone ever got to wear a friggin’ tux while serving food. I also don’t know how you managed to speak flawless French at the literal speed of light, and that dude managed to understand every blasted word you said.”
Trey shrugged.
“Well let’s hope he did, at least,” he allowed, adding with a cringe, “Or we might end up eating fish tacos a la mode, with a hearty side order of chocolate covered sardines.”
Helena nodded.
“Well for a noonday snack, that actually doesn’t sound half bad,” she allowed, smacking her lips as Trey pinned her with a slightly horrified look. “Just kidding, Boss.”
Trey coughed loudly in response to her words; smothering what an amused Helena swore was a distinct sigh of relief.
“I’m glad of that,” he told her, adding more seriously, “I’m far more interested, however, in your specific literary tastes—or, more specifically, about your apparent distaste for romantic books.”
Helena shook her head.
“I actually love romance, when it’s done right,” she corrected him, adding with a soft smile, “I grew up reading classics like Gone with the Wind, Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights—to this day I love and remember those stories, and the characters that brought them to life. The settings, the dialogue, the plotlines—they weren’t just well-done, they were downright addictive. My sisters and I back in Indiana used to put on little puppet plays based on our favorite books—and, once in a while, we’d sit around the dinner table and write our own stories. Given the usual quality of Mom’s cooking, it was a welcome diversion.” She paused here, her smile dissolving as she paused to consider other, more recent reads. “My more recent romance reads, however,
haven’t proven quite as satisfying. It really depresses me that Austen wrote stronger heroines in the Victorian era than many authors do today—I mean, the ladies back then might have swooned once in a while, but it’s only because those blasted corsets were too tight—cutting off all oxygen to their brains. Today’s heroines don’t have that excuse. Even when they’re wearing nothing at all, which happens all too often throughout the course of their storylines, they still act functionally brain dead and submissive to their heroes—if indeed you can call those brutish, obnoxious, overbearing, sometimes whip-wielding wastes of collective space ‘heroes,’ in any sense of the word….”
“Madame.” Trey halted her with the use of a single word; and with a warm, inspired gaze that brought a smile to her face. “I know this is your first day and all—but would it be possible for me to expand your duties here? Providing, of course, that I increased your pay as well?”
Helena froze.
“Um, that would be,” she paused here, reaching for the right word. Amazing? Earth-shattering? Pretty blasted unbelievable, considering the way her day had started and how her life went in general? “Very acceptable, I think. What type of work did you have in mind?”
“What I have in mind, Helena,” Trey replied, seeming to carefully consider his words as he spoke, “is for you to write the type of book that you think we should publish here at Elmhurst. You come up with the storyline, you conjure the characters, you create a setting…”
“Can I do anything during this process that doesn’t specifically start with a c?” Helena smirked.
She froze as her playful smirk was met with a smile so sultry and sexy that it nearly stole her breath.
“Well, given the needs and demands of today’s literary market,” Trey purred, his voice lowering to a sinful cadence as his gaze softened in her direction, “I’m going to need some pretty steamy love scenes as well—so we may indeed want to work in some ‘s’ words too, just for variety.”
Helena grinned.
“Point taken,” she assured him. “I’ll make sure that the characters go to salons on a regular basis, to read the collected works of Shakespeare while eating succotash casserole and drinking unreal quantities of soda.”
Trey laughed.
“You know very well what I mean, funny girl,” he nudged her under the table. “Sometimes when I’m reviewing our manuscripts, Helena, I wonder just how you gals come up with all of those spicy, steamy love scenes.”
Helena shrugged.
“I’d call it one part inspiration, one part desperation,” she informed him, adding with a slight smile, “Of course, the strategic consumption of vast quantities of Ben and Jerry’s and endless viewing of Chris Hemsworth film festivals don’t exactly hurt either.”
She took in her breath as Trey leaned across their table, erasing all distance between them.
“Well if you’re going to be writing for me, Missy,” he purred, raising his strong hand to course the length of her fair-skinned cheek, “I do believe we’re going to have to find other, far more exciting ways to get you all nice and, um, inspired.”
Helena made no verbal response; only stared into his eyes and gave him a short nod to encourage his advance.
And advance he did.
Moving slowly at first his lips touched hers; coaxing and whisper soft as their mouths moved together in a warm, succulent tango of a kiss.
Leaning into his kiss, Helena didn’t resist as his lips sealed themselves against hers and their tongues entangled. Their public surroundings dissolved around them as their mouths molded together; their breaths merging and sighs intermingling as he continued to kiss her senseless.
“Are you ready for your tray?”
Even as she lost herself in the type of romantic rhapsody she’d read about only in books, Helena heard these words loud and clear; only, as captured as she was in the moment, she stopped just short of grasping their meaning.
“I sure am ready for my Trey!” she exclaimed, breaking their kiss even as she stared deep into the eyes of their dinner partner. “Bring it on.”
“Ahem! Um, very well Mademoiselle.”
Jolting upright in her seat, Helena suddenly recognized the low, dulcet tones of Philippe, their French waiter; following the direction of this deep, thickly accented voice, she saw that he was carrying two trays piled high with steaming hot French cuisine.
