by Jill Winters
A frustrated but still lighthearted sigh dissolved from Dana's lips.
"Oh, what's the point? I can't do the uptight bit, even in a resume."
Leaning her forearms on the counter, Gretchen let the resume slip from her fingers and nearly float away. "May I make an observation?"
"Sure."
"I'm getting the feeling that maybe you don't really want an office job."
"What do you mean? Of course I do. I need it. Corporate America, desks, staplers, health benefits, we discussed this. Besides, someone's gotta bring home the turkey bacon—"
"Dana..."
"Besides you, of course," she amended quickly, but Gretchen just leveled her with a kind but assessing glance. Looking guiltily around the room, Dana finally blew out a breath, which sent some of her reddish brown wisps fluttering. "I know. You're right." She sank her chin into her hands. This blows. Remember the days when you could be a sloth and still make a cool G?"
"No. Now, listen, nobody said you had to work in an office.
What ad are you answering here anyway?"
"Executive assistant at a mutual funds company," Dana replied. Grimacing, Gretchen said, "Dana, that isn't you! Look, I know you need a steady paycheck and all that, but... what about what Chantal suggested? About you working with kids?"
"Yeah, but doing what?" she said, slumping her face farther down till her cheeks were nearly level with her wrists.
"How about teaching a drama class—for kids? At a school, or an after-school program? A community theater thing? Hey, that would be fun! Or... you could work at one of those youth centers or something. Anything with kids would be great because you have all that energy. You're youthful, optimistic, peppy—"
"And I do like to nap..." Dana offered, considering this. "Exactly," Gretchen said, smiling.
"Okay, I'll think about it. I mean think about it for real." Smiling sincerely, she said, "Thanks, G. You're like my sister," and then headed back to her room. The words clutched Gretchen's heart even after Dana was gone; Dana had brothers and Gretchen was an only child, but ultimately, they had both always longed for a sister.
Again she focused on the spice rack, because she was still too keyed up to sleep. Damn it, why hadn't Rick called her back? She knew she shouldn't keep obsessing about it, but she couldn't help it. Why was he suddenly pulling the distant guy routine? What had made him lose interest just like that? Even if he was put off by her being out to dinner when they'd made plans to see each other, it still didn't make sense that he wouldn't call her to clear it up, especially when she'd left him two voice mails.
Granted, it had been only a day and so, by all reasonable standards, she was being totally paranoid. But tell that to the all-too familiar sinking feeling in her stomach. Her gut was telling her, you're getting ditched, and her gut never lied when it came to Matters of Ditching. Maybe she was simply getting too old to date. It was always so damn disappointing.
Chapter 26
Two nights later, Gretchen found herself at TCN, helping Susanna get ready for her guest appearance on Brett's show. It had been a power play, pure and simple. Whether it was Joel or Brett's idea was anyone's guess, but Susanna had finally been offered a spot—though the offer had come with next to no notice. If she took it she would have to scramble, betraying how eager she was for Brett's exposure and all but admitting to a decided pecking order at the network. If she passed on it... Well, there was no way she would pass and she hadn't.
Throughout the evening, Susanna has still tried to act as though she were blasé about this, like it had all been Abe's idea, like she hadn't been salivating over it for weeks.
The taping was wrapping up. Outside the high partitioned walls that closed off the set, Gretchen paced the cement floor of Brett's studio with her clipboard in hand. She heard more boisterous applause from Brett's live audience, and then Brett's voice callout, "Now Susanna's gonna finish the mousse cake off for us—give it up for Susanna!" More applause.
Irrepressibly, she smiled. As much of a handful as her boss was at times, she'd done a great job tonight and Gretchen was proud of her. Strangely, Susanna's dependency on her was a little contagious; at times Gretchen almost felt like she needed to take care of her, to protect her, because she had so few true allies. Of course, in this business who did?
Tonight, Brett's audience responded well to Susanna, and surprisingly, she hadn't pulled any of her diva nonsense to slow down the taping.
