Fade In (22 page)

I know that he's invited to the party tomorrow, so I ask, “Are you going to Winnie and Cooper's thing tomorrow?”

“Um, no I wasn't planning on it. I haven't been here that long and I don't really know Winnie or your brother that well.”

“I see.”

As I start cleaning up my lunch mess, we chat about what our plans are for over break. I also see little lover boy walk past my closed office door. Twice.

He is so fucking into her.

I plan on taking off early so I can go home and shower before my date with my best girl. But first I need to have a big chat with little Devon. I call him into my office, since his is so close to reception, and try to find out for myself just how into her he is and see if I can pull the Love Train out of Friend Station. I'm so fucking cheesy.

“Hey, Devon,” I say as he comes in with a notebook in his hands. Oh, I may have told him to come in here so I could give him some pointers. I'm a jerk sometimes.

“Hi, Tatum. The Big Show is going to be huge! Did you know that Chelsea Royce is coming? She's either clueless or brilliant. And she's got great tits, so it really doesn't matter.” He smiles while trying to break the ice. Devon Janke and I have rarely had a one-on-one—the two Devons usually come as a unit. They're a package deal.

“Yeah, next week is going to be stellar.” I quickly rush through pleasantries since I don't have time to dick around the bush. “Hey, are you coming tomorrow to the shower thing for Winnie? It's going to be a lot of fun.”

“Yeah, I don't know. I thought I might, but Big D has a family thing outside the city and I think I'll probably skip.”

“That's ridiculous. You're a grown man, Devon. Why not ask a lady friend to go with you? It would be perfect for a date. Think about it. Free food, free drinks, music, dancing. It could work out pretty nice.” I nod, trying to put off a bro vibe, but judging by his face, I'm not that convincing. I hit a different angle. “Ask a girl, Devon. Bring a date. You'll have more fun because there will be lots of couples there. Trust me.”

“I don't know? It's kind of last minute now.” His thin face looks like he's already thought about it and then talked himself out it.

“Right, so you better hurry. Who are you thinking about asking?” Now I'm getting somewhere.

“Are we girlfriends now? Shit. I don't know… Maybe Cynthia. I don't know.” Devon looks at his hands, and I can tell I've made him pretty uncomfortable. He'll manage. For a guy who acts professional, he has guilty written all over him.

“I don't know. She said something about maybe having a date,” I say, hoping that this will either cause a major reaction.

Forget not. His instant reaction proves that I'm right. He's crazy about her. By the way he immediately turns in his chair to look at her sitting at the receptions desk, like her possible date might be happening right here, right now, I know he's more than just into her.

“She did? Did she say who with?” He does a good job at keeping his mild panic attack at bay, but his small frame is completely tense now and he's breathing much harder than necessary for casual conversation. Little beads of sweat are forming on his forehead.

“No, just that she might have plans tomorrow night, but she wasn't sure yet.” Nudge, nudge, nudge.

“So she hasn't decided yet. I wonder if it's Paul, that fucker in the mail room. He's always talking to her when he comes up with the mail in the morning.
‘Hi, Cynthia. You look nice today. You look nice every day,’
he mocks in a fan-fucking-tastic creeper voice.

I make a note to insist that we add that to one of his characters. My note just says “Lil Creeper.” I'll know what I mean. Don't worry.

“Well, if you care so much who she's going out with, then maybe you should just ask her out. You guys seem to be getting along really well, and I think she likes you.”

His head snaps back to me. “What? Did she say that?” Priceless.

“No, but I see you guys. I don't know. It isn't really any of my business.” Except that I've meddled into it so deep that the bullshit is waist high right now.

“No, don't worry about that. Do you think she'd want to go with me?” His face is coated with hope and little insecurity.

“I think she'd love to go. Ask her. And quick, before she has other plans. Hell, she may have other plans already.”

No “Goodbye.” No “Talk to you later.” No “Did we need to talk about anything work related?” That scrawny ass is up and out of my office on a mission.

Immediately, I dial Winnie's extension. “Hey, whore. Watch reception.” And I hang up.

I don't really know what is said, but watching their body language is so sweet. He leans a little over the counter that comes midway up his chest. As suddenly as he shot out of my office, I thought that he'd look at bit more rattled. But this little Devon looked hell-bent on claiming our Cynthia for his own. After leaning in and asking her, I guess, he grabs the counter with both hands and leans back while I see the contemplation on her face.

Cynthia's adorable pink cheeks and smile light up the room, and it's visible all the way back here. Then, her head gestures yes. Devon’s shoulders sink as he exhales and relief runs off his body. He slaps the countertop and then his hands and walks back to his shared office with one hundred percent more swagger than I've ever seen him exude. Hotshot Devon looks over his shoulder as he grabs the doorframe and gives her another quick smile before heading in and closing the door.

Seconds later, a victorious, “Wooo!” is heard throughout the office and Cynthia covers her happy laugh at her desk.

Tatum Elliot, matchmaker, strikes again.

Since Winnie and I are catching the late show, we plan on making a night of it, complete with dinner and drinks. Even though I see her all the time at work and we talk on the phone constantly, it is becoming clear that our alone time, sans Cooper and outside the workplace, is becoming scarce.

I'm putting my long silver earrings on and hear my phone chirp, notifying me of a new text. I play it cool, even if only for myself. There is no reason to go all junior high and run to the phone every time someone tries to contact me. So, I calmly put the back on my new Ippolitas like my heart isn't pounding through my chest.

Casually, I walk past my Blackberry, take a sip of my wine, and then nonchalantly pick it up to read the message.

Ben
: Have fun tonight. Send me a picture.

I do a little bounce and shake, happy to see it was from him. I'm such a girl.

Me
: I will have fun tonight. I'm going on a date. A picture of what?

