by Brea Brown
“Cold, scary, dictatorial, and perfunctory.”
“Oh, look who discovered the thesaurus function on her word processor,” he grumbles.
“Don’t make me smack your stomach with this book,” I threaten with a smile.
“Feel free, if you want to be showered with vomit.”
“Gross!”
“Fair warning.”
I stand up and take two steps toward the door.
“Wait!” He holds his arm out toward me. “Don’t go.”
When was the last time a gorgeous, scantily-clad man said that to me? Hmm… Never!
After several seconds pass without my saying a thing, he says, “Keep a dying man company.”
“You’re pathetic. I was going to turn in early…”
“Please. Don’t be mean. Stay here and talk to me until the nausea subsides.”
“Put some clothes on.”
What?! I did not say that. Why did I say that?! It’s the opposite of what I want him to do.
He laugh-groans. “Are those your terms?”
“Yes.”
“How about if I cover up with a blanket? Because I took my clothes off for a reason. They were cutting me in half. I felt like a tube of toothpaste in a grubby little kid’s fist.”
“Lovely.”
“I didn’t say it was attractive.” With what appears to be a supreme amount of effort, he yanks the bedspread up and over himself sideways so only his head is sticking out. “Better?”
“I guess.” I retake my seat on the bed. “Do you want me to read you a story?” I offer, holding up the book in my hands so he can see the cover.
“Uh… rain check?” When I laugh, he says, “Great book, but… not necessarily uplifting and soothing.”
“Oh, is that what we’re going for here? Uplifting and soothing?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know if I have a grasp on those particular… genres.”
And there ends the conversation for several minutes, until he moans again with his eyes closed and says, “You have to talk. About anything but food. Because all I can think about is food when you’re not talking.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Figure it out. Say the first thing that comes to mind. I don’t give a shit what it is. As long as it’s not about food.”
I sigh. “I’m so boring,” I lament when I come up blank. We seemed to find things to talk about at the tavern and on our walk this evening, but something about this room is making me freeze up. Maybe it’s the fact that it’s his bedroom, and this is his bed, and he’s half-naked (sort of), and I’m horribly repressed.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Have you seen any good movies lately?” he tosses out.
“No. I’ve been busy writing.”
“Every waking minute?”
“Pretty much.”
“You’re a publisher’s wet dream.”
“Thank you…?” I reply uncertainly.
He ignores that and goes back to trying to drum up topics of conversation. “How was your trip out to Boston? Have you had a chance to see any of the sights with your friend, Gus?”
I think back to my travels and almost whoop with excitement when I remember something interesting about me. “Well, it was my first time flying, so that was exciting.”
“Ever?!”
The way he asks it makes me feel freaky, so I hesitantly admit, “Y-yes. I’ve always driven everywhere.”
Eyes still closed, he says, “Wow. So… what’d you think? Don’t tell me… you’re already a member of the Mile High Club.”
“No!”
He chuckles. “That was a quick denial. I think that’s a ‘yes.’”
“There was nobody on any of my flights—including the flight crew—who was remotely worthy,” I say sniffily to hide my embarrassment, relieved beyond measure that he feels too sick to open his eyes.
He makes a face. “Well, then!”
“Are you saying you’re a member?” I ask, failing miserably at sounding casual.
His ensuing laughter obviously hurts his gut. After he recovers, he licks his lips and says, “Nope. I’m much too inept for such small spaces.”
“Inept. Sure.” I’m dying to change the subject, but since I’ve already proven I have nothing else to offer this conversation, there’s nowhere for me to turn.
Seriously, he says, “I’m not kidding. I’m a spaz.”
“Whatever.”
My dismissive comment was meant to discourage further disclosure, but he takes it as a challenge to prove it. Opening his eyes, he rolls onto his side and props his head on his hand. “You know that commercial where the guy and the girl are supposedly having a romantic night in, and they end up stumbling around the bedroom, knocking heads and throwing out their backs?”
I giggle and cover my mouth while nodding. “Yes.”
“When that commercial came out, I thought someone had gotten the idea from looking in my windows.”
