Текст книги "She: Part 2"

Автор книги: Annabel Fanning

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Текущая страница: 10 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

6. Dancing In The Dark

Pierson House is teeming with life when I arrive for work. Layla is busy answering the phone when I walk through reception, but waves animatedly. She’s really growing on me.

I settle at my desk and send up a silent prayer that today will be better than yesterday, and somebody must have heard it because my morning flies by without any incidents that cause me to question my sanity or job choice.

I’m helped along by frequent, vivid flashbacks of Logan and I from last night and this morning which permeate my mind as I work: the feeling of his face buried into my neck, the sound he makes just before he comes, the sensation that runs through my body as he enters me slowly, achingly slowly…

I shiver in my seat, my eyes automatically darting to the surrounding cubicles, checking to see if anyone was watching my Logan-stupor. Keep it professional, Gem, I warn myself, but I’m a hopeless cause. I can’t stop thinking about him (nor do I want to) and by the time I leave work at twelve-thirty I’m a bundle of erotic desires. I have to be at Logan’s apartment soon, and so don’t have the time to swing by his office and test out the strength of his desk. But assuming I get to his quickly, I’ll be able to see to my aching desire myself…lying on his bed…thinking of him…before sending him a text message that he’ll never forget.

Twenty minutes later I come to a screeching halt in one of the empty parking bays in Logan’s garage. I hurry to the elevator and urge it to move quickly once I’m inside. Eventually, that familiar ping sound rings, and I practically sprint through to his bedroom, phone in hand, and take a running jump, landing in the centre of his pillow-soft bed. My hands waste no time moving south, my mind infiltrated with those erotic sounds and images once more, and I’m on the brink within two minutes.

I’ve never had such an overwhelming need to touch myself before. I’ve never experienced this level of longing that I just can’t say no to. It’s all Logan’s doing. I see him and feel him all around me. I let out a long, loud moan, so close that my legs start shaking…when I hear the elevator ping again.

I freeze. My eyes dart open. Who the fuck is that? Whoever it is starts whistling. They’re lingering in the kitchen area…for now.

My body trembles under my hand, my adrenalin and heart rate spiking. Oh, I’m so fucking close! I push my head backwards into the bed, my back arching. Just do it, I tell myself. Slowly, unintentionally elongating my pleasure, I move my hand over my clitoris. It’s silk on silk. Two fingers on my other hand move within me at the same time, and instantly I’m right there, coming on the middle of Logan’s bed, letting out a silent scream as I shake it out. I sigh, relishing the feeling of release. This is what I’ve been craving all morning, and it feels so good to give it to myself.

“Hello?” a familiar voice calls. She’s definitely closer than the kitchen now!

My breath catches in horror. It was a silent scream, wasn’t it? Was it? Fuck! I dart up and off the bed, straightening my clothes and wildly wafting my face so that I don’t look so flushed.

“Mercy?” I call back.

A second later Mercy rounds the corner, her face lighting up when she sees me. “Gemima! It’s wonderful to see you, dear,” she says, pulling me into a hug and simultaneously convincing me that she did not hear me orgasm. I make sure not to touch her with my hands. Dammit, Gemima!

“It’s great to see you, too,” I say, breathlessly. Surprising and mortifying, but great.

“What are you doing here, love?” she asks, her eyes scanning the messed up bedspread.

Double fuck! “I, uh, was having a power nap,” I make up on the spot. “You know, just a quick ten minutes to reboot.”

It’s a lie, but not a big one, I reason. After all, I do feel re-energised and reinvigorated, which are side affects of an effective power nap as well as side affects of what I really did.

“Oh…are you feeling alright?” she asks, her maternal side kicking in. “Is that why you’re not at work?”

It suddenly dawns on me that she doesn’t know about my intended birthday present for Logan. I quickly fill her in on my plans for this afternoon, feeling stupid for not having run it past her before, as I don’t want to get in the way of her usual routine. But Mercy is thrilled with the idea, and happy to be on hand all afternoon to help out.

