A run would do it—did I mention that I run three or four mornings a week? Normally, I pass if it’s raining hard. And it is raining hard; there’s a skylight over my bed and I can see and hear the rain hitting it.
Hell.
What’s a little rain?
I get up, pull on sweats, running shoes, let Walter out into the garden to do his thing. The dog is smarter than I am. He gets back into the house fast, shakes off a ton of water even as I dry him with an enormous towel. Then I go into the soggy, gray morning. I don’t last my usual five miles—I’m not a complete idiot—but a couple of miles are enough to restore my equilibrium.
A hot shower, a couple of mugs of coffee, and I am calm and composed by the time I get to work.
I don’t even think about that kiss. It was an aberration, and it’s not going to happen again. Really, why would it? I’ve made my point. Impossible as it seems, Bailey and I can generate heat together. Well, sparks. Because surely my imagination has exaggerated the heat of that kiss. The point is, we’ll be able to exchange a couple of light touches, light kisses in front of an audience and make the touches and the kisses seem real.
I’m hoping Bailey has come to the same conclusion. That she’s figured out nothing spectacular happened in the doorway last night—and as soon as I step through the door, I can tell that’s what she’s done.
“Good morning, Mr. O’Malley,” she say politely.
I nod. “Morning,” I answer.
We start down the hall with her clipping along beside me, filling me in on a phone call that just came in from one of our suppliers. She’s wearing one of those sexless suits; her shoes are sturdy; her hair is yanked back in a no-nonsense knot. She’s completely businesslike; her tone is professional.
Excellent.
Life is back to normal. I was…well, not worried. Concerned, is the better word. I was concerned she’d have a difficult time forgetting that kiss. I mean, it’s one thing for me to see it for the dress rehearsal it was. Hey, I’m an experienced dude. But Bailey’s new to the game. And she melted in my arms just a handful of hours ago.
Now, that same woman is briskly lining up a stack of memos on my desk.
There’s not a hint of Bailey-From-Last-Night about her.
Okay. Maybe there is. She smells the same. As she leans over me, the scent of lemons and flowers drifts on the air. Is it from the tea she uses? Would white tea smell lemony?
“What’s that smell?” I ask. Actually, I blurt it. If I never quite got the meaning of that word, I get it now. The words shoot from my mouth before my brain can stop them.
She straightens up and looks at me. “What smell?”
“That scent. Lemon. And some kind of flower. Is it the tea you told me about?”
“The…Oh. Oh, no.” She blushes. “It’s lemon verbena. An herb. I use it.”
“Oh. Got it.” I look back at the memos. Then I look at her again. “As what?”
“As a lotion.” Her blush deepens. “If the scent bothers you…”
“No,” I say quickly, “it doesn’t bother me at all. I just—I just wondered what…You use it as hand lotion, you mean? Or, you know, as a body lotion. Something you put on all over your skin…”
I clamp my mouth shut, look back at the memos.
“Where’s my coffee?” I say—only I don’t say it, I bark it.
Bailey rushes out of my office at which point I groan, plant my elbows on my desk and put my face in my hands.
Didn’t I just tell myself I’d exaggerated the memory of that kiss? I’m back in the real world. So how come that simple word, lotion, is ricocheting inside my skull like a table tennis ball set loose in a closet? How come my mind fills with a picture of Bailey, naked, while I smooth the stuff all over her? How come, despite what I’ve told myself, I can’t forget that kiss?
Never mind those how comes.
The how come I’m interested in is how come her head isn’t back in that kiss too?
Okay. What I need is to settle into work. I have plans to go over, meetings to arrange, orders to place. I start leafing through the memos; Bailey hurries in with my coffee. I manage to mutter a gruff thank you.
“Sir?”
I look up. “Will you please stop calling me that?”
“Sir,” she says pointedly, “about the weekend…”
Aha. Here it comes. One out-of-control kiss, and she’s backing out of our arrangement. I push my chair back a little.
“Look, that kiss didn’t mean a thing. I already explained…”
“I need to make plans.”
