Say the Word

by Julie Johnson

  There were faint shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. A light growth of blond stubble covered his chiseled jawline, which I knew meant he probably hadn’t shaved this morning. He had a tan, so he either sunned regularly on his rooftop — doubtful — or he was still an avid fan of the outdoors, as he’d been as a teen.

  I wondered what he saw when he looked at me.

  In some ways, I was still the same girl I’d always been. But the stylish clothes were new, as were the expensive accessories and high profile job. I had more confidence now than I’d had as a girl, in part because of my career but also because I’d come into my own once I graduated college and moved to the city. But I was still the first to laugh at a good joke, and the first to cry at a sad movie scene. Still the girl clumsily tripping over her own feet as she rushed from one task to the next, and still in the habit of leaving dishes in the sink and laundry unfolded if it meant not missing out on something better.

  Different, yet the same.

  “Hi,” I whispered, not knowing what else to say. I wasn’t exactly familiar with the protocol for what one said to her ex after seven years of distance.

  “Ms. Kincaid,” Sebastian said, nodding in acknowledgement. I felt chills break out across my skin at the sound of my name on his lips, something I thought I’d never hear again. I stared unblinking at him, in that moment utterly unconcerned with the fact that he hated me and had likely just gotten me fired. His eyes roamed my face and hair as mine drank in the sight of him in turn. The air between us grew charged, practically crackling with electricity as the seconds passed and neither of us made a move to leave.

  The moment was broken when Sebastian’s mind seemed to clear of whatever spell had fallen over us, his face darkening to an expression of anger — whether at himself or at me, I wasn’t sure. He extended his arms into my space, each of his hands forming a light grip around my biceps, and moved me two feet to the his left so our paths were finally clear of one another. I allowed him to steer me, my befuddled feet moving at his command.

  His touch was perfunctory, in no way lingering or intimate; in the space of an instant, we’d slipped back into being strangers. Before I could say another word, he’d moved past me and was headed for the elevators. I didn’t care what my nosy coworkers might read on my face as I watched him go. Never had I felt more keenly the sting of regret at the way our lives had played out, at the hand we’d been dealt by fate. Wondering if I’d ever see him again, my eyes followed his departure until he boarded the elevator and its gleaming gold doors slid shut behind him. Only when he’d disappeared from view did I turn to face Jeanine’s door.

  With a deep inhale and a bolstering roll of my shoulders, I grasped the handle and walked inside.

  ***

  “You’re not serious,” I said, just shy of scoffing.

  Jeanine stared impassively, her expression unchanged but for the subtle lift of her brow.

  “Sorry,” I recovered. “But Jeanine, that’s just absurd. I can’t be Sebastian Covington’s… what would you even call it? Personal assistant? Errand girl? Slave?”

  “Listen, Lux, I like you,” Jeanine announced, crossing her arms across her chest and leaning back in her leather chair.

  Could’ve fooled me.

  “You do consistently good work, you don’t make waves, and you don’t bother me with inane complaints like so many of your coworkers,” she continued.

  I sensed the impending but coming.

  “But,” she said, confirming my prediction. “You messed up on this one. I don’t know what you did to piss off Mr. Covington and frankly I don’t care. The bottom line is, his shots of Cara are a huge part of the September issue — which, as you may or may not have put together at some point during your three years here, is our most important edition of the year. So I don’t care if we have to jump through hoops or tame dragons or run marathons to make him happy. Mr. Covington gets whatever he requests. And he specifically requested you.”

  He was going to derail my life, just like I’d done to him all those years ago. This was it: the moment karma bit me in the ass. The ghost of boyfriends past, come back to haunt me.

  I nodded, at a loss for words.

  “More importantly, though, Luster is celebrating its 100th birthday in a few short weeks,” Jeanine went on. “The Centennial. It’s going to be huge. Big party, media coverage, the whole package. Mr. Harding himself will be attending.” She leaned forward and stared at me intently, pressing her hands against the edge of her desk. “Then we have the December issue, which will be a tribute to 100 years of Luster. We’ll be doing a slew of special features and photo shoots to commemorate and recreate the magazine’s history.”

