by Lily Flowers
“Even worse, she might not do either,” she gritted her teeth, tumbling from her bed as she raced to her corner bathroom. “And by exacting no penalty at all for my tardiness, he might as well order us matching T-shirts that read, ‘Hi! We’re sleeping together. Or at the very least we’re going to be, very soon’.”
Jumping beneath the aquiline streams of a much needed cold shower, Helena pondered just how she would excuse her late arrival at work.
“Should I tell the entire office that I was having major sexy time dreams about the boss?” she mused. “Or should I make up some outrageous story about being ambushed and nearly abducted by pea green aliens somewhere along the subway line? The second option, I fear, would be just as unbelievable—and infinitely less believable.”
Finally Helena emerged from her shower and threw on her freshly pressed pant suit; one hanging conveniently on the back of her bathroom door.
Running a brush through the strands of her still soaking mussy blonde hair, she bit her lip as she considered the fact that she was about to appear in the esteemed offices of Elmhurst Publishing bearing a striking resemblance to a drowned rat.
“I certainly hope that the wet look is in right now,” she mused, combing out and detangling her unruly strands before finally setting her brush aside and reaching instead for her red metallic cell phone; hitting the automatic dial button that—much to her consternation—soon would connect her with the mega hot dream boat that also happened to be her immediate supervisor.
“Come on, voice mail, I’m rootin’ for you,” she released between gritted teeth. “Please allow me to deliver my lame and tension wrought excuse to a recording with an unbelievably chirpy message ahead of it—as opposed to the real, flesh and blood—and, did I happen to mention, unbelievably hawt—man that had recorded said message.”
She jumped as her troubled meditation was disrupted by the sound of a smooth, deep voice—one that, from the sound of things, was delivered live and in present time through the ever revolutionary media that was her telephone line.
“Good morning!” chirped the real live Trey Lawrence. “This is Trey.”
“Hi Trey, this is Helena,” she managed, punctuating her words with a loud, rough cough. “So sorry I’m late today, but as you can probably tell I have an awful cold this morning—one I probably caught when I tried to venture out into the palatial blizzard that—by some freak of nature—managed to strike my home and nobody else’s. And, while trying to navigate my way through said freakish occurrence of nature, I was assaulted by an equally freakish abominable snowman—I believe they call him Yeti in certain cultures—thus resulting in the several broken limbs that you just can’t see because, well, we’re on the phone.”
Trey guffawed outright.
“Helena, would all of this happen to be code for ‘I overslept this morning and—as a direct consequence—I’m late for work?” he queried.
Helena gritted her teeth.
“I prefer to think of it as fashionably late,” she offered, clutching her forehead in complete and utter despair as she did so.
Trey chuckled.
“Well no worries, darling,” he assured her, adding in a low, mysterious tone, “As it turns out, I’m late to the office myself.”
“So the Yeti visited your house too?” Helena asked, tone hopeful.
“Nope!” Trey told her, dashing her hopes with a single cruel word. “Please remember though, Helena, that I am the boss—I can play hooky whenever I so choose; and since I’ve decided to take the day off, I would like for you to play hooky with me. Tell me, Ms. Vance—would you be agreeable to said concept?”
Helena thought a moment—OK, perhaps this particular lapse of time would best be classified as a nanosecond—then affirmed, “Um, sure.”
“Good thing,” Trey replied, “seeing as how I’m currently seated in the back of a limousine. One that, through an amazing coincidence, just happens to be conveniently located in front of your apartment building. Right. Now.”
Helena nodded.
“All right, then,” she agreed, adding as she made a mad dash for her front door, “I’ll be down promptly.”
Within moments Helena found herself in the back of a custom deluxe automobile; a sleek, polished ebony vehicle that came complete with cushioned, scarlet hued seats and refined upholstery.
“I can’t rightly say that I’ve ever driven a car that came complete with refined upholstery,” Helena mused silently, grinning as Trey offered her a hand into the back seat. “If I can keep my passenger seat free of any and all soda pop cans, fast food sacks and newspapers from days and sometimes years past, I consider my upholstery polished, if not quite refined.”