Any good news was a boost for Gretchen's mood, too, considering that today had been a terrible day at work, and it had had nothing to do with Monday blues. First thing this morning, when she'd sat down at her desk, her chair tilted over and she'd swiftly lost her balance and toppled over, with the chair crashing down beside her. Once she'd crawled off the floor and taken a look, she'd seen the problem. There had been a loose wheel that rolled right off the leg of the chair when Gretchen had taken a seat. After that mini debacle, she went about her work, only to find more bad luck waiting.
When she'd been on the Susanna's Kitchen set checking the ingredients for that afternoon's show, she'd opened the fridge and pulled out the bowl of prepared custard only to find an ugly brown spider perched right on top of it. With a startled scream, she'd plunked the bowl back on the shelf and called for someone to come over. She knew she was a big baby, but bugs freaked her out. One of the crew members, a sweet guy named Jeff, heard her and rushed right over.
Nervously, Gretchen had jumped back a few feet and pointed at the refrigerator. "There's a spider—will you kill it?" Jeff grabbed a piece of paper towel, opened the fridge, and Gretchen hadn't bothered to ask him what kind of spider it was or anything other than, "Is it dead? Is it dead yet?" He told her yes and not to be so scared, and truly, she felt like a foolish cliché with her skittish behavior. When she thanked Jeff, he told her "No problem," then added, "but that fucker was nasty."
No, this definitely had not been her day. But now, looking at her watch, she saw it was quarter to eight, so the day was nearly done.
To keep busy while the taping finished up, she straightened some of the items on the craft table. It was filled with antipasto platters, cookies, water bottles, and cans of soda. At the far end of the table were two metal urns for coffee and hot water, and a basket overflowing with tea bags, instant cocoa packs, and sweeteners.
She eyed the shiny metal coffee urn for a long moment, contemplating a cup, when her train of thought was interrupted by footsteps. When she glanced over her shoulder, she gasped before she could stop herself. Mouth curved open, her heart sped up, and she meant to look away—she wanted to look away—but couldn't manage to drag her gaze off his. More than anything, she wanted to smack him. Maybe this was her day after all.
* * *
As Rick's eyes locked with Gretchen's, his chest tightened. Damn, seeing her up close, in person, it sucked the breath right out of his lungs. She was so damn pretty, so warm looking, so inviting, so frustratingly big-eyed and sweet.
He missed her already, everything about her, especially that cute giggle of hers. Kissing her soft, wet mouth, and feeling her hands on him.
Abruptly, she turned her back on him. So she was pissed. He could hardly blame her. Until this moment, he'd thought he was, too.
Ever since Friday night, he'd been pushing her out of his mind, or trying to but never having much luck with it. He had wondered if he'd overreacted, and now, seeing her stiffly tending to the food table, he knew that he had. There'd been a flash of hurt and anger in her eyes before she'd turned away from him.
His jealousy about her and Brett had made him crazy, made him lose the cool, sharp focus he was known for at work, that he prided himself on. Just the thought of Gretchen with his brother had sent rage pumping through his blood; he hadn't been able to stay detached, to stay in control. Which was why he hadn't called her. Sure he'd heard her messages giving her excuses, but he'd still been so put off that he hadn't even wanted to deal with her anymore. It had been a blow to his pride, but it had be
en a helluva lot more than that.
Even when Brett had called him yesterday vaguely apologizing for the "misunderstanding" and offering a truce with tickets for the VIP section, Rick had remained aloof. He hadn't even considered going until Brett mentioned that Susanna Tate was guest hosting the show. Correctly, Rick had figured that Gretchen might be there, too. He'd told himself he was done with her, but he'd still been dying to see her.
And here she was. Testily straightening platters and napkins, and he knew without a doubt: He wanted her.
She seemed intent on ignoring him. He'd managed to screw this whole thing up, and now there was only one thing he could do—go after her.
"Hello," he said casually, approaching the table. Gretchen's shoulders straightened a bit at his voice. Rick scanned down her body, eyeing her cute round butt and the mouthwatering curve of her plump breasts pushing against her white T-shirt before he came around the other side of the table so she had to face him.
"Hello," she said crisply, barely sparing him a glance. "I didn't expect to see you here." Her voice was flat, uninterested, as she reached over to adjust the napkins. She was taking some from one stack and moving them to another stack, making the stacks equal.