“I’ll make us some lunch,” she says, turning and walking out of Logan’s bedroom.

I let out another sigh. That’s the strangest conversation that I’ve ever had, I muse, never before having made myself come whilst there was another person in such close proximity – other than Logan, of course. I shake my body out, ridding it of the tension that her unexpected presence caused. Then, remembering my initial intention, I find my phone, and snap a quick picture of the messy bed. With a broad smile on my face, I send it to Logan saying:

*I messed up your bed ;)*

His reply comes back almost instantly.

*Without me?*

Giggling, I type:

*It was an urgent matter. I couldn’t stop thinking about last night and this morning and…well…something had to be done. I took matters into my own hands. Literally.*

Sliding my phone into my pocket, I remake the bed, already looking forward to messing it up again later. My phone vibrates.

*This is the first time I’ve EVER had a hard-on during a meeting. It’s long and arduous. The meeting, not my… Never mind.*

I laugh out loud, loving how he responds to my word games.

*My deepest apologies for inconveniencing you, Mr. Leary. But you should know, I’m not sorry.*

In the bathroom I freshen up before joining Mercy in the kitchen.

Logan’s response arrives:

*I imagine you’re not. I imagine you’re loving this.*

Followed swiftly by:

*Dammit, now I can’t concentrate. Last night/this morning was fucking AMAZING!*

I grin to myself, and then type back:

*Tonight will be better.*

*I don’t doubt it.*

Mercy slides a plate in front of me, and on it is the largest sandwich that I’ve ever seen.

“Eat up, you’ll need lots of energy for this afternoon,” she says.

Nodding, I take a large bite and then write one final message to Logan:

*I’ve got to go, baby. Your birthday present awaits! No, you can’t have any clues about what it is, but I’m looking forward to showing you later. Enjoy the rest of your meeting (haha). Love you x*

I set my phone down and dig in to the rest of my sandwich. Mercy takes a seat next to me and we get to chatting about this afternoon, but I can’t keep my eyes from darting to the kitchen clock. They’re late. Five minutes pass. They’re even later. Panic starts to rise within me…are they going to show up at all? Did I mess up the booking? What am I going to tell Logan?

I have premature excuses all ready to go when my phone rings, making us both jump. The number is unrecognised.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Bonjour, c’est Gemima Samuels?” a male voice asks. Is this Gemima Samuels?

“Oui. Et vous?” I reply. And you?

“Je m’appelle François. Je suis du Le Petit Paris Jardin. Je suis à l’adresse que vous avez fournie avec votre livraison,” he tells me very hastily. I’m François. I’m from the The Little Paris Garden. I’m at the address you provided with your delivery.

Still unnerved about their late arrival, I blurt out, “Vous êtes ici pour installer le jardin ainsi, n’est-ce?” You’re here to install the garden as well, aren’t you?

“Oui, Mlle. Samuels. Nous sommes prêts à commencer,” he says, his voice calmer. Yes, Miss. Samuels. We’re ready to begin.

I sigh in relief. Everything’s going to be OK, I tell myself. “I’ll be right down,” I say in English, before hanging up, giving Mercy an excited smile, and hurrying over to the elevator.

Downstairs I meet the three men on the busy road, where they’re double parked. I let them into the garage where they station their large van in the vacant spot next to my car. Then, first things first, I bring them upstairs to meet Mercy and the five of us congregate around the dining table. I lay out my design for the roof terrace in the middle of the table, and talk everyone through exactly what I want to create, before we move outside onto the terrace itself, and I repeat myself, realising that I probably should have started here to begin with. It’s easier for them to visualise what I’m describing when the blank canvas is right in front of them.

