I step behind him. Straighten his collar.
If it were up to me, I wouldn’t go to this dinner.
Neither would he.
At the restaurant, we are seated near a large, stone fireplace. Bottles of house wine line the tall, stone walls.
As requested, I’m seated at his left. He’s right-handed, so either he doesn’t want to spend all evening keeping his elbow out of my face or…
Under the white tablecloth, his palm glides long my forearm and down until it rests over the scratch I got last night.
A chair scrapes as it’s pulled out from the table.
“Mr. LaCygne, I didn’t realize you would be joining us,” Canon says, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.
“Call me Mitchell.” He offers his hand.
After a pause Canon actually shakes it.
Then Mitchell steps in it. “Diana said Emma is anxious to begin working with me.”
I’m about to clarify, but Canon beats me to it. “Anxious or not, she only works with me.”
“Oh, Alaric.” Diana slips into her seat. Across from Canon. Prime footsie access. “Don’t give the kids such a hard time. I tried to tell you Mitchell would be the best person to look over things with her. He has been a veritable workaholic ever since his divorce.”
I feel Canon stiffen beside me, but his hand stays on my leg. Seems Mitchell and I didn’t get very caught up the other day…
“I suppose that’s the upside of it. I’m flexible, Emma. Whatever works for you, works for me,” Mitchell says.
“Traditionally that is the sort of thing one clears with an employer,” Canon says, looking at them, then his menu.
I unfold my napkin. It’s a task that doesn’t take nearly long enough.
Mitchell’s eyes meet mine. He looks at me as if he has just realized he’s not gotten the whole story here. “If it’s a problem, we can get together another time,” he offers.
Diana smiles into her wine. She must’ve gotten a head start in the restaurant bar. Great. Fralin even less inhibited. “Oh, it’s not a problem, is it, Alaric?”
“Why start asking me now?” Canon says without inflection.
The waiter appears to take drinks orders. While the others make selections, Canon excuses himself. He may never drink again.
When he reaches the far side of the room, he turns to look at me; he wants me to meet him.
I chug water down my dry throat and leave wordlessly while Fralin and LaCygne discuss something.
Canon is leaning on a thick wooden door frame. Somehow, he looks purposefully positioned. As if aiming for blasé.
“Yes?”
“You should know that I can tell what’s going on,” he says, jaw set.
“What do you mean?” With Mitchell?
He glances at me, then looks straight ahead. “With her.”
This is new. Volunteering info of a personal nature. What a novel concept.
I look at him, encouraging him to continue.
He stands up and starts toward the table, pausing to speak low, near my ear. “I will handle it.”
The waiter takes our orders almost as soon as we return to the table.
Canon stops him as he starts to leave. He waves a finger between Mitchell and me. “Box their food to go. They have urgent business, it seems.”
“And bring us a bottle of this,” Diana adds, holding aloft her glass.
Uh, that is not what I was expecting. At all.
6:43 p.m.
* Location: Parking space near Buca di Beppo.
* Mitchell’s Truck: Equipped with gun rack.
* Food: Going to waste. No appetite.
TRY AS I MIGHT, I could not get Canon to let me discuss anything privately with him before our orders arrived.
Mitchell opens the passenger door. “Your chariot, m’lady.”
I manage a smile. Not a good one though. “He’s a real piece of work, isn’t he?” Mitchell says and offers his hand.
“Huh?” I step toward the door. My voice sounds foreign to me. “Oh, Canon? I suppose he can seem rather terse.”
“Terse?” Mitchell laughs as I slip into my seat. “Does he have you bugged or something? I was just glad to get you an evening away from that asshole.”
He pauses for a moment then shuts my door.
What is this I’m feeling? Oh, who am I kidding? I’m jealous. That bitch. “Handle it” as he said he would or not, she got me out of the way. She set this up, and I said nothing. Now Canon thinks I may have lied to him about Mitchell being married and maybe even that I wanted to be alone with him and I really was flirting with him. I was not, and I don’t want to be alone with Mitchell, and I don’t know why I don’t want a break from Canon because he really can be an insufferable son of a bitch. I don’t want Canon to be alone with Diana because I only want him to be alone with…me…
“How long?”
“What?”
“How long have you had a thing for your boss?”
What? “That’s crazy talk.” Crazy, crazy, craziness kind of crazy. Like post anti-helmet law Gary Busey crazy.
“Crazy or not, you definitely have feelings for him.”
“Of course I have feelings for him. I feel he drips disdain and breathes arrogance and harbors standards designed specifically to ensure their failure to be met.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Don’t ‘uh-huh’ me, Mitchell.” It would not do me any good to have feelings for Canon. Sure, yes, he is proving himself to be capable of being nicer than I ever thought possible. But he wants the exact opposite of me: obedient in the day and some sort of aggressive bedroom role with which I am not accustomed, not comfortable with, at night. How crazy would I be to have feelings for someone who pushes me around during the day and then wants to be pushed around at night? Who confuses me with desire and doing up my bra?
“I won’t claim it makes sense. But you have always been a strong person. Maybe this a good fit. I’ve never seen anyone affect you like this.”