“Bailey. If you want me to promise it won’t happen ag—”
“Will you want to drive up?”
I blink. “Drive up where?”
“To Schenectady.”
“Drive up to…Oh. To the wedding. I thought…” I clear my throat. “Sure. We’ll drive.”
She nods. “I just wanted to double check. I mean, there are choices. We could take the train. Or fly. Or—”
“We’ll drive.”
“Fine.” She hesitates. Color begins sweeping into her face. “And what about lodging?”
“Lodging?”
“If my mother still had the house, we would stay there. But her condo is small. Smallish. There’s a tiny den with a pullout sofa that she got second-hand. Well, third-hand. It was my Aunt Sally’s and then Aunt Sally gave it to her daughter Thelma and when her daughter got married, she passed it along to my mother…” Bailey clamps her lips together, inhales, and starts fresh. “So I’d have to sleep with my mother. You’d have to sleep on the pullout sofa. But I can’t, and neither can you.”
I am getting lost in the syntax, meaning the safest response is, “Because?”
She shrugs. “Until three days ago, my mother kept hoping I was going to the wedding. When I flat-out told her I wasn’t, she told my Aunt Sylvia that she and her husband could stay with her. Arthur—that’s Aunt Sylvia’s husband—is…he’s a little heavy. He’ll need the pullout sofa all to himself, and Aunt Sylvia will sleep with my mother. Then, when I phoned my mother and told her I was coming—that we were coming—she called my Aunt Cynthia to see if she could put up Sylvia and Arthur, instead, but—”
I hold up my hand. I am drowning in a sea of relatives I haven’t even met.
“Book us into a hotel.”
“Yes. I tried.”
“But?”
“But, everything is filled.” She looks at me. “There’s some kind of renewable energy conference going on. Plus weddings. Not just Violet’s. There are three others.”
“Yeah, I get it, but there must be a room somewhere.”
She nods. “I’ll give it another try.”
* * *
Bailey’s efficiency is a godsend.
She plans my business trips with care. By late morning, I know she’s planning this trip with the same concentration to detail.
She messages me, tells me she’s contacted the woman who always takes care of Walter when I’m away. Mrs. Lopez will spend the weekend at my house and Walter will be happy. He adores her and she adores him.
“What about Prudence?”
“Prudence?”
“Your cat.”
“Her name is Priscilla. Thank you for thinking of her.”
What she means is, how are we going to pull this off if you can’t even remember my cat’s name?
“Mrs. Powell, across the hall from me, will stop in and take care of her.”
“Great. Anything else?”
The tiniest pause. Then she says no, there’s nothing else.
A little while later, she sends me a second message, informing me that she’s checked the driving time from Manhattan to Schenectady. It’s two hours and forty-nine minutes.
Not 2 hrs and 50 minutes? I text back.
Bailey ignores my feeble attempt at humor.
Two hours and forty-nine minutes. And we’ll be traveling on a Friday, so it might take longer.
Is there a specific time… I
stop typing, shake my head, get to my feet, go out of my office and walk the five feet to her desk. “Is there a specific time we have to be there?” I ask.
She looks up at me. “There’s a rehearsal dinner at six.”
“Fine. I’ll pick you up at two. That’ll give us time to allow for traffic.”
“Yessir.”
I narrow my eyes. “You need to get used to calling me Matthew.”
“Yes. I will.” She wants to get rid of me. I can feel it. “Was there anything else?”
“No. Yes. What else is on the weekend’s agenda? The rehearsal dinner. And the wedding…Is that Saturday day or evening?”
“It’s Saturday evening.”
“Black tie? White?”
“Oh. Sorry. I should have told you. It’s black tie.”
“No problem. Just as long as it isn’t Bermudas, socks, oxfords, and no shirt. Anything else?”
All of a sudden, a little furrow appears between her eyebrows.
“Problem?” I ask.
“Just a couple of details.”
“Details?”
“Yes. I’ll work them out.”