"So, how have you been?" he asked casually.
"Just peachy," she replied icily, avoiding eye contact. "Of course, if you were really curious, you could've called."
Ah. There it was. She'd opened the door. There was still hope. Instead of addressing her comment, Rick deflected it, which would probably work better to his advantage. "It was a good show in there," he said, scanning the table. "Made me hungry."
With a puff of breath, Gretchen gawked at him, as if to say: How can you talk about food, you dick?
Rick acted oblivious. The fact was, he might want to grab her and kiss her and say, "Let's start over," and have that be the end of it, but it was never that easy with women. If he wanted her to come around, he would have to needle her a little. To get a reaction, to strike a match to her temper and stoke her fire.
"Have you been hanging around out here the whole time? Don't they let you sit inside and watch the show?" he asked.
"The crew works behind the scenes" was all she said.
"Want to know what they were making tonight? It looked pretty good."
"I know what they were making. I'm Susanna's assistant—I mean, set supervisor," she amended quickly, then gave a frustrated shake of her head. Turning away, she walked to the end of the table to grab a paper cup off the mile-high stack.
"Oh, that's right," he said conversationally as he followed her direction, walking down his side of the table. Talking to her like they were buddies was bound to irritate the hell out of her. Clearly she was waiting for him to bring up what happened, the fact that he'd blown off their plans to hang out on Friday night as well as her messages, and at the very least, to apologize for not calling her. But he didn't do any of that—yet.
"Look, I'm working now, okay?" she said curtly, as she filled her paper cup with coffee.
"Hey, don't let me stop you," Rick said, holding back a grin. She was damn cute when she was as tense as a knot. "I can see you're working hard," he added dryly, which earned him a glare. After a pause, he said, "So what's up with that outfit?"
Confused, she said, "What about my outfit?" Then with an edge of defensiveness, added, "The whole crew is dressed casually. It's not like we're on camera. Why, what's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
Crossing his arms over his chest, Rick shrugged. "Nothing's wrong. Just that you look like someone kids come up to for dope, that's all. What's that, your father's undershirt?"
"What!" she yelped. He managed to keep a straight face at her flustered, appalled reaction, but it wasn't easy. Sucking in a breath, she said, "First of all, this is a woman's casual tee. And I was wearing a sweater over it before, but I got hot." Briskly, she grabbed a sugar packet and started tapping it against her finger.
"Okay, okay," he said, holding his hands up. After a pause, he added, "I guess I shouldn't even ask what's up with the Army fatigues, huh?"
She looked down at her loose-fitting green pants, then back at him, like he was an idiot. "They're cargo pants! Don't you know anything?" Then, pressing her lips together like she was holding in an outburst, Gretchen shook her head and said, "Look, just don't even speak to me, all right? I'm not going to discuss my clothes or anything else with you."
Again he held up his hands. "Fine with me."
Then Rick proceeded to actually not speak to her. Huh? What planet was this guy living on? Gretchen wondered. Clearly the least he could do was come up with some half-assed excuse for not calling and then beg her forgiveness. What was difficult about this?
Just then Ellie Galistette emerged from the set, walking out the same side exit that Rick had a few moments ago. She flashed a smile at Gretchen when they made eye contact, and she came over to the craft table. "Oh, are you guarding the food?" she said in a "kidding" voice. "Fabulous show tonight!" she added, reaching for a cracker. "Both my stars really shined up there. They make a great team."
Assessing her, Gretchen felt the same suspicion she had been feeling for the past three days. Her heavy orange hair was pulled back from her face with a headband and her smile was pleasant and benign... yet vaguely smug. Gretchen still considered Ellie the prime suspect in Misty's murder—she'd clearly had the most to gain. In fact, if Rick hadn't been such an asshole about everything, Gretchen would've had a chance to talk it over with him.
Speaking of Rick... Suddenly Gretchen realized that if she made polite conversation with Ellie, it would help her look oblivious to him. He was still lingering around the table, rattling her nerves. She was too aware of him... too cognizant of how much she still liked him even though she didn't want to. She longed to climb up on him, to bury herself in his arms, but she couldn't.
