Plain Jayne (21 page)

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.

Soon, it does take all of my brainpower not to
eat like an animal, because I’m ravenous. It isn’t until I no longer feel faint
that I notice Luke has his iPad next to his plate, and he’s occasionally
reading something on it and then typing. Since it’s preventing us from
suffering through stilted dinner conversation, I don’t mind, but when Paulette
comes in from the kitchen and takes in the two of us, she rebukes him after
inquiring about my health, “Luke! It’s horribly rude to faff around with that…
that… contraption at the table!”

He looks up and scowls at her. “I’m working.”

“That doesn’t make it any less rude!” she
maintains, looking over his shoulder. “And anyway, you’re not working; you’re
chatting with Blanche.”

Unrepentant, he chuckles. “She’s a work
colleague.”

“I don’t mind,” I interject after chewing and
swallowing my last forkful of mashed potatoes. However, now that I know he’s
been chatting with Blanche, I mind a little bit. I’d almost forgotten about
that busty, highly-educated siren of Thornfield Publishing.

“She says the place has gone all to hell since
I’ve been away,” he grouses. “I’m not surprised.”

“Maybe you should go back,” I suggest mildly,
closely examining the peas cradled on my fork.

“I plan on it,” he replies, pulling the cover
over the tablet’s screen. “Possibly Sunday, for a few hours.”

I don’t know whether to feel relieved or
disappointed by this news.

Then he adds, “I have to go into the city to
pick up some stuff at my apartment to bring back here.”

My fork falls from my hand and lands with a
muffled thunk on the carpet next to my chair. “Oopsy!” Paulette trills. “No
worries, dear. I’ll go get another for you.” She disappears into the kitchen.

“Y-you’re coming back here?” I inquire,
fingering my earlobe.

He drains the wine in his glass. “I’m sure as
hell not staying at my apartment while Caroline’s there. We’d wind up killing
each other.”

“B-but… Don’t you have to get back to the
office? You said you hated working from here.”

Staring steadily at me, he answers, “It’s only
a forty-minute commute. I’ll drive back and forth until Caroline can go back to
the Beacon Hill house.” He stands and picks up his plate. As he gathers his
dirty dishes, he mutters, “Paint fumes, my ass. I know she wants to snoop around
the apartment. Well, there’s nothing to discover, unless you count my recent
addiction to Magnum ice cream bars.” Before pushing with his butt through the
kitchen door, he asks, “Have you ever had one?”