Water under the bridge, I tell myself, ignoring this minor management error and pushing down the tension-cum-excitement that is riddling my body. This is so much more nerve-wracking than I anticipated it would be. Why, I wonder. Because it’s for Logan? Because I have to present a report on the whole process to Amélie? Or because if this goes well, it might just be the inspiration that I need to begin looking for work in this field of design? Whatever the reason, I’m not accustomed to working with these sorts of nerves, and I really don’t like them.

Ten minutes after my workforce has assured me that they know what I want, the project manager puts me to work sweeping and washing down the cream slabs on the terrace, and I feel much better putting my hands to something. I give Mercy the task of photographing the various progressions of the transformation, which I need for the report for Amélie, while my hired help makes the first of many trips back down to the garage to begin unloading their van.

Once the terrace is completely clean, the first things to go in are the stylish wooden planter boxes which, due to their size, have to be manually constructed.

“They have lights on them,” I say, pointing out the unexpected addition of a lighting system. I can’t recall ordering something this high-tech.

François looks stressed by my comment. “Sont-elles différentes de celles que vous avez achetées?” he asks, almost timidly. Are these different from the ones you ordered?

“Elles sont parfaites,” I say hurriedly, not wanting to cause any fuss. They’re perfect.

As they continue putting the boxes together, I nip inside, phone in hand, and pull up my order confirmation email and then quickly check the company’s website. Yup, just as I thought – the boxes they’ve delivered, with their fancy lights, are significantly more expensive than the ones I paid for. I peer over my shoulder making sure I’m not being watched and then I close my web browser. Don’t say a word, I tell myself, internally celebrating this win.

The planters line the outer three edges of the terrace, leaving two sizeable gaps, one for a large circular seat, which will be the only point where the edge of the terrace can be reached, and one for a huge, ceramic plant pot that comes up to my waist. A few more smaller pots are put in next, filling the spaces between the French double doors on the outer wall of Logan’s apartment. They’re a deep, rich red in colour, bringing a burst of heat and passion into the contemporary colour scheme.

Next, it’s time for the reticulation equipment to be laid, and an initial, shallow layer of soil, before two labourers begin ferrying in the first round of greenery. Earlier I impressed, probably more times than I needed to, my intention to draw attention inwards creating a private, secluded retreat, rather than drawing the eye outwards to the hectic busyness of this business district, and these large, tall, and luscious plants deliver that intention instantly. They sit at the back of the planters, and it seems that before being planted fully, everything is going to be laid out for me to first approve. I like that method, I note. I give the thumbs up to everything that’s been done so far, however, once all the greenery is in place, work grinds to a halt. The array of colourful flowers that are supposed to sit at the front of the planter boxes are nowhere in sight, and the two men take a seat in the doorframe.

After a brief conversation with them I learn that the third member of my hired workforce has gone to retrieve the second van load.

“Vous avez commandé beaucoup de choses,” one of them tells me. You ordered a lot of things.

Good, I think, feeling grateful for the shopping splurge I went on last week. After all, I want this space to look abundant and full, and whilst hoping I don’t jinx anything, I can’t helping thinking – so far, so good. At least the plants will be abundant, but scanning the space I start to think that there may be room for more. Don’t second guess yourself, I repeat in my mind, not that it makes any difference, I second guess anyway.

Abruptly I come to the conclusion that parallel to the French doors there is definitely enough room for a table-and-chairs-set-up. As soon as this decision is made, excitement mounts within me at the thought of further shopping. It’s ridiculous how happy spending money makes me. I’m sure there are support groups for these sorts of things.

I steal a quick glance at the clock and revel in seeing that it’s just gone three PM, plenty of time to enact this new part of my plan.

To the labourers, I say, “Si je voulais acheter quelques meubles extérieurs pensez-vous que François pourrait les livrer aujourd’hui?” If I wanted to buy some outdoor furniture, do you think François could deliver it today?

“Oui.”

“Absolument.”