Basically? It sucked.
"Listen, Gretchen," Ellie said, breaking her train of thought, "I just wanted you to know... I'm sorry. About Misty. It must be weird for you. You know, because you went to high school with her."
Surprised, Gretchen furrowed her brows. "How did you know that?" Perhaps Misty had simply told her... though it didn't seem likely considering that she'd avoided acknowledging the connection herself each time she'd seen Gretchen. Either Misty hadn't remembered Gretchen either, in which case she couldn't have told Ellie, or more likely, she had remembered and hadn't wanted to deal with high school memories of any kind—in which case, she also wouldn't have told Ellie. But then, maybe Ellie had snooped through Misty's old yearbooks when she'd been playing nursemaid to her at her apartment, in those days right before she died.
In any event, Gretchen wasn't sure how to respond to the awkward choice of small talk. "I mean, it's none of my business what kind of issues you guys had," Ellie pressed on. "It's just an interesting coincidence. "
"Whoa, wait, we didn't have any issues. I didn't even know Misty in high school."
Looking skeptical, Ellie remarked, "Well, it was pretty clear she didn't like you—no offense. Anyone could see that, right? I just assumed it was mutual..."
Caught off guard by the whole topic, Gretchen went to rest her palm on the tabletop and accidentally knocked over her own cup of coffee. "Oh!" she yelped, quickly righting the cup, but all of the coffee had spilled, soaking the tablecloth and dripping heavily onto the cement floor. "Oh, shoot," she mumbled, reaching over to grab a bunch of napkins. Her face flamed with embarrassment because Rick was still there, watching. Though he'd already moved down toward the other end of the table, so she wasn't sure if he'd heard the conversation.
"Oh, Gretchen, are you all right?" Ellie said with over-the-top concern. "Did you burn yourself?"
"No, no, I'm fine. Just clumsy," she threw in halfheartedly.
"You should really be more careful," Ellie said, speaking deliberately, looking right into Gretchen's eyes. "Sometimes accidents can be dangerous."
With that, she turned. Catching sight of Abe at the other
end of the floor, talking to Joel and some network executives, Ellie said, "See you later," then scurried over to join him. Just then Gretchen noticed that beyond Abe and several other people was Marjorie Bass, Cady's producer. Huh—when had she arrived? And what was she doing here? Perhaps she'd been working late and simply stopped up?
As Ellie flitted over to Abe and the others, her words reverberated in Gretchen's mind. Sometimes accidents can be dangerous. The comment was oddly unsettling...
Now it was just Rick and Gretchen at the table again, but by the sound of the cued music inside the set, the floor would soon be flooded with people who would be scrupulously herded out of the studio, down the corridor, and into the public elevator.
Frustrated, Gretchen didn't feel like being there anymore; Rick had put her too much on edge. Tonight he was clean-shaven and breathtakingly handsome. She still didn't understand what he was doing there—since when did he go to Brett's show? But she didn't dare ask. If she asked, it only showed that she still cared.
"So you still haven't explained the Army fatigues," he said gently.
His voice was softer, not mocking like before. And he wasn't looking at her pants—he was looking into her face with his damn unreadable expression.
"They're cargo pants," she repeated feebly, lacking any of her former zeal on the subject.
"So..." he began, walking around the table to her side. "I'm sorry our date never happened the other night."
What exactly was he sorry for—that he hadn't called to cancel or that he hadn't called ever again?
"Me, too, but I got over it," she lied, just as the music inside the set kicked up even louder, and she knew she had to make her escape now before Susanna or anyone else accosted her. This was sensory overload; she couldn't possibly keep a level head with the endless, neurotic demands that Susanna would inevitably place on her following the show. She had to get out of there!
Turning on her heel, she left Rick standing there, walked briskly across the floor and out the door. Once she was in the hall, she picked up speed, scurrying around the bend, determined to avoid a confrontation with him, her boss, or anybody tonight. Enough was enough. She was tired and frazzled. She needed to think. She didn't know what to make of Rick's disappearing act and she didn't want to be steered wrong again by their undeniable attraction to each other.