“Oh, um,” For once, and quite shockingly, at a loss for words, Helena motioned for the bemused waiter to set their meals before them as she averted her gaze to the table. “Mercy.”
Trey laughed.
“I do believe what the lady meant to say was, ‘Merci,’” he grinned, nodding as he uncovered the silver-cast lid that adorned his food tray.
“Oh no,” Helena countered, adding with a wink, “I meant exactly what I said the first time. Lawd. Have. Mercy!”
An enthused Helena echoed this sentiment several times throughout the course of their meal; responding in part to her first real taste of filet mignon, escargot and other things she could just barely pronounce, and in part to the warm, affectionate kisses that a besotted Trey insisted on planting on her lips and cheeks at various points throughout the meal.
“OK then, that’s just excessive,” she told him at one point, giggling in spite of herself as her attentive lunch date licked some errant champagne from the surface of her pink lips.
Trey shrugged.
“Well I as your boss can’t exactly have you traipsing around my place of business with little drops of champagne on your lips,” he told her, adding with a wink, “It would be all too evident to our co-workers that you had a—what do they call it?—liquid lunch. A meal you might indeed need to survive the remainder of the pulpy romance manuscripts I have for you to edit this afternoon.”
Helena laughed, but only briefly.
“I’m talking about this whole situation, Trey,” she gestured between them with a broad wave. “Is it a really good idea for us to get involved—especially considering the fact that we’ve just met today, and you’ve already seen me eat a snail during the course of this very lunch—a fact that I’m sure does very little to enhance my appeal?”
It was Trey’s turn to laugh—and not at all briefly.
“You’re hilarious, my dear—this is what enhances your appeal,” he chuckled. “You also happen to be bright, honest, and energetic—not to mention downright adorable. And although I’ve known you for just one day, I must say it stands as one of the exciting, revealing and out and out invigorating days I’ve ever enjoyed.” He paused here, adding with a chuckle, “I well knew that my office needed an editor. What we really needed, though, was a Helena.”
His lunch date chuckled.
“Well if you really needed a Helena, I guess I do have most of the necessary qualifications to bring to the table,” she admitted, adding with an ominous glance in Trey’s direction, “And there are six more just like me at home. Be afraid. Be very afraid.”
Trey beamed.
“Actually, darling, we only need one,” he affirmed, adding more seriously, “I only need one. Listen, Helena, I just came out…”
“Oh no, seriously, you just came out?” Helena buried her head in her hands—separating her fingers to fix him with a sharp, sardonic gaze. “And here I thought things were going so well. Why does it always have to be the hawt, rich ones?”
“I just came out of a relationship with a WOMAN,” Trey corrected her with a snide smile. “A fashion model who has appeared on some of our book covers. She sure looked stunning on those covers—the only time, incidentally, that I’ve seen her with her mouth shut. This woman, Helena, spent all of her time talking about herself and her newest book and magazine covers. I don’t rightly believe, by the way, that she actually read her own or any other book, unless one counts that epic literary title It’s All in the Curl: The Magic of Mascara, Volume I.”
Helena nodded.
“I saw It’s All in the Curl: The Magic of Mascara Volumes II and III on th
e classics shelf at Barnes and Noble recently,” she revealed, tone stark and dead pan. “I was going to pick them up, but I was afraid that—by skipping the first volume—I wouldn’t be able to grasp the true message and intellectual depth of the trilogy as a whole. Kind of like The Lord of the Toe Rings series.”
Trey guffawed outright.
“Julianne never made me laugh like this, at least not intentionally,” he rolled his eyes heavenward. “I did have to chuckle, though, when she insisted that she was the most beautiful model in Manhattan—and that Gisele and Kate Upton might just as well hang up their stilettos.”
“Oh, I’ve thought the same thing about myself, so many times,” Helena interrupted, tossing the strands of her unruly blonde hair with an exaggerated flip. “That’s exactly why I never dared to venture into the modelling field. As a feminist I don’t believe in depriving other women of work.”
Trey chuckled.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Kid. You, my lady, are downright adorable,” he assured her, reaching forth a tender hand to stroke the same hair she’d ventured to toss. “The hair I’m touching is kissed by the sun—and I love those big blue eyes I see sparkling behind those glasses. I’ll tell you something else—after months of trying to make love to a stick figure mannequin, I’m more than ready for a voluptuous woman.”
Helena rolled her eyes.
“Voluptuous,” she repeated on a snort. “Yep yep. When people hear the word voluptuous, they automatically think of Pam Anderson, Jane Russell and Helena Vance—every time just never fails. I’m not voluptuous, Trey. I’m chubby. And since I define chocolate as both the fifth major food group and the primary reason for Helena Vance’s existence, I’m likely to remain chubby for the duration of my existence. And you know what? I’m perfectly and totally happy that way.”
Trey nodded.
“And don’t you see, Helena? That’s why we need women like you writing romance. Ladies these days need real, amazing role models like you.” He paused here, stroking his chin thoughtfully as he added, “As a matter of fact, I do believe that we need to put your picture on the cover of your debut novel.”