Aloud she said, “Trey, this limo is beautiful!”
“I’m pleased you approve, Madame,” Trey said with a smile, watching with affectionate eyes as Helena settled herself in ruby-hued cushions and leaned back with a contented sigh.
“I think I could just sit here all day, doing absolutely nothing,” she purred, staring at him through half-opened eyes, “providing, of course, that you have food stashed away in some nook or cranny of this vehicle. Sorry, but if I go a few hours without eating I get exceptionally cranky and my left leg starts twitching uncontrollably—it’s really a freaky weirdo sight to behold…”
“No worries, love,” Trey assured her, adding as he gestured between them, “I do indeed have some vittles on hand—so that your lovely legs stays calm and motionless throughout the course of our journey today.”
Following the direction of his broad gesture, Helena’s eyes widened as they took in a miniature moveable feast—one that consisted of brie, crackers, olives, and chocolates—all of which were served up on a shiny crystalline platter, alongside an ebullient silver pail that held a lush magnum of sparkling champagne.
“Well that just rocks!” she exclaimed, expressing her approval through a graceless thumbs up sign. “These delightful edible supplements of a most high class variety should last us throughout the day—or at least for a good hour and a half, depending on just how quickly I can rip the blasted cellophane off of that cheese…”
Soon Helena found herself cradled most literally in the lap of luxury; or, even better yet, in the lap of a—as previously and repeatedly described—really hawt guy.
Reclining across Trey’s muscular legs with her head propped up in his lap, Helena released yet another contented sigh as her lover handfed her cheese and chocolates to her heart’s sweet content.
“Trey, I’m passing sure that—next to the dictionary definition of ‘complete and total heavenly Paradise’—there lies a workable graphic of this very situation,” she purred, adding with eyebrows arched, “Of course, I could always do a random search right now on Dictionary.Com for the term ‘complete and total heavenly Paradise,’ to see if our selfie does indeed pop up at any point in the submitted definition.”
Trey let loose with a low, sensual chuckle that sent a tingle down her spine.
“I’d far prefer that you stay right here in my arms,” he cooed, popping yet another succulent cream between her parted lips, “where I can pamper and take care of you.”
Helena waggled her eyebrows.
“Mmmm, sounds wonderful,” she whispered on a sigh, adding as she settled herself in the cushions of their seat, “Could it be, my dear, that you had another activity in mind for today—aside, of course, from just driving around all day (not a good idea with today’s gas prices) and chowing down? I mean, not that I’m salaciously suggesting anything, but I did rather enjoy the limo-based love scene between Kevin Costner and Sean Young in that movie ‘No Way Out’—though, criminy, talk about leg cramps, those two probably suffered for days on end afterward…”
Trey laughed.
“As much as I would love to recreate that scene with you, hon, for once I have something else on my mind,” he revealed with a smirk. “Namely, I would very much like to take you shopping for our London trip—and at a store that has brought particular
fame to a particular street in New York City—a street that, if our driver follows his directions, he is about to turn off on right about now.”
Bolting upright in the back seat, Helena’s eyes widened as she spotted a street sign that read ‘Fifth Avenue.’
“Criminy,” she breathed, adding as she shifted her gaze in Trey’s direction, “Unless you’re taking me to a second Fifth Avenue location of Bambi’s Bargain Barn—my usual favorite shopping spot, located in the heart of Queens—I do believe you’re about to treat me to a shopping spree at the one and only Saks Fifth Avenue. Of course, I can’t rightly say that it’s the one and only Saks Fifth Avenue, as from what I understand this particular luxury retail chain boasts more than 100 locations across the nation—I myself happened to visit a Saks Fifth Avenue location in greater Indianapolis a few times—though I was royally freaked out that the store wasn’t actually located on Fifth Avenue. Because Indianapolis does indeed have a Fifth Avenue, I’ll have you know…”
“OK Helena. We get the idea,” Trey interrupted. Even Trey had his fill of Helena’s know it all adorableness quotient—once in a while. “You’ve visited a Saks Fifth Avenue. Now, my love, you are about to enter the Saks Fifth Avenue—at the side of a man that just happens to have a personal shopper that plans to meet us today at this very location. Arielle shops for my wardrobe, at excusive boutiques across the city—and we’ve even employed her to dress our cover models for Elmhurst’s line of contemporary romances. She is an expert shopper with roughly a decade’s worth of experience and a keen eye for what looks good on people of every age and body type. She will be more than pleased to help you find a whole new wardrobe for our trip to London; a wardrobe for which I, my darling, plan to foot the bill.”