“Stop it!”
He widens his eyes innocently. “I swear! There’s something about… that… that gets me all nervous and flustered and turns me into a bumbling idiot. Well, not always, but most of the time. And the harder I try to relax, the worse it is. I knocked out a date’s tooth once. With my head.”
“Bwahahahahahaha!” I explode, falling sideways onto his bed.
“I’m serious! Had to take her to an emergency dental clinic. She was fuh-reaking out, babbling about a recurring nightmare coming true. And I was like, ‘I only wanted to get laid.’ But I paid for the surgery to replace her tooth. And this was in grad school, before I had that kind of money to be throwing around.”
I swat blindly at his head while I picture the whole thing going down. “Stop it. Just stop! That did not happen.”
“Yes, it did! Why would I tell you such a terrible story, if it weren’t true? Shit. I don’t know why I told you at all. It’s degrading. But it’s not the worst story, by far.”
“Shut up!”
“Okay. I’m not going to tell you the worst story, anyway.”
The door to the bedroom next door rattles loudly. Seconds later, Caroline’s head pokes through Luke’s open bedroom doorway. “What the hell is going on over here?” she demands waspishly. “I’m trying to sleep.”
Luke looks around me. “Oh. Sorry. I was regaling Jayne with the tooth story.”
Caroline rolls her eyes. “Why do you insist on telling everyone that horrible story? It wouldn’t be funny if it was your tooth.” She touches her left front tooth with her tongue. “I looked like a hockey player.”
My eyes nearly pop from my skull. “It was you?!” I barely manage to sputter.
Luke laughs at my reaction and Caroline’s disgusted expression.
“I didn’t tell her who my date was. That’s all on you,” he states.
“God, I hate you!” she shouts before yanking on the door and slamming it on her way back to her own room.
“Do you believe me now?” he asks after we hear her door bang shut.
“I guess so…”
“I’m not bragging about it; merely being honest. What were we even talking about…?”
Like an idiot, I remind him, “The Mile High Club.”
“Oh, yes! Well, no, I’m not a member. Imagine the mayhem I could inflict in such a confined space. I’m picturing loss of cabin pressure… Not to mention, planes are dirty. I’m too germophobic to attempt something like that.” He flops onto his back once more and blinks up at the ceiling. Pushing the blanket away, he bends one of his legs to bring his foot up to rest on the edge of the bed. “Whew… I think the worst is past. I can almost breathe normally again.”
Unfortunately, I’m having the opposite experience.
Chapter Sixteen
Ha! This is hilarious. Talk about literary clichés come to life. I’m falling in love with stupid Luke-Ass Edwards. Or at the very least, I have a fierce crush on him, which is equally bad, if not worse. How the hell did this happe
n? A few weeks ago, I didn’t even know he existed. Then I met him and wished he didn’t exist. And now, I can’t imagine existing without him.
Oh, shit. That’s the mawkish thinking of someone in love. Or in lust. Yeah. Maybe that’s all it is. Lust. I’m sex-deprived, so seeing him in his leaving-not-much-to-the-imagination underthings sent me over the edge. He’s not necessarily the object of my desire; any half-dressed man would do. Yes. That’s an excellent theory. Let’s test it out with some middle-of-the-night TV watching.
Settled in the basement in a chair with a view of the room’s entrance (there will be no soft-stepping lurkers observing me from behind this time), I channel-surf until I get to the naughty channels. The first program I land on started moments ago, so nothing interesting is happening yet. Next.
Okay, this is a bit steamier. What is he doing? Oh! Ick. Never mind! Next!
Whew. This looks more… conventional. Nice (for porn, I suppose). Having come in on the middle of it, I have no idea what the story line is (as if it matters), but these two are at least doing something that resembles what I’ve done a few times in the past. Only… this guy’s too smooth. And I don’t mean hairless (although he is disturbingly that, too). It’s all so… choreographed. It would be a nice touch if they bumped noses or did something that looked semi-unscripted. But it’s obvious a director has told him to put a hand there and lift his leg at precisely that moment so that… Oh, wait. That’s interesting. I bet that feels weird. Anyway!
