by Logan Belle
“Tell Alex to cover for you. There’s a Young Lions meeting in ten minutes.”
•
The Trustees Room was less full than at the last meeting. It appeared only the members of the fiction board were present, making it impossible for Regina to shrink into the background.
“You sit here, Regina,” said Sloan, pulling out a chair next to her. Sloan chose to sit right next to Sebastian.
Regina could feel his smoldering stare, but she kept her eyes on the yellow legal pad directly in front of her. She thought about his note with instructions, which she had ignored. Irrationally, she felt a moment of panic. Then she realized how absurd that was. What did she care if he didn’t like her shoes? Who did he think he was, telling her how to dress? Maybe she liked comfortable shoes and practical underwear. She was a regular person, not a photo of Astrid Lindall on the art gallery wall, or Bettie Page in the glossy art book.
Sebastian opened the meeting with a run-through of the award candidates and the schedule by which everyone should submit their choices from their individual reading lists. A debate ensued about the omission of a particular short-story collection, but Regina could barely follow a word anyone was saying. The one time she dared to look up, she caught sight of Sebastian gesturing with his hands, and she imagined those hands touching her, maybe helping her dress, as Jess had done. But unlike Jess, he would reach around and cup her bare breasts. . . .
“Regina?” he said. She looked up, her body flooding with heat. Within seconds, her forehead was slick with perspiration. What was this? Was she having a stroke?
“Yes?” she asked. Did her voice sound normal? She couldn’t tell. He was so damn beautiful. How was everyone else in the room seemingly oblivious to this? Everyone but Sloan, that was; Regina couldn’t help but notice the way Sloan leaned in toward him, smiling and acting almost giddy in the meeting. It was hard to reconcile her demeanor with the irritation Regina was usually confronted with when dealing with her boss.
“Do you have any comments about the novels you’ve read so far?” He smiled patiently. She felt the expectant gaze of everyone else at the table.
“Um, yes,” she said. “I just finished a crime novel that reminds me of Tana French but is set in the Deep South during the 1970s. Definitely a contender.”
“I am so thankful I found someone who has time to read,” said Sloan, as if she had unearthed Regina from under a rock.
“Too bad Margaret couldn’t help out this year,” said one of the other fiction readers wistfully. “She has such impeccable taste.”
“Why can’t she help this year?” asked Regina. This whole thing was a bad idea. Maybe Margaret could take her place on the fiction board. That way, she wouldn’t have to show up for work never knowing when she would be thrown into a meeting with Sebastian. It was just too disruptive to her day. Hell, it was too disruptive to her breathing.
“Oh please, Regina. The poor woman can barely see, let alone make it through a pile of books in a month,” said Sloan.
“We have all the readers we need,” said Sebastian. “As for writers—that’s another story. Where are we on the replacement for Jonathan Safran Foer? Anyone make any calls?”
Someone bandied around the idea of Jay McInerney, to which everyone groaned, “Again?”
Regina knew whom she wanted to see at the library; she had just finished reading State of Wonder for the second time. And she loved that Ann Patchett had opened her own bookstore in Nashville when nearly every other one there had closed.
“How about Ann Patchett?”
A murmur broke out at the table.
“We prefer New Yorkers for the series,” Sloan said. “We need them for multiple events, and people from out of town always ask for travel-expense reimbursement.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Sebastian contradicted. “I just saw her on a repeat of the Colbert Report. She was very charming.”
“She is a tremendous advocate for the reading community,” someone else offered.
“Let’s explore it,” Sebastian said. “Put her on the short list. And Doris, maybe you can put in a call to HarperCollins and check her calendar.”
Then Regina realized that everyone was standing up and collecting their papers and pens. The meeting was adjourned.
She scrambled to her feet, pulling her Old Navy bag over her shoulder.
“Regina, you stay. I want to run through a few more things that I need done. Sloan, can you manage downstairs without her for a short while longer?”
Sloan was visibly annoyed. “You can’t make a habit of this,” she said, but then let it go.
When the last person filed out, he closed the door. And locked it.
“So much for my theory about your male-authors-only sensibility,” he said. “That was a good suggestion. I’m glad you spoke up.”
She found this comment patronizing. “I have no problem speaking up,” she said.
“But you do have a problem following instructions. I see you’re not wearing the shoes I sent over.”
“I don’t want to wear those shoes at work,” she said nervously. She knew it was absurd to feel timid, as if she were a schoolgirl breaking a rule. But that’s exactly how she felt.
“Where are they?”
“Um, at my desk.”
“Go get the bag of lingerie and shoes. And hurry back.”
He issued this command as if there was no question Regina would comply with it. This alone was enough to make Regina want to tell him to forget it—they could play these games in hotels and restaurants, but not at work, thank you very much. But something held her back. She realized that while she knew that was what she should say, it wasn’t what she wanted to say. What she wanted was to see where this was going. If she didn’t—if she ran away from it—then how was she any different than her mother?