I laugh. It’s weak. “What makes you think I’m so affected?” My arms cross over my chest.
He sweeps his hand exaggeratedly over the expanse of the dashboard. “Because we’ve been sitting here in your hotel parking lot for a good ten minutes.”
What the…? I look around, bewildered. The hotel sign lights the thin layer of ice on the lot.
Cringing, I realize I hadn’t even noticed we’d left the restaurant.
I have simply got to harness this. Get a lid on it. Control.
“I’m not in love with Alaric Canon.”
“Um, Emma…I never said you were.”
7:18 p.m.
* Sofa: Sitting on it.
* Lights: Off.
* Mitchell: Elsewhere.
I LEFT MITCHELL IN HIS TRUCK, crossed the lobby, went to the room, dumped my food in the trash, and sat on the sofa. About twenty minutes ago.
Canon could very well be helping Ms. Fralin make her way through her wine. Then, doubtless, she will want his help making a way through her.
I’m angry. Jealous and angry.
She has out-maneuvered me. Out-plotted me. Out-planned me.
I’ve let her. Because I’m not being me. Maybe if I was, maybe I would have put her in her place, called her out on her shit, schooled her.
More than that…more than that…the idea of her…him…
The thought is painful. I try to shut it down.
But I keep coming back to the notion that I’m not certain what it is that I—me, not this little PA part I’m playing—have on the line here. A romp with my boss? A couple of encounters?
A fling? A potential fling?
No, I don’t even have that.
Ms. Baker has that. He’s willing to give her the time of day…er, night…whatever.
I’m still unnoticed.
And—I think I’ve known all along—there is the distinct probability that I will remain that way.
I have made a giant mess of this.
&n
bsp; If I weren’t here, on this trip, in these borrowed clothes, ironing my hair, hiding my studies, holding my tongue, he would never have known that I exist.
But, for me, he definitely exists. More than ever. Intelligent and intuitive. Precise and passionate. Decisive and desirable, and I am desperate.
I have planned my way into desperation.
There are two choices here: Grab the bull by the horns and make some memories, or let it go and regret not experiencing more…whatever this is.
If this is all I get, I will take it, and treasure it, and make the most of it.
Bargaining stage.
If he comes back tonight, I will be whoever he wants me to be.
Just let him come back tonight.
God, I’m not just in the neighborhood of pathetic, I’m circling the block.
The door opens. The light spreads across the carpet, growing from sliver to spear, then snapping back to dark with a click.
“Ms. Baker?”
“Mr. Canon.” I’m slumped forward with my elbows on my knees. I don’t know if it looks quirky or clumsy.
He looks around for the first time, apparently not expecting me to be here alone. “Where is the illustrious Mr. LaCygne?” He flips on the entry light. His jacket is undone. The access card bends in his hand.
“I don’t know. Not here.”
“I gave you your leave for the evening. Why are you here?”
“Because this is where you want me to be.”
A beat. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I have been sitting here too long; everything seems bogged down, with the world trudging by in slow motion. He hangs his jacket. It feels as though it takes a whole minute or more. Without a sideways glance, he’s gone into the bedroom. My train of thought has steamrolled down the mountainside as I’ve gone from nervous he would not come back to nervous he actually would, with a side track of the possibility he would come back covered in Diana residue, and then barreling into town with a load of he might very well not give a fair fig if I’m here or not, no matter who I happen to be.
This is crazy. I stand up on Jell-O legs—sitting on the sofa has taken its toll—and start toward the door.
As I wobble round the coffee table, Canon steps back into the room. Shoes and tie gone.
“Where are you going?” He stops trying to unbutton a cuff.
I look at the door and realize I have forgotten my card. “For a walk.”
“If I wanted you walking around the hotel in the dark, I wouldn’t have booked us into this single room.”
A record skips in my head. While I would love to contemplate how and why anyone dug up an LP just to scratch it inside my brain—and it better be “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” because God knows that song’s just asking for it—I am a tad busy trying to process Canon’s statement. Aren’t we in this room for productivity’s sake? The time to traverse the hotel campus between rooms and all that? He asked for that reason. Or wait…did I?
“You have given me my leave for the evening, as you say. I’m going for a walk.”
He shakes his head and sighs. “If you insist upon going for a walk, I will go with you.”
Him coming with me rather defeats the purpose of the walk.
“I’ll stay in then.”
“Because I would walk with you?”
“Because it’s cold outside,” I counter and step into the entryway with him.
“It has been cold all day.”
“I’m not dressed for it.”
“Change.”
Oh, my dear Mr. Canon. That is the operative word, is not it? “This is what you told me to wear.”
He winces slightly at my words. “I also told you to sit beside me, but you left.”
“You told me to.” I step closer.
“For someone who seems to pride herself upon knowing what I want, why did you pick tonight to insist upon acting to the contrary?”
Good question. “Why are your wants so contradictory?”
“They are not…” He wavers.
“You are quite the contrarian.” Closer. More.
“To the contrary, my wants are not contradictory.”
“That is a tongue twister. Did you reward Ms. Fralin for her efforts to get me out of the way tonight? She get your tongue all limbered up?”