  I nodded again — the entire staff had been briefed on the Centennial celebration months ago, and preparations were well underway for the event. It was going to, quite literally, be the party of the century. Fae had already purchased her dress on special order — designer, of course — and was nearly incapacitated by distress when I told her I’d yet to purchase mine.

  “I’m sorry Jeanine, but I just don’t understand what the Centennial has to do with Sebastian Covington.”

  “Dear, it has everything to do with Sebastian Covington. He is one of the most exclusive, well-respected photographers in the industry. The projects he agrees to are few and far between, and he doesn’t typically do fashion. We’re lucky to have him and, if we’re being candid, we probably wouldn’t if Cara Stein hadn’t convinced him. Apparently, they have a…personal connection.”

  I’ll bet they do.

  “He’ll be doing ten different themed spreads for us, recreating famous Luster shoots through the ages. One shoot per decade. Cara will pose for several of them. And you’ll be the Luster liaison assisting him,” she told me. “With whatever he needs. I don’t care if he wants you fetching dry-cleaning and coffee. You’re at his disposal. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal.” My saccharine smile was far from sincere.

  “Wonderful,” she said, clapping her hands twice in quick succession. “You’ll report to the ArtLust studio bright and early Monday morning. Mr. Covington has your contact information.” Her smile was vaguely amused as she glanced pointedly from me to the door. Apparently, I’d been dismissed; I stood to leave.

  “Oh, and Lux?” Jeanine called when I’d reached the exit. “I’d suggest doing some preliminary research on Mr. Covington. Get familiar with his background, his past, his likes and dislikes…it may be useful.”

  His past. I turned to face her and nodded, forcing the bubbling hysteria down.

  “I’ll be sure to do that, Jeanine. Have a good weekend.”

  I exited her office in a stupor, not exactly sure how it had happened but knowing full well that in the last five minutes, everything had changed irrevocably. When the door closed at my back, Fae was there by my side almost instantly. She took one look at my shell-shocked expression, looped an arm through mine, and guided me through the gauntlet of curious stares and gossip back toward our desks.

  “So, we’re going to that new sushi place for lunch. The one with the spicy tuna roll I’d sell my soul for,” Fae prattled loudly, filling the silence with a cheerful tone meant to fend off the unwanted attention of our onlookers. “I remember you said you wanted to get salads but I’m really craving sushi. I know you Georgia girls get nervous about anything that hasn’t been fried or smothered with Crisco first, but just trust me on this one. You’ll love it.”

  I kept my eyes focused forward, not meeting anyone’s gaze and pretending I didn’t hear the speculative murmurs about my meeting with Jeanine and my halting interaction with Sebastian. My face was carefully blank, my posture rigid with self-containment.

  Once we were out of earshot, Fae dropped her ruse, falling silent with a reassuring arm squeeze.

  “You gonna make it through the morning meeting? ‘Cause if you need to ditch, I’ll come with you. Or I can stay here and cover for you. Whatever you need, love,”
Fae offered quietly when we’d reached the semi-privacy of my cubicle.

  “I’ll be fine,” I told her. “But thanks.”

  “Want to talk about it?” she asked. I glanced at my watch. The daily staff briefing began in five minutes — not enough time to even scratch the surface of my past with Sebastian.

  “Later,” I said. “Over margaritas. With double tequila.”

  “That bad, huh?” She grimaced in sympathy.

  “You have no idea.”

  “Well, if what I saw earlier is any indication, there’s definitely some unresolved tension between you two. I mean, Jesus, your little stare down in front of Jeanine’s office? Talk about intense.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, time to go face down the devils,” Fae announced, looping her arm through mine once more.

  “…in Prada,” I added with a wry smile.

  Fae laughed as we made our way to the conference room, the final two to straggle in behind the other twenty people in our department — nineteen catty women and one fabulous gay man named Simon who often tagged along with Fae and me for post-work cocktails or girl’s night out.