Without looking at him, Regina walked quickly from the room and ran up the stairs to the third floor. She rushed through the Public Catalogue Room, hoping she wouldn’t see Sloan. It would be tough to explain why she was going back and forth.
There were a few people standing in front of the Delivery Desk, and Alex was manning it by himself.
“Ready to take over?” he asked.
“Not yet—just a few more minutes,” she mumbled. She could barely get the words out. Her mind raced. This must be what it felt like to be on drugs.
She reached around him and retrieved the bag.
CHAPTER 15
Regina closed the door to the Trustees Room. Sebastian walked over and, once again, locked it. He did not touch her, but his shoulder brushed against hers as he reached for the lock.
She handed him the bag.
“What are you giving it to me for? Change into them,” he said.
She set the bag on the table and pulled out the shoe box. She kicked off her shoes and quickly slipped the Prada heels onto her feet.
“Okay,” she said, turning to face him.
“Much better,” he said. “Now the underwear.”
He wanted her to get undressed right then and there? “I’m not . . . I can’t do that.”
Sebastian walked over to her and looked her in the eyes, pulling her chin up with his middle and index fingers. She hoped he would kiss her, and realized she wanted that more than she had ever wanted anything.
“Regina, I think you’re incredibly beautiful. And I love the fact that you don’t realize it. I have this intense desire to show you how beautiful you are, and I want to experience your beauty for myself. I’ve tried to be direct with you. I wanted to show you—in the best way that I could—what I’m about. What I like. But I see now that maybe I’m pushing too hard in a direction you don’t want to go.” He smiled at her, and it was a smile of such magnetism, she felt like something might snap inside of her.
“It’s not that I don’t want to . . . go in that direction,
” she said slowly, not even sure what they were talking about. “It’s just that I’m at work.”
He seemed to consider this. “That’s what’s holding you back?”
She nodded. There were probably many other things holding her back, things she didn’t want to analyze right then and there. But if the workplace excuse would get her off the hook, she was happy to run with it.
Sebastian took her hand and pulled gently so she took two steps closer to him. He looked at her with such intensity she had to glance away, heart pounding. He kissed the back of her hand, and she looked at him in surprise.
And then he walked out of the room.
•
Regina stretched out on her bed, the novel she was reading propped up on her chest. She had been staring at the same page, the same sentence, for five minutes.
Outside, rain pelted the window, a hard summer shower that would leave the warm air smelling like wet concrete. She pulled back her curtain, watching the water create rivulets on the glass.
She wondered if she’d made a mistake earlier that day in the Trustees Room. Had she been too much of a coward? Maybe she deserved the smallness of her life. A few months ago, she had worn her seriousness and her self-containment as a badge of honor. And in Philadelphia, she’d never felt as if playing it safe had a cost. She had studied hard, worked odd jobs, and saved money; she’d dated but never let herself get too distracted or involved. She had everything under control.
But she realized that, ever since she’d moved to New York, she’d been so busy controlling her life, she was failing to live it. And now she’d blown her chance with the most unbelievable man she’d ever met—or ever would meet, probably.
Her mother wasn’t even around to make her feel guilty for going out. She had no one to blame but herself.
“Want to watch a movie On Demand?” Carly called to Regina from the living room. Carly, still reeling from the betrayal by her “boyfriend” Rob, was uncharacteristically home alone.
“Sure,” Regina said. She wasn’t getting any reading done, anyway.
She hopped out of bed, put the book on her nightstand, and made her way to the living room. Carly was curled up on the couch in her uniform of black yoga pants and a tank top. She was intently pointing the remote control at the television, scrolling through the list of available films.
“Can I ask you something?” Regina said.
“Sure,” Carly said absently.
“You kind of hinted the other night that maybe things went badly with Rob because of a decision you made—or something you did?”
Carly shrugged. “I wasn’t in my right mind that night. Really, it’s his problem that he can’t commit. We, as women, always blame ourselves. But they’re the ones with the problem.”
“Okay, forget that.” Regina thought, but did not say, that maybe Carly’s behavior at times didn’t seem very committed to him. “Let’s say, in some way, it was kind of your fault. Would you try to fix it, or would you just let it go and chalk it up as ‘not meant to be.’ ”
“First of all, there’s no ‘meant to be.’ There’s ‘make it happen.’ Does that help?”
Regina nodded. Maybe she was losing it, but Carly was starting to make a lot of sense. She even sounded—dare she think it—wise. She was like a bitchy blond Yoda.
The front door buzzed.
“Is Derek coming over?” Regina asked.
Carly looked at her like she had suggested it was Santa Claus paying a visit. “I told you, Derek was just a placeholder until I got Rob. No Rob, no need for Derek.”
This did not make sense to Regina. So much for Yoda.
Carly dragged herself off of the couch and pressed the intercom buzzer.
“Who is it?”
“Sebastian Barnes.” Regina heard his voice crackle through the static of the intercom. “Please send Regina down.”
Carly looked at her, wide-eyed and stifling a laugh. She mouthed, O-M-G.