“Because if there’s anything I can do to help…”
“You can give me some space,” she snaps. She looks horror-stricken. “Oh my God, Mr. O’Malley! I didn’t mean to—”
I hold up my hands and step back. “I’m here if you need me,” I tell her, and I try not to smile until I’m safely in my office.
My girl is going to do just fine this weekend.
In fact, Venal Vi probably won’t know what hit her.
* * *
A while later, the intercom buzzes. I hit the play button.
“Look, if you’re worrying about what happened before—”
“We have a problem,” Bailey says.
At least, I think that’s what she says because she’s whispering into the intercom.
“What problem? Don’t tell me those teak doors…”
“The Colonial Inn,” she hisses.
“What colonial inn?”’
“The Colonial Inn!”
I roll my eyes. “Bailey. How about coming into my office and talking to me?”
The intercom goes silent. A second later, my door opens. Bailey steps into the room. She’s obviously upset.
“What’s going on?”
She shuts the door, walks to my desk, stands staring at me.
“I found lodging for us. A suite. At a place called The Colonial Inn. But—”
“But what?”
“It’s not a regular suite.”
“Then what is it?”
“I mean, they call it a suite. But I checked online. They have a photo of it.”
“Listen, I don’t care if it’s gigantic, if it’s a copy of Versailles, if it has, I don’t know, half a dozen bedrooms and half a dozen bathrooms, a game room and a grand piano and…Dammit, woman! What now?”
“When they say suite what they really mean is a bedroom with a pullout sofa.”
“And?”
“Did you not hear me? It’s just one room.”
“With a pullout sofa. So what’s the problem?”
There’s a silence. Bailey looks unhappy. She looks down. Looks up. Looks down…
“Bailey. What’s going on?”
“Schenectady is a small town. I mean, it’s a city, but in many ways…” She swallows. “The desk clerk turns out to be a guy I went to school with.”
“And?”
“And,” she says in a rush, “once I book that room everybody will know we’re sleeping together.” She turns a bright shade of red. “I mean, they’ll think we’re sleeping together. And—and—”
I push back my chair and rise to my feet. “No problem. I’ll leave the pullout sofa open. The chambermaid will realize we’re not sharing the bed.”
“Yes. I thought of that. But if we do—if we do that, she’ll spread the word that we’re not actually a couple. And we’re supposed to be a couple.”
“Okay. I’ll close the sofa each morning. How’s that?”
Not good either. I can tell by the way she’s looking at me. She inhales. Exhales. Then she says, “The thing is, I’ve never—I’ve never shared a room with a man before.”
“Well, that’s no prob…” Wait. What does that mean? That she’s never shared a room with a man? Or she’s never shared a bed? She can’t be talking about sex. No way. Never having had a boyfriend doesn’t mean she’s never had sex.
The possibility flashes through me like a shot of electricity, but I simply nod my head.
“Well,” I say solemnly, “there are benefits. To sharing with a guy, I mean. For instance, you won’t have to worry about me hogging the bathroom so I can put on my makeup.”
She blinks. And gives me a tiny, barely there smile. I smile in return.
“It’ll be fine,” I tell her. “And Venal Violet—” Bailey laughs, which is even better than that quick smile. “Venal Vi will never torment you again. Okay?”
“Okay,” she says, and I come around the desk and clasp her shoulders. I give them a reassuring squeeze. What I want to do is nuzzle her hair aside and drop a kiss on her neck. Nothing major. Just a little kiss, but I don’t because there’s no reason for it.
Well, yeah. There is.
The reason is that I want to taste her, breathe her in. And that’s out of the question. I mean, how can I promise her that everything will be cool when we share a bedroom if I can’t keep from wanting to kiss her when we’re just standing here in my office?
So I turn the shoulder squeeze into the kind of casual thing a guy would give his sister and then I move away.
“Okay,” I say briskly. “What else do we have to do?”
“We’ll need a gift. I’ll pick up something when I go to the mall during my lunch hour.”