One of the men dives his hand into his chest pocket and pulls out a business card, followed by second card. “Placez votre commande par téléphone, dites-leur votre numéro de référence pour ce travail et ils vont veiller à ajouter vos nouveaux achats à la camionnette que François va prendre.” Place your order over the phone, tell them your reference number for this job and they’ll make sure to add your new order to the van that François is picking up.

So efficient!

“Et ici,” he shows me the second card, “ceci est un bon de réduction.” This is a discount voucher.

Forty percent off? I beam at them both.“Thank you!”

He nods. “Un petit quelque chose pour un client apprécié.” A small something for an appreciated customer.

Feeling giddy, I squeeze past them into Logan’s living room, where Mercy and I sit side-by-side on the sofa browsing through the choices on the company’s website, before I call to order my selection. Within the hour François returns with an even larger van, packed to bursting point with a myriad of flowers, one medium sized tree, and the table and chairs.

The workmen jump to life once more, filling in the remaining spaces in the planter boxes, before requesting that I give them the OK to plant them. While one of them sets about doing just that, the other two spend over twenty minutes manoeuvring the tree into and out of the elevator, trying to inflict as little damage to it as possible. Between the elevator and the terrace, they leave a long streak of debris, mud, and small broken branches. Don’t panic, I tell myself, taking in the dirty floor. Deciding to momentarily deny the dirts existence, I follow the men out to watch the tree go into place in the far corner of the terrace. It completes the space perfectly, and after a little primping and preening it doesn’t look half as rough and haggard as it did a few minutes ago.

With just the table and chairs left to go, I walk across the terrace intent on finding the little table plaque that I bought the other night and sticking it onto the corner of the table. Logan will love that little personal touch, I’m sure.

I stop in the doorway and find the trail of dirt already cleared away and Mercy pushing a large broom back into a cupboard on the far side of the dining table, a cupboard that I didn’t even know was there.

“I’ve been thinking, Gemima,” she tells me as she walks into the kitchen, making a beeline for the fridge. “You should call Logan and have him cancel your dinner reservation. What with you doing such a beautiful job out there,” she nods to the terrace, “you really ought to eat here tonight, no?” Before I’ve a moment to consider, she opens the fridge, and continues, “I’ve plenty of ingredients here to make you something wonderful.”

I beam at her; eating here tonight would be brilliant. “Are you sure you don’t mind cooking?”

“I’m happy to help,” she nods, “Besides, dear, it’s my job,” she smiles.

I thank her, and then go and find my phone and retrieve the small, circular plaque. Sitting outside, I perch myself on the edge of one of the planter boxes, dialling Logan’s number.

“You’ll never guess what I’ve been doing,” I say as soon as he answers.

Chuckling, he asks, “Oh, baby…does it have something to do with those messages you sent me earlier?”

“No,” I giggle. “I’ve been getting a different kind of dirty,” I tease him, looking down at my dirt-covered outfit, and realising way too late that I should have changed into something more suitable.

“I’m going to need more information,” he says, his voice sexy and demanding.

“All will be revealed tonight,” I tell him, giving nothing away. Then changing the subject, I ask, “How’s your day?”

He groans, and not the type of groan that I enjoy hearing. “It’s been trying,” he tells me. “Those few messages with you have been the only reprieve I’ve had all day. The hotel in Marseille is causing problems,” he elaborates, “I’m going to have to go down there for a day.”

“When?” I ask hastily.

I hear the sound of pages turning, and I assume he’s checking his diary. “Next week,” he says mournfully. “This needs to be sorted out before the next phase of construction begins. I’ll take my family with me,” he adds, “they can go sightseeing for the day.”

That reminds me… “About dinner tonight, is it possible for you to cancel our reservation?”

“Uh, sure, I guess. Why? Are you nervous about meeting them again?”

“No, no, it’s not that. Mercy’s here and she’s offered to cook for us.”

“Mercy’s there? So you are at the apartment?”

I smile at his words. It does not escape my attention that he calls it the apartment, not his apartment. “Yes, she’s been helping all afternoon. So, dinner here instead?” I confirm.