“Tell him I need a few minutes,” Regina said, her heart beating wildly. She was already rushing to her room, and she closed her door after she heard Carly relay her message.
If life was, as Carly said, all about “making it happen,” then this was her chance—her second chance. And maybe her last.
Now, where the hell was that lingerie?
CHAPTER 16
Sebastian tossed his keys on a glass table and took her umbrella from her hands.
Despite the relentless rain, Regina was completely dry. Sebastian had parked his car in a garage that led right into his building. They took an elevator to the top floor, and the elevator opened directly into an enormous loft.
The apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson River. The sheer openness and size of the space was enough to amaze her, but the interior was visually stunning, a dramatic mix of dark woods and marble. The rooms were sparsely furnished, but the few pieces he did have served the space like art. The white walls were filled with photographs in black frames.
“What’s so important that you had to bring me here in the middle of a monsoon?” she asked.
“You said you were uncomfortable at work. So now we’re here. No more excuses,” he said. “I’m having a glass of wine. Would you like one?” He walked into the black marble kitchen.
“Okay,” she said nervously, walking closer to the first wall of photographs. Even from somewhat of a distance, she could see they were fashion shots like the ones she’d seen in Carly’s magazine. They were more polished than the raw style he used for the Astrid Lindall shots. But here, too, she recognized many of the models, having seen them on magazine covers, in window-size glossy shots in store windows on Fifth Avenue, and on ads on the sides of buses.
She walked slowly from one end of the wall toward the other, pausing every half foot to examine the shots. She didn’t know very much about photography, but she was drawn to the images on a gut level, the way she might respond to a certain song on the radio or to the great opening lines of a novel.
“These aren’t the ones I brought you here to see,” Sebastian said suddenly from behind her. She jumped slightly, then recovered. He reached his arm around in front of her, pressing a glass of white wine into her hand.
“What did you bring me to see?” she asked, taking a sip.
“I told you at dinner that the fashion photography was not my favorite work, remember?”
“Yes,” she said. She felt his body press against hers, though his arms and hands did not touch her. This alone was enough to make her heart pound. She took another sip of the wine. It was light and crisp, and she had to remind herself to nurse it.
“Follow me,” he said quietly.
He took her by her free hand and led her toward the back of the loft. His grip was firm and commanding, even in that simple contact. She wanted to assert herself in some way, to say that she wasn’t done looking at the photographs in the living room area, thank you very much. But she knew all such protests would be futile. He knew, and she knew, that from the moment she’d left her own apartment, she was along for the ride.
The loft space turned at a sharp angle, the walls narrowing to create a long hallway. Sebastian guided her through the semidarkness until he hit the switch that illuminated the corridor. And she realized she was surrounded by floor-to-ceiling photographs, all black and white, and all of scantily clad, outrageously beautiful women.
The women were all bare breasted, some completely nude. They wore garter belts, high heels, sheer black dresses open at the chest. They had skin like fresh cream, some covered in tattoos, some pure like a blanket of snow. Their big eyes—heavily made up, seductive, sleepy, wanton, angry—told her a thousand stories.
She kept walking slowly, mesmerized by the images. As she walked deeper into the hallway, the images became more intense: a grainy image of a woman bound to a chair with rope, naked except for ga
rters and fishnet stockings, a gag in her mouth. In the background, a woman in a tuxedo held a whip by her side. And then a shot of two brunettes kissing, clad in lingerie like the things Sebastian had bought for her, while in the foreground was the blurred image of a woman watching them, brandishing a riding crop. Then a shot of a woman on her knees, a curtain of black hair to her waist, her back arched, her ass high in the air, her legs covered only in the fishnet stockings that trailed to her ankles, her feet in black patent-leather platform heels. A shot of a woman’s bare ass, her skin as pale and smooth as fresh cream—except for the red mark in the faint but distinguishable shape of a hand.
“You took all of these?” Regina asked, even as she knew the answer.
“Yes,” said Sebastian. He stood directly behind her, and put his hands on her shoulders.
“Were you . . . dating all of these women?” she asked.
“No,” he laughed. “They’re just models. Although, when I’m taking photographs, my subject might as well be my lover. My girlfriend. My wife. The person in front of the camera is the only woman in the world for me.”
Regina swallowed hard, feeling something close to jealousy, as absurd as that was.
“How did you get into photography?” she asked.
“My stepmother introduced me to it.”
“She was a photographer?”
His face clouded. “No. A model.” He squeezed her shoulders. “I’d love to photograph you.”
She whirled around and looked at him like he was crazy. “That’s not going to happen,” she said.
He laughed. “You say that a lot, you know. Why don’t you think about it for maybe two seconds before you decide.”
“I don’t like having my picture taken.”
“That’s because you don’t feel worthy of being the object of attention. I could see this when you walked through the lobby of the Four Seasons the other night. I want to help you get past that.”
“Well, thanks, but I don’t want to be some project of yours. I can see you have many ready and willing participants in your, uh, stable of subjects.”