  After moving to the city at eighteen from a small, über-conservative town in Ohio, Simon had attended Parsons, where he liked to say he’d majored in fashion design and a minored in celebrity stalking. His talents were put to good use here at Luster, as he managed the “Who Wore It Better,” “Hot or Not,” and “Trendy Today” sections. He and Fae could talk fashion for hours on end, which would’ve been nauseating except they were so genuinely obsessed I couldn’t help but listen in — even though I didn’t have a firm opinion on whether high-waisted shorts were a do or a don’t, or whether color-block maxi dresses were glam or gauche.

  For the most part, my best friends were pretty awesome.

  The one exception to this was when they turned their chic eyes on my wardrobe and decided to make what they considered “necessary” changes. Three separate times over the last two years I’d returned home from a run in Central Park or a trip to the grocery store, only to find the two of them huddled in my closet adding new items and confiscating things they considered out of vogue. And that was only counting the occasions I’d caught them in the act — god only knew how many times they’d broken in without my knowledge.

  I really needed to get my spare key back from Fae.

  Simon waved us over from the corner of the conference room, where he’d staked out three seats by the window. As soon as we’d settled in, he turned to me with wide, curious eyes.

  “Lux, baby, who was that delicious man you were talking to earlier? I sensed a vibe.” He looked at Fae. “Did you sense a vibe, or was it just me?”

  “There was definitely a vibe,” Fae noted.

  “Very Tarzan and Jane,” Simon added. “So brooding and tortured.”

  “No, to me it’s more a forbidden Victorian romance. Stolen glances and muted conversations,” Fae chimed in, adding her two cents.

  “Guys!” I protested. “You don’t even know the real backstory yet.”

  “Yes, baby, but that’s what’s so fun about it. We have all day to fill in the blanks with our guesses, and then all night to hear the real story,” Simon explained. Apparently, he was ditching one of the posh parties he typically frequented on Fridays in favor of crashing our girl’s night. “I can only hope that the reality lives up to my mental version,” he said.

  “Did you see the way they looked at one another?” Fae asked him. “So tormented. So angsty. It’ll live up, I can tell.”

  I huffed. “Well, maybe I won’t even tell you guys the story, since you’re enjoying your own speculation so much. Maybe you don’t deserve the real version.”

  Fae and Simon looked at each other and burst into laughter simultaneously.

  “I really hate you guys,” I muttered.

  “No you don’t, baby,” Simon said, leaning in to kiss my left cheek.

  “You love us,” Fae added, with a light arm squeeze.

  I heaved a martyred sigh, but didn’t protest.

  They were right.

  Chapter Twelve

  Then

  “You’re crazy,” I whispered, attempting to tug my hand from Sebastian’s grip.

  “Crazy for you,” he countered, leading me into his kitchen through the back patio door.

  “You’re ridiculous.” I rolled my eyes.

  “Ridiculously infatuated with you,” he revised, tugging me along behind him.

  “Sebastian!” I protested. This was not a good idea.

  “Lux!” he mimicked in a falsetto, towing me past gleaming stainless steel appliances.

  “I hate you,” I whispered.

  He spun around so fast I didn’t have time to react, and before I knew it I was pressed tightly between the countertop and Sebastian. His hard body dwarfed mine and I struggled to remain calm and collected, not wanting to reveal how much his closeness affected me. I felt my own inexperience rolling off me in waves of uncertainty, saturating the air around us. I clenched my clammy hands into fists, hoping he wouldn’t see through me. Praying he couldn’t tell that I’d never been this close to a guy before — besides Jamie, of course, but considering the fact that we shared nearly identical DNA, I wasn’t counting him.

  Sebastian leaned down into my space, catching my eyes. Abruptly, he hitched his hands around my waist and lifted me so I was sitting propped on the countertop at eye level with him. I felt my lips part on an exhale as his hands skimmed lightly from my hipbones down to my kneecaps. Gently, he nudged my legs apart and stepped between them, so our bodies were flush against each other.