His head pulls back, stunned. “What are you insinuating?”
I’m silent. I move again. Close.
“Answer me.” He tries to huff, rakes his fingers through his hair.
“You need clarification?” I’m in his dance space. Breathing in his breaths.
His hands go out as if he is going to touch my shoulders—but he hovers there. Hands fold inward and skim above my arms and down, brush my skin.
“If I wanted her, I would be with her,” he breathes. I press my hands to his shoulders. Warm.
“So…if you want someone, you would be with them.” Sliding down his arms, I bring them to me, to my waist.
His voice is nearly inaudible. “Yes.”
“You are with me,” I say against his neck.
Beside my ear: “Yes.”
Whoa. Hold up there, Buttercup. No fun storming the castle yet.
We need to talk.
I need to clear my head. I step away. To the balcony window.
The lightest of snow falls. A thin layer of white. Reflected lights.
He moves the curtain out of the way. “Why do you always do that?”
We both watch the snow fall.
“Do what?” The bare glass is cool under my hand.
“Leave.”
A car cuts through the fresh snow.
“When I was little, one Christmas, a cottontail visited our yard every day over break. Big, fat, gray. I would watch as it hopped through the snow, finding whatever little treats and treasures others overlooked. Some uncovered grass behind the bench. Last night’s dinner in the compost.
“After a few days, it felt like my own. My pet. I looked forward to it every day. Its fat footprints in the overnight snow. Then I made the mistake of trying to pet it.”
I turn to him, his arm still braced on the glass.
“Well,” I say, “you can imagine what happened. I never saw it again.”
He looks to me then returns to study the night. “But you know you are not you in this scenario.”
His words shock. Can he know? Does he realize I’m not acting like myself?
“You are not the little girl.” He drops the curtain. “Knowing how you felt then, why do you choose to be the rabbit now? Is it because the rabbit has all the power?”
He has a point.
Damn it.
1:18 a.m.
“PLEASE.”
I hear myself repeat the word as I wake. No idea how many times I have said it asleep.
His troubled eyes lock onto mine, and he reaches for my hand. I don’t have the will to keep it from him, to keep anything from him.
I think he’s going to tuck blankets back around us, but he bends my hand to his face and presses his cheek to my palm. My whole being hums at the contact. He’s so warm and real, the realest thing I’ve ever known.
I know I must be gaping at him, but he’s unfazed. He hums into my skin and brushes stray hairs from my face.
He’s actually very sweet.
I’ve been attempting to come to grips with that for days. Now, it seems, without reason.
He runs his lips up past my wrist and along my arm. He traces the faint blue veins. Half kiss, half taste. When he reaches my neck, he looks up, smiles.
And I recall why I care about this man in the first place. It’s because he isn’t changing to impress me; he’s just letting me in. Letting me know him.
He isn’t asking me to be any different, either. I’m doing that to myself.
He smiles, and I can see the best of me reflected in his bright eyes.
“Emma…”
Those same eyes that danced with light a moment ago s
hift, searing hunger surges in their depths.
I don’t know when he grabbed my shirt, but if there were buttons instead of snaps, the floor would be littered with broken half circles. He pulls it open and free of my pants. He’s tugging and pulling and pushing me to the bed, and it’s all I can do not to step on his feet as they move near mine. My knees hit the mattress, and I fall back to sit on the bed.
He straddles me and wraps his arms around my chest, cocooned between my ribs and bedding.
Holy…should we do this right now…I was trying to take a night off. Get some perspective. Do I want it to happen like this?
Then he tears his sleep shirt over his head, pushing his chest into me. Arms high and bent. Looking like a classic Bowflex advertisement. And I don’t care if that dates me, as long as this man does.
His arms come down around my shoulders. Slide and skim and skin.
Um, yeah. I sure do.
And I won’t think about how we don’t have a future, that there will be no more times for tender reflection. This trip will end, and there will not be nights for exploring and days for memorizing and, I think my heart momentarily stops at the thought, afternoon sessions in the copy room for come-what-may.
But this? This moment, this right here is about desire and claiming.
Mine.
He lifts my head. I hadn’t realized I’d fallen forward, melancholy moment held at bay. He weaves fingers within my hair. Slowly. Like spinning gold.
I don’t know who moves first, or if we move together, but we are kissing, and I pledge I will remember him every moment of every day.
The rest of our night clothes hit the floor.
In another life, I must’ve been a Romanian gymnast because I flip and push him back on the bed in one motion. I waste a second wondering if his hair or the silk comforter feels smoother.
I hover over him, hair a shield, a shelter from anything but us.
I run my hands along his sides, across his ribs. He cups my breasts. Tongue. Lave. Mark.
I lean, move over, and run my tongue along his jaw. Stubble catches. Pulls. Drags.
Lower myself onto him.
He grunts, pushes forward. Holds my waist.
Moves and slides, and though the air outside is frigid, I’m sure not. It’s like a sauna around us. The surface of the sun is nothing compared to here. Inside. Us. We pull apart, slowly, and nothing feels the same; it’s a different, departing kind of pull. He leans up and claims my lips.
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