Fade In (10 page)

None of the tasks seem that difficult or time consuming, so I let him know him that, if he doesn't have any issue with it, after those things are finished he can leave for the day.

“If you have any questions, don't feel weird about calling me at work. If I can answer, I will. If I can't, I will call or text you back.”

“Got it.”

He ushers me out the revolving doors in the lobby of my building with his great big man hand in the middle of my back. It isn't exactly sexual though, being a little too high to be the small of my back, but I like it. It's nice and comforting having his capable hands guiding me.

Capable. I bet they are.
Focus, Tatum.

“I'll forward you all of the changes I make to your agenda and I will update you when necessary. Have a good day today. Is this your car?”

“Good morning, Ms. Elliot? I'm Ray, your driver. It's very nice to meet you,” says the giant of a man walking towards us. He looks like a linebacker. He's good-looking but way too beefy for my tastes.

“Hello, Ray. This is Ben, my assistant. Thank you for starting so soon. I've never had a driver before. It feels a bit weird.”

“Don't worry about that. You'll get use to it.” His big, warm smile is easy to like. “Nice to meet you too, Ben.” Then Ray goes back around to the driver’s side, seeing that Ben is already making a play for my door.

“You too,” Ben says, giving Ray a friendly smile. “I'm sure we will be seeing each other.” He walks the quick step to get to the handle of the black town car and opens it for me.

I brush my hair behind me ear, running my hand over the tender bruise that is starting to fade. “Thank you, Ben. See ya later.”

“You're welcome, Tatum.” He smiles at me kindly and then his face sours when he sees my bruise. He looks at it for just a second before his eyes soften again.

He shuts the door and gives the top a few taps to notify Ray that I'm all in. It is a different experience, but one that I can definitely get used to.

I look behind the car see him standing there. Overwhelmed by all of the new things I've already experienced this morning, I watch him as we pull away. Standing on the side of the street, he looks so strong and confident.

As I watch him get smaller and smaller, the urge inside me to call in sick, just to learn more about him, gets bigger and bigger. There's something special about him.

This is going to be a mess.

The day is going on and on, but without incident. All the plans we laid out on Monday are falling perfectly into place. That's a bit unnerving. You know that feeling when everything seems to be working the way you plan, only to be blindsided by an unexpected catastrophe? It sort of feels like that.

My phone goes off and I'm pleased to see that it is my new personal assistant. I get a rush of adrenaline as I read his message.

Ben
: Sorry to bother you, but do you use a fork to eat ice cream? And would you like me to get you more at the market?

Me
: Yes, I eat it with a fork. I don't know why. And I never turn down ice cream.

He sure doesn't miss much.

Ben
: Same flavor? Do you mind if I do some organizing in your kitchen?

Me
: Same flavor is fine. Organize away. Is it really that bad? I left the fork in the carton. Right?

Ben
: Bingo.

Bingo?

My imagination vaults into overdrive. What if he's going through my whole house looking for things to organize? He found my ice cream fork. What else is he finding? What if he goes into my bedroom?

I type to him, hoping I wasn't too late.

Me
: Just organize the kitchen.

Ben: Your sock drawer is a mess.

Oh. Shit.
My sock drawer, the quiet upstairs neighbor to Mr. Right. In case you are wondering, Mr. Right is my vibrator. No use in getting all bent out of shape about it. It isn't like you don't have one hidden somewhere, too.

He finally sends another message.

Ben
: Just kidding.

I quickly fire off a reply.

Me
: We need some rules. Rule 1: My bedroom and bathroom are holy. Thou shall NOT pass.

I shouldn't have been that blunt though. It makes it seem like I have something to hide even more.

Ben
: Religious? I was just teasing.

Me
: Hardly. I'm just certain I need no personal assisting in there.

Yeah.

A minute or two goes by and I get nothing in response. Good thing my dress is sleeveless or I'd have pit stains. My phone vibrates in my hand while I'm still looking at it and waiting for something back from him.

Ben
: No assistance in the bedroom. LOL. Noted.

I'll let it end there. I'm trying not to flirt with him. It's a challenge. He is so sexy. But it's not like I'm going to start our working relationship off like that and it's not like he gave me the impression that it would even be welcome.

He is my employee. I am his boss. Isn't that the premise of a porno? Yeah, I've seen that one—Naughty Boss-Woman and the Off-Limits Assistant. My juvenile thoughts litter my mind. I can't help myself.

The rest of the day goes about like a well-oiled machine. I go through all of the motions effortlessly. I nail down the week’s segments and send some emails. I'm functioning stress free.

Maybe there is something to this simplifying thing?

Around five thirty, I check out and head home. On my way, I have Ray stop for me at the market so I can grab a six-pack and all the newest gossip mags. I didn't ask Ben to by my alcohol on the first day. It felt too soon.

Ray doesn't even shake his head when I emerge from the store with an armload of scandalous reading material and beer.

I know. I know. Wild life.

I walk though my door and see that Ben is still here. And he's singing—not well, but singing nonetheless. The song is familiar, but really old. Otis Redding maybe?

He likes the oldies. That's hot.

There are boxes and tools on the counter in my kitchen, and it smells like heaven. Where am I?

“Um, hello?” I round the wall to see the rest of my kitchen. “Whoa, you are quite the overachiever. What's all of this?”