Helena smiled, but only briefly.
“Your personal shopper is named Arielle?” she sounded out the word, scrunching her nose as she did so. “She sounds suspiciously like the type of rich hot babe that I’m always tempted to trip on the subway. How ‘personal’ of a shopper would you consider her, Trey?”
Trey guffawed outright.
“Well I hate to break it to you, dear, but Arielle is indeed a ‘rich hot babe,’ as you would describe her…” he informed her.
“…and you’d best be following up this description directly, and with a phrase similar to, ‘but not as hot as you, goddess Helena,’” she informed him, a hint of dire warning lacing her hushed tones. “As a matter of fact, you can borrow this very phrase word for word, using it to make your immediate response to my last words—which were, if you failed to notice, spoken in hushed tones—with a dire warning inherent.”
Trey nodded.
“I was indeed about to say that very thing,” he affirmed with a smile. “I was also about to tell you, greatest goddess, that I’m not the only one who happens to find Arielle—ahem—babish. Her wife Erin feels exactly the same way about her.”
Helena exhaled.
“All righty then, good to know,” she beamed anew, adding in a softer tone, “I still feel a little bit funny about this, Trey. I know we’ve had this conservation before, but still I feel I must say it. Don’t you think that our co-workers are going to royally frown on your buying me a whole new wardrobe for our London trip?”
Trey thought a moment, then shook his head.
“Not at all, Helena,” he assured her. “As an employee and representative of Elmhurst Publishing, you will be making a number of public appearances in London. Sure we already have the dress for your book cover shoot—but you’ll also be attending meetings, doing interviews, and posing for your back cover author photo. I’m sure that you’ll feel more prepared and confident if you attend these happenings in some beautiful new fashions—ones that might even be found on fashion runways in Europe.”
Helena shrugged.
“Well it’s a good idea in theory, though I’d have to say that one key difference separates me from those gals on the fashion runways,” she reminded him, “I eat. Seriously, Trey, I hope that you’re not trying to morph me into a fashion bot. I want to appear to the public just as I write for them—always sincere, real, and true to myself.”
Trey nodded.
“And I wouldn’t have it any other way, darling,” he told her, touching her cheek with an affirming kiss. “You’re an original, Helena Vance, and I bloody love you for it. It’s just that…”
“You bloody what?” Helena interrupted him, eyes flying wide.
Instead of offering her a verbal reply, a beaming Trey swept Helena into his arms and kissed her gaping lips.
“I bloody love you, Helena Vance!” He told her, more loudly and decidedly this time. “I have since the moment I met you.”
Helena beamed.
“Well this is the best thing I’ve heard all day—aside, of course, from the news that I’m about to be treated to a Saks Fifth Avenue shopping trip,” she enthused, adding casually as an afterthought, “Oh and by the way, Lawrence. I bloody love you too.”
She smiled as her whooping lover swept her up in his strong arms, seizing her lips in a passionate kiss; his smooth, moist mouth massaging hers as he held her body closer than close.
For just a moment Helena leaned into his kiss, wrapping her arms around his strong shoulders and plying his lips with hers.
Then, and just as abruptly, she let him go.