I glance at the doorway, my finger poised over the “power” button when I think I hear someone on the stairs. Nobody materializes, though, so I go back to studying the show.
What was the point of this exercise, again? Oh, right! To see if it’s as titillating (yep, I said it) or more to see a hot, naked stranger as it was to see my editor in twice as much clothing.
Well, the answer so far is no. BUT I’m not giving up. Because the problem I have with this guy is that I simply don’t find him very attractive. He seems to have all the right features in all the right places, but… he’s too blond. And that cocky look on his face when they cut to a close-up of him is off-putting. It’s as if he’s saying, “I know I’m good,” and that’s intimidating. Plus, what if he’s not? He actually appears to be a bit robotic. And too muscly. Like bulky, body-builder muscly. His muscles stand out everywhere, no matter what he’s doing. I can’t stop staring at them!
No, what would be much better is if he had dark hair, green eyes, and a smile that looks like it only comes out for special occasions, but when it does... look out! You know, like…
Oh, man!
I feel like crying when I press the button to turn off the TV. This is such a bummer. It would figure that I’d fall in love with the first straight man I’ve spent any amount of time with in… well, a long time. But why does it have to be him? He’s complicated and moody and admits to being bad in the bedroom, which should be a major turn-off (I like my teeth and would like to have them for many more decades, if possible), but his self-deprecating divulgences only endear him more to me. They make me think, “Oh, so he’s not perfect,” and it’s a relief, although I know he’s not perfect at all (see: “moody” and “complicated”).
And his life is far from perfect. He’s married, for Pete’s sake! The fact that he’s not in love with his wife but stays married to her anyway, for material reasons, only speaks poorly to his character. He should repulse me.
Great. Now I’m starting to sound like a Jane Austen narrator. I think that’s a definite sign that twelve hours of sleep are in order.
*****
Sleep isn’t restful when it’s full of bad dreams (technically, good, I guess) about romantic rendezvous with professional acquaintances. Now that I’ve resigned myself to my feelings (whatever they may be), I can’t think about anything else! This will never do. How am I going to face him today?
When I woke up for the first time, shortly before 8:00, and I heard the rain hitting my window, I nearly had a panic attack. Another day in the same room with him? I don’t think I can do it. Declarations about Kleenex will seem profound, compared to anything I’ll be able to write today. I was too tired—and paralyzed by fear—to get up at that time, anyway, so I decided to stay in bed, dozing while attempting to hatch a plan. Caroline’s leaving this afternoon for her weekend with her parents. Maybe I can convince Luke to leave at the same time.
I ignore the twinge that the thought of him leaving produces and give myself a firm talking-to. It’s time to stop screwing around, pun intended. This is a dangerous, stupid game you’re playing, with the only possible outcome involving your sitting alone in your apartment in Indianapolis in a few weeks, wiping your eyes and nose on your blankie and writing romance novels featuring the same leading man over and over again. Only he’s not your hero. He rubs elbows with the likes of Tom Ridgeworthy and breaks the hearts of every new author who has the misfortune of being assigned to him. Even if he weren’t completely out of your league (and he sooo is), he’s a married man and possibly a father-to-be, no matter what his claims are to the contrary. Keep walking.
Or writing, as the case may be.
A quiet knock on my bedroom door wakes me from yet another dream about having sex with Luke in the gazebo (porn was a bad choice). Assuming it’s Paulette, I sleepily croak, “Come in,” only to be shocked, dismayed, and overjoyed when Luke peeks around the edge of the door.
“Are you sick?”
I pull the covers up to my chin and try to subtly smooth down my hair and tuck it behind my ears. “Huh? No.”
He shoots me a dubious glare. “Are you sure? Because it’s after noon. Paulette asked me to check on you. But if you’re sick…” He shrinks back into the hallway as if he’s afraid of me.
“I’m not sick, just tired.”