My face? Does he want a tit shot? That isn't happening.

Ben
: A pic of you. I want to see you.

Me
: My face?

Ben
: Sure. Whatever. Just send me a damn picture, Tatum. Please?

I've never been a fan of selfies. I turn the phone around after opening the camera app, take a quick one with my head tilted to the side, flashing a faux smile, and turn to view it. Fail.

I take three more. Fail. Worse fail. Fail. My eyes look weird and my smile looks like someone who is suffering from constipation. That's the thing with pictures. The best ones are when you're really smiling. You know?

Ben
: I'm waiting.

Me
: I'm trying. I suck at this.

Ben
: Let me judge.

Me
: No, they all look weird.

Then my phone vibrates, and it's a picture. I open it to full viewing size and there's Ben. Not really smiling—more like grinning. The photo is pretty close to his face, so unfortunately I can't see where he is or what he's wearing. Another reason to hate the ever popular selfie.

Me
: You look good.

Ben
: I really need to see you. Please just send anything. I miss you.

And just the thought of him missing me, wanting to see me, provokes a real cheek-to-cheek smile. I hurry to take the picture while I'm still thinking about his last text and send it without giving it the typical examination.

Ben
: There you are.

Ben
: I needed that. You look so good.

Me
: Agent Ben, you're making me blush.

Ben
: Let me see.

I snap another, again not stopping to criticize, and I send it right away.

Ben
: Now we're getting somewhere.

Me
: Winnie's going to pick me up in a few minutes. What are you doing?

Ben
: Sitting in my hotel room. I should have driven back today.

Me
: Are you having fun? Good trip?

Ben
: Not exactly, but it's about over.

Hoping it’ll lift his mood a bit, I send him this response:

Me
: Oh. Well, I'll be busy tomorrow. I have a hot date.

Ben
: You do? What's the lucky guy like?

Me
: He's a pain in the ass, but he's handsome. So, I can over look the rest.

Ben
: He's not good enough for you.

Me
: Au contraire, mon fraire. He'll be sick of me sooner than later.

Ben
: Pfft.

Me
: Did you just pfft me?

Ben
: Yep. Send me another picture. Your legs.

Now that's insightful. He's a leg man. Good thing my pins are two of my best assets.

I walk into my bedroom, where I can stand in front of my full-length mirror and orchestrate the perfect leg shot. If he's had a bad day and my legs will help, I'd be a real bitch not to give the man his simple request.

Slipping on my heels, I lift my dress a little higher and pose. I take the shot, hiding my face and the camera in the mirror. I place my left hand on my thigh and make like I'm clawing myself. I don't know where it comes from, but it just feels right. They look pretty fucking good if I do say so myself.

Ben
: Damn.

I take that as a good sign and finish getting my things together for my night with my best friend.

Winnie calls, letting me know that she's downstairs in a cab, and I grab my clutch and head down.

We eat at Mazios, an amazing Italian restaurant between my place and the theater, and walk up the street to The Lounge for a few more drinks before showtime.

Winnie asks me about three drinks in, “Are you going to kiss him tomorrow?” We sound like high-schoolers, but it's fun. We never talked like this when Kurt and I were dating. That fever pitch of excitement was missing. No wonder it wasn't too difficult to blow out a barely there flame.

“I don't know. I'm still not really sure if it is the wisest thing to do with him working for me. I don't want it to get awkward.” With the aid of a few vodka cranberries, my resistance to the honest truth has been weakened and I could care less. “But he's so...” I get hung up. So
what
? Hot? Sexy? Fuckable? Fun? There is a voice in my ear saying,
To hell with this assistant bullshit and just mount the guy.
That's what I want. I think.

“Perfect?” she offers. “I think you need to just do it. If he's a bad lay, then put the kibosh on the dirty business and use the work thing as an out, but if he's good, make him find a new job. He's not going to find another you.”

“Aw, the wine reveals all! Is that why you're marrying my brother? Because you're secretly in love with me and this is the only way you can stay close? Is he your beard? Winnie, I'm flattered.” We giggle.

“I'm serious. It's an assistant job. From what you've said, he had a big-time job in Washington before. He'll find other work, you bullheaded bitch. Quit worrying about it.” Her face is heated, and the drinks are hitting me the same.

“Thanks, Win. But there's also that other thing—the mystery of him knowing about the job. It drives me nuts.”

She maturely sticks her tongue out at me and blows a raspberry into the air. “Did you flat-out ask him about it?” she asks, sloshing a little wine out of her full glass as she animatedly talks with her hands while they're busy keeping her blood alcohol level on the rise.

“Yes. I did. He gave me a vague answer and changed the subject. I'd just feel better knowing, is all. I doubt it would change anything. I just want to know.” I clean up the spill, not wanting it to get all over the split sleeve of my pretty pale blue minidress.

“You could always ask him post-coitus. I've gotten lots of things out of Cooper by springing it on him right after climax.” She nods for effect, giving me her best ‘I'm totally serious’ face. “It's easy. You fuck his brains out like it's the last time you'll ever have an orgasm. Then wait about three minutes for the fuck-fog to lift, and while he's still in pooty-land, ask him.”

I look at her, half disgusted that she would manipulate my brother like that and half in awe of her cunning woman powers.

“Kurt made me feel so awful the other night. It really made me think about whether this is all too soon. Is it too early to date?”

“Uh, no.” Her curls shake side to side. She looks me straight in the eyes and rants, “You broke up with him. You could have gone out that night. That guy is a bona fide whack-job, Tate. Don't even think about him. Coop said that after he got to the police station they found coke in his jacket pocket. Cocaine! That's fucked up. Who does coke anymore? It's not 1985. Are you going to listen to a coked-out lunatic or me?” That's pretty logical talk after three red wines. She's a keeper.