“We’d best cool our proverbial jets, love, before we make ‘No Way Out’ look like the Sunday matinee at a theater conveniently located in downtown Provo, Utah—the version they show on airlines, mind you,” she reminded him, settling herself back in her seat with a heavy, frustrated sigh. “I still bloody love you, though.”
Trey chuckled.
“Well then will you allow me to treat you to a shopping spree today at Saks Fifth Avenue?” he queried, chucking her chin in an affectionate gesture. “You can buy absolutely anything and everything you like—no limits, love.”
Letting loose with her own triumphant whoop, Helena swung open her door and bounded out onto the sidewalk—turning broad circles and raising her arms in an impromptu, rather inappropriate ode to Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.
“You, darling Trey, just said the three words that every woman longs to hear—that three word sentiment that every female wants to hear, from the time of her innocent girlhood,” she gushed, adding as she thrust her fists up into the air and ran Rocky-style up the sidewalk (What was up with her today and inappropriate, totally out there cinematic references?), “Endless. Credit. Limit. Huzzah!”
Her unbelievable, even frightening enthusiasm intensified still further moments later, as she beheld the majesty that was Saks Fifth Avenue.
Her mouth fell open as she traipsed the sidewalk before the entrance of this legendary store; her gaze flying upward to scale the elegantly carved levels and the statuesque crystalline windows that distinguished the exterior of the building; as well as the bank of proudly displayed American flags posted at some of these windows. That same gaze then lowered to admire in full the radiant front window displays that further distinguished this classically designed multi-level building.
Each of these illuminated portals seemed to tell a story; a colorful, ebullient fantasy that featured glamorous manikins dressed in a radiant array of fashionable, elegant frocks.
“Trey!” Helena called over her shoulder to her beaming date, now standing at the driver’s window of their shiny limousine. “Get over here and check out these women in the windows. They’re like these mystical goddesses that are luring me into the store, psychically imploring me to ‘Buy, buy, buy!’ And as an added bonus, even with their stick figures they still appear to eat more on a daily basis than the vast majority of fashion plates I see on the subway each day.”
Trey guffawed outright.
“Well I shall be over directly, to join you in falling beneath the thrall of these enchanting—though somewhat inflexible and, well, pretty much made of wood—heavenly goddesses,” he assured her, adding as he gestured in the direction of their
limo, “First, though, I have to tip our driver and send him over to the petrol station, so we don’t end up thumbing a ride home.”
Soon the laughing couple passed through the gleaming front doors of Saks Fifth Avenue; all laughter subsiding as Helena caught her first glimpse of the elegant interior of this world renowned department store.
She gasped outright as she beheld an expansive ground floor adorned with cream-colored walls and ceilings and champagne-hued wall hangings; along with an ebullient marble-patterned floor and a soothing stream of overhead light that managed to bathe the entire store in a soothing, ethereal glow.
Yet in Helena’s eyes even this lovely spectacle paled in comparison to the vision of the merchandise glamorously displayed across the floors, racks, and artistically designed display cases of Saks Fifth Avenue. Her mouth fell agape as her gaze consumed a lovely rainbow-hued array of fashions and fabrics: those classic tools of design that here expressed themselves in the eye catching form of silken dresses, satin pant suits, soft velvet skirts and luxurious cashmere sweaters. And just beyond these gorgeous displays of haute couture designs—many of which had made their auspicious debut on the esteemed runways of London and Paris—stood luminous display cases filled with a sparkling array of glittering diamond necklaces, ruby bracelets and other examples of glamorous jewels that—Helena figured—would just happen to look darned good around her neck, wrist, and just about any other major appendage.
“You know, Trey,” she turned finally to face yet another smashing beauty, this one standing close behind her with his hands affixed to her shoulders. “Some, rather unenlightened folk would refer to this place as a ‘store.’ I, on the other hand, see this joint for what it really is—a well-concealed but obvious earthbound branch of Heaven itself, conveniently located within spitting distance of where we edit silly stories and munch on cereal bars each day. I swear to you, Trey, and mark these words: I will be buried here. And in a monogrammed Dior casket.”