He takes a step further into the room. “If you’re sure…”
“I’m sure!” It’s seriously unnerving talking to him so soon after having such a raunchy dream about him. That and the fact that it was only a dream are making me cranky. “I don’t have cooties, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I wouldn’t say, ‘worried…’” he defends his paranoia. “Anyway, Paulette’s the one who wanted to know what your deal is.”
I sit up in bed, hoping my hair’s not too crazy but feeling awkward having this conversation while lying down. “Why didn’t she come check, then?” I ask, wishing I didn’t sound so bitchy.
He shrugs. “I don’t know. She asked me to do it. I said I would. We didn’t have a ten-minute discussion about it.” Edging toward the door, he says, “If you’re tired, I’ll leave you alone. Unless you want me to have her bring you something to eat…?”
I shake my head. “No. Thanks. I’m getting up. I didn’t realize how late it was. But… it’s raining. And I didn’t sleep well again last night.”
Please don’t ask me why, I silently beg.
Before he has a chance to, I blurt, “How are you feeling today?”
He looks confused by my question, but then he says, “Oh! That. Yeah. I’m fine. Back to normal. I even ate breakfast, so…”
“Fast metabolism. Lucky you.”
“I guess. Hey, about last night…”
“What about it?” I ask eagerly and sit up taller. Oh, fuck. Could I be more transparent?
Fortunately, he seems too focused on his shoes to notice. “That’s not why you’re still in bed, is it?”
“What?! What do you mean?! No! Why would you think that?”
He looks up, his eyes wide and full of dismay. “I was miserable. But now, in hindsight, it seems like maybe some of what we talked about was inappropriate and may have made you uncomfortable—”
“No! Not at all!” I lie.
“You seem like the type of person who doesn’t talk about… things like that. And I totally disregarded that in my efforts to distract myself from feeling so horrible. But now I feel even more horrible. As in, guilty.”
“Really. Don’t worry. It�
�s fine.”
“It’s not fine. I’m sorry. The last thing I want is for you to get the wrong idea.”
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
After a pause as thick and tense as saltwater taffy, during which I stare intently at the bunches of lilacs on the bedspread, he says softly, “I’m such a moron that it took Caroline pointing out to me that you would have every right to report me for sexual harassment and fire me as your editor and—”
“What?! I’m not going to do any of those things,” I interrupt him.
“But you’d be justified in doing so.”
“It was innocent. I totally believe that.”
He toys with the hem of his dress shirt, which is peeking out from the bottom of his sweater vest. “Thank you for putting the best construction on it. Because it was innocent. I was sick, and you’re so easy to talk to, and making you laugh kept my mind off feeling so rotten. I got carried away.”
“Yeah. Me, too. It was funny.”
All business now, he pushes his shoulders back and says, “Okay, then. Good. I’m glad. And don’t worry; it won’t happen again.”
Before I can answer, he leaves the room and closes the door behind him. I stare at the door for a few minutes while I brainstorm possible pen names for the bodice rippers I’ll soon be producing. Then I burrow under the covers and focus all my energy on not crying.
Chapter Seventeen
Weak from hunger and hopeful that the silence in the house means Paulette and I are the only two people left, I emerge from hiding when I imagine I can smell dinner. I feel very mole-like (fitting, considering that’s how unattractive and undesirable I feel), blinking against the setting sun blazing through the front windows and bouncing off the slate foyer floor, as I follow the mouthwatering smells to the dining room.
Luke’s sitting alone at the huge table, which is weighed down with an obscene amount of food. When I merely stare at it all, he puts down his utensils, wipes his mouth and says, “Thank God. I was afraid I was going to have to eat all this myself and suffer through a repeat of last night.”
His reference to last night brings me crashing back to reality. Stiffly, avoiding eye contact, I sit at the other place setting (I hope it’s not meant for someone more important than me… like Jesus) and pretend it takes all of my concentration and attention to put my napkin in my lap. When he passes me serving dishes, I keep my eyes on the food they contain and diligently ensure our fingers don’t brush against each other. I don’t want anything to happen that would cause him to think I’m getting the wrong idea.