“Forget that. Just phone Tiffany’s and send the happy couple something big and expensive and, if we’re lucky, ostentatious.”
Bailey hesitates. “I don’t think I can really afford—”
“It’s on me. Hey, I haven’t had this much fun since the day I stole Mindy Cassini’s gym shorts and ran ’em up the school flagpole.”
This time, Bailey giggles. “You stole some girl’s gym shorts?”
“It was a long time ago,” I say, and I wonder why I’d think back to something that happened all those years before. “So. What else?”
“Nothing else.” She hesitates. “Well, there’s maybe one little thing…”
“Yes?”
“Is it all right if I take lunch little early? Or maybe skip my lunch break and leave at four instead of five?”
The only other time she asked to leave early was a couple of years ago when it turned out she’d come down with the flu. I frown and check her out. She looks fine. Or, yeah, maybe she looks a little flushed.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“I am positive,” she says in a no-nonsense tone, but she’s definitely flushed.
“Listen, if you’re feeling sick—”
“I have to go shopping! Shopping, Mr. O’Malley! Must I explain everything to you?”
“Whoa. If you want to go shopping—”
“I did not say I want to, I said I have to.”
“I don’t get the difference. And how come we’re back to Mister? I thought we settled…” Then it hits me. “Shopping,” I say slowly. “To get something to wear to the wedding.”
“The wedding. The rehearsal dinner. Friday day. Saturday day. Sunday day…”
She’s standing with her chin up, her eyes bright, her hands on her hips. She’s looking defiant, but I’m pretty sure I can see past that to what she’s really feeling.
Fear.
Fear of the unknown. I’ve see that look before, on my man Cooper’s face right before he stepped out of a plane for his first skydive. Remember Cooper? My best pal through middle school, high school, college, heck, through life? We’ve been tight fo
rever—and he’d have seen that look on my face if he hadn’t gone out the door of the plane before I did.
This isn’t skydiving, but it’s just as bad. Bailey’s about to walk into a glitzy store, face a judgmental clerk, and be presented with endless, terrifying choices.
“Right,” she says briskly, “so I’m taking a long lunch.”
“Yes. Of course. Take the rest of the day.”
“Thank you.”
I nod. She heads for the door. Or maybe for disaster.
This cannot possibly go well. And I can’t help her. I mean, I could say I’ll go with her, but what good would that be? Last night only worked because we picked up shoes, a purse, a scarf. Small, easy-to-choose stuff. This is different. This will be a shopping expedition, not a shopping trip.
Besides, if I were picking out her clothes, I’d stop at a white lace bra and panties. Okay, maybe throw in a pair of shoes. One of the spike heeled jobs we got last night. And for a little variety, something short and silky, something that would cling to her breasts and her hips and…
Goddammit.
She needs a woman to shop with her.
Think, I tell myself. Think! There has to be a solution.
A couple of possibilities come to mind.
I could phone one of the women I’ve dated. Explain that Bailey is a business associate. Explain that she needs some help choosing a weekend’s worth of clothes and, whoops, did I forget to mention that she needs them for a weekend in the country with me?
I shove back my chair, get to my feet and start pacing.
No. Not a good plan. Not a good plan at all.
Possibility number two.
Pick a store. Call and ask to speak with a personal shopper. I know such people exist. I’ve seen the discreet signs pointing the way to their offices. Offer the lady the same lame explanation, the business associate thing, blah blah blah. A personal shopper’s no more likely to fall for it than an ex-girlfriend, but who cares?
Bailey. That’s who would care. No matter how helpful a personal shopper would be, Bailey would not feel comfortable.
There’s only one thing that will work.
I whip out my cellphone and hit a button. My sister answers on the first ring.
“Hi,” she says breathlessly. “Look, if Jenny’s had a problem with the Phillips kid again, I’m sorry. But, really, somebody needs to tell him that he cannot go around deliberately finger-painting other kids and…” She pauses. “Matt? Is that you?”
The F-Word: A Sexy Romantic Comedy Page 10