  “You don’t hate me,” he whispered, his breath warm against my neck as his head dropped forward to rest in the hollow between my chin and my shoulder blade. Acting on some deeply ingrained instinct, I arched my head back to give him better access. His lips trailed down my neck to my collarbone, and I shivered. “In fact,” he continued between butterfly kisses. “I’m pretty sure you lo—”

  “Sebastian Michael Covington!” The smooth southern accent did nothing to detract from the outrage in the voice that pierced the air and interrupted our moment. We instantly sprang apart, Sebastian stepping fully out of my space as I scooted forward off the counter and landed roughly on my feet with a jolt that made my arches ache.

  “Hey, Mom,” Sebastian said, casually lifting one hand to rub the back of his neck and grinning at the scandalized woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Though my fashion knowledge was limited to trips to Walmart and the local Goodwill, even I could tell that her clothing was designer. I found it strange that she was wearing both high heels and a set of pearls despite the fact that she didn’t work and likely had been home alone all day, but what did I know about the glamorous life of the rich? Her platinum blonde hair was coiffed elegantly, and it was clear where Sebastian had gotten his looks — Judith Covington had bone structure any model would kill for and stunning blue eyes that nailed me to the floor with a single glance.

  My cheeks were probably as red as hers, though from embarrassment rather than stark disapproval. I smoothed my hands through my hair self-consciously and forced my shoulders not to curl in on themselves, never more aware of my second hand boots and threadbare jacket than I was at that moment.

  “Hello, Mrs. Covington,” I said with as much grace as I could muster, stepping forward and offering her my hand. Her gaze moved away from her blatant appraisal of her son and she seemed to fully register my presence for the first time. Her eyes widened as she took me in. I wasn’t what she’d expected, that much was obvious — not like Amber, or any of the other girls who came from money and would’ve been considered a good match for her son. Ignoring my outstretched hand altogether, her gaze swept down my form, pausing to take in each minute detail of my attire. Her lips tightened, a crosshatching of stern lines appearing in the flesh around her mouth that no amount of Botox could remove.

  It couldn’t be clearer that she disapproved.

  “Mom,
this is Lux,” Sebastian offered, wrapping an arm loosely around my shoulders. I wanted to shrug off his touch, uncomfortable under his mother’s hawk-like eyes. Not wanting her poisonous stare to ruin what had, until her arrival, been blossoming between us.

  “It certainly is,” she murmured, her sharp focus lingering on Bash’s arm. Though the kitchen was warm, the air had become decidedly frosty since her arrival. “Sebastian, you know how I feel about having guests when the house isn’t tidy. Greta comes on Mondays and Fridays, you know.”

  Tidy?

  There wasn’t a dirty dish to be seen, and a three-course meal could’ve been eaten off the floors, they were so clean. Greta, who I assumed was their housekeeper, should definitely be getting a raise if she alone was keeping the mansion in this unblemished state. But of course, Mrs. Covington’s protests had nothing at all to do with the state of her home. Southern manners demanded a certain modicum of respect be paid to all houseguests, even to those one so blatantly disapproved of. And she’d been bred a political animal — as the wife of a politician, she couldn’t say what she really meant, which was likely something along the lines of, Get this trailer trash out of my house immediately.

  In politics, image was everything. Propriety always reigned supreme. And it sure as hell wouldn’t be proper for a senator’s wife to demand that her perfect son remove the poor girl from both her presence and her pristine household, lest she soil something.

  Like the furniture. Or the family name.

  “Mom—” Bash began.

  “Sebastian.” Her smile was arctic. I fought off a shiver. “Drive your…” Her beat of silence was timed impeccably — the work of a masterful conversationalist. “…friend home now, please.”

  I wanted to point out that adding the word “please” to the end of an order didn’t detract from the fact that it was, in actuality, still an order, but I figured that would only make a bad situation worse. With her ringing endorsement hanging in the air, she glided from the room, her heels clicking sharply against the gleaming hardwood floors.