“No ‘Honey, I'm home’?” Ben asks, wiping his forehead with a hand holding a screwdriver. So much for getting to know each other. Here I am, worried about flirting, and I walk in to a modern-day version of I Love Lucy or the Twilight Zone—I can't decide.

Should I mention that his ivory shirt from this morning is balled up on the floor next to him? Because it is, and his undershirt is like a second skin. I can see his tall, lean frame, and it is mouthwatering.

He probably notices that I'm not chiming in on the domestic banter and clarifies, “I'm just making some adjustments.”

“Like what? Those are brand new.” I put my beer and literature—okay, beer and celebrity trash—on my cluttered counter. “I don't remember my contractor explaining the need for yearly ‘adjustments’ to my cabinets.” I actually did air quotes to recite “adjustments” back to him sarcastically.

“I changed the hinges. These close on their own if they're left open.” He opens a cabinet door and looks at me like I'm not getting it. “After a few seconds, if you don't close them, then they close themselves. Voila. No bumping into open cabinets.” He is quite proud of himself.

Initially, I'm taken aback that someone thought to do that for me. I'm also embarrassed. When did I bump into something around him? I just met the guy. I haven't tripped over the bastard barstool left out too far yet or missed the cupboard shelf with a glass in front of him. Am I that obviously awkward and clumsy?

“Why? Why did you do this?” I'm totally confused about what to think about it. It's nice and practical. It's also a little pathetic.

“It's helpful,” he points out, demonstrating how they work.

“Yes. I understand that, but it is your first day. Did it seem that urgent or something?”

Pride. I've whacked my head against every one of those cabinets. It never hurt as much my as my pride does right now.

Ben looks at me empathetically, and he can tell I'm upset.

I'm not an actress. I can't believably hide my emotions. Like, at all. I'm lousy at poker, and don't bother telling me a secret you don't want told. It's in my nature to tell...everyone.

He has to go. I'm not really sure if just for the night or permanently.

“Maybe it's time for you to call it a day, Bob Vila. I can clean up. I'm still getting use to all of this,” I say, standing in front of him, feeling like a fool.

“I'm sorry, Tatum.”

I notice the apology in his expression when I hurriedly glance by it. Then I quickly scan around for anything else to look at. Something to distract me from the infiltrating stare he's giving me.

“I wasn't trying to imply...” Ben says, looking down and blowing out a fat breath. He stands up to his full height first before he leans down to me so that we're eye to eye in my kitchen.

He's not letting me avoid him like I want.

“Look... This is new. To both of us. You're used to not relying on someone else to recognize something you need because you're capable of doing things yourself. And I'm a man who doesn't hesitate to attend to something that needs attention. Maybe I moved too quickly, and I'm sorry that you're offended, but the truth of it is”—I follow his eyes over to my goose egg and small cut that peek out from under my bangs—”you hit your head. I can see that. I just want to make sure that you don't do it again.”

As much as I want to scream, I want to cry. I wanted to lunge at him, still not sure if to smack him or shove my tongue down his throat.

He sees me as a defenseless weakling. He thinks I'm more broken that I think I am.

“Oh, this?” I brushed back my bangs, thinking that I'll show him I'm not weak. Sweeping my hair back and tilting my head as if proud of the wound, I volunteer my best faux laugh. “No, silly. This is from my, uh, headboard. You're not the only man I know who gets carried away.” I laugh again, pretending that it is at him. “This was no accident, just a little rough...you know. And you should wait to make adjustments to
my
home until I ask for them. I'll call you tomorrow.”

His jade eyes are blank of emotion. He doesn't even react. It was a bitchy thing to say. Though I can't see an ounce of rebuttal. Did I speak or not?

Without a hint of chiding in his calm low voice, he says, “There's chili on the stove, and your revised schedule is ready to sync to your phone.” Ben leans down to pick his shirt up and his head is right in front of me. Like, the lower me.

He doesn't move. He just hangs there for a second. I can't look down. I know he's down there, and without moving my head quite visibly, he is out of my sight.

I feel his finger lightly touch my leg. His thumb actually. I know it has to be his thumb when the other four fingers wrap around the top of my calf muscle and it rubs a tender spot.

The hair on my legs threatens to shoot out as I can predict a shiver coming on. My spine is like a jump rope that's been whipped on one end and the ripple races all the way up the back of my neck.

A breath escapes my mouth like I am trying to fog up a window to write my name on it. Too soon—or not soon enough—he's back up and leaning over to grab his keys from the counter, only millimeters from my ear.

I stay frozen.

Ben whispers like he's telling me a secret, “That must have been some show. Did you get those bruises on your legs from the headboard too?”

The only thing I can think to say is, “Bingo.”

“Bingo? Who the fuck says bingo?” Winnie shrieks over the phone when I call her about five minutes after Ben left to get her take on the matter. “I think it was nice. Why'd you have to be such an ass?”

“Because! He just took it upon himself to make ‘adjustments’ to my house! Why didn't he ask first? Don't you think that it was a tad presumptuous? I said to organize! Who does that?”

I talk to her as I tidy up the mess left in my kitchen, unable to sort the anger from the gratitude in my head. I really want her to be as annoyed with him as I am, but I've totally under-calculated her temper.

“All I'm saying is maybe he wasn't even going to tell you. You told him you usually work late and he was probably going to have it all cleaned up and done before you ever noticed. For real, Tatum. If you hadn't caught him doing it, you probably would have thought they always just did that! He's either a really perceptive PA or that man has the hots for you.”