“Absolutely,” he agrees. “I’ll cancel our reservation now, and let Buddy know.”

Huh? “Buddy?”

“Oh, yeah, he was going to join us. Does he fit into whatever mysterious scene you’re creating?”

I laugh, loving how confused he is, yet impressed with his patience. “Of course, I’ll let Mercy know.”

“Thanks, baby.” Then in further explanation, he tells me, “Buddy and my parents are really close. He’s an orphan, and they kind of adopted him twelve years ago when they first met. Now they have each other on speed dial.”

Smiling to myself, I say, “I’m looking forward to learning a lot more about you and your family over the next few days.” And it all starts tonight, I think excitedly. “I’ll set the table for eight.”

“For five,” he corrects me. “Only my parents are joining us tonight. Taylor, Karen and Abigail are flying in later; they don’t arrive until after midnight. So, you’ll meet my family in stages,” he laughs. “Besides, this way Buddy can see my parents without Taylor being there, which is for the best.”

“Are they really that bad?” I asked, shocked.

“Yes, they are,” Logan laughs again. “Speaking of bad, I called Jerry, but he didn’t pick up, so I left a voicemail that’s impossible to misunderstand.”

I grin into my phone. “Thank you, Logan.”

“Baby, I’ve got to go. I’ve got some work to finish up here, and then I’ll go to the airport.”

I squeal in excitement. “And then you get your birthday present,” I say happily.

“I can’t wait. I have absolutely no idea what you’ve been up to.”

“Something good,” I promise him. “And suitable for your parents to see, too,” I add, making him chuckle.

“I never do know when it comes to you,” he says alluringly.

Noise inside Logan’s apartment alerts me to the fact that the workmen are back, carrying between them the long, rectangular table. How the hell did they get that in the elevator, I think, before wondering if they took it up the stairs. I shudder at the thought of carrying that up thirty-seven flights of stairs, and abruptly I decide not to inquire how it got here.

“Là, s’il vous plaît,” I direct. There, please. Then to Logan, I say, “The finishing touches are going in now. I’ll see you later, baby.”

“Compelling, as always, Miss. Samuels,” he says, making me grin. “I’ll be with you in two hours. Three tops,” he tells me.

The countdown is on, I think. We say goodbye, hang up, and then I hurry to help the workers haul the six chairs through Logan’s apartment. They’re much heavier than they look, and it takes both Mercy and I to move just one of them, but once we get it outside I revel in seeing how perfectly their wooden detailing matches the colour of the planter boxes. It’s a small detail, one that most other people would never even notice, but it makes the world of difference to me; it makes an afternoon and a project that has been practically perfect become beyond perfect. And now it’s done, it’s finished, and everything looks so fucking cool! Adding the icing on the cake, I stick the little plaque on the corner of the table, just like the table at cafe Genévrier. Now it’s truly a piece of art.

Despite my initial nerves about this afternoon, it hasn’t escaped my notice that implementing this terrace has been more thrilling, invigorating, and creatively inspiring than any interior project that I’ve ever undertaken. I really need to start questioning whether or not I’m in the right field of design, I think. Sure, I’ve had interior design projects turn out exactly how I sketched, planned, and imagined them too, but this is different, this is more. If I could feel this ecstatic about every job I did, then I’d turn into a workaholic. Again, I wonder if it’s because this is for Logan, or because there’s just something special, something exciting that I get from landscape design that I lack from interiors.

An answer eludes me as I see the three workmen out, watching them leave with my thanks and a promise to write up a very good review on their company’s website. After they leave, Mercy returns to the kitchen, busying herself with dinner, and I go to stand in the doorway, looking out at what’s been accomplished and basking in my glory. Our glory, I tell myself. There’s no way that I could have done all of this in one afternoon without experienced help.

“Thank you for being the photographer,” I say to Mercy.

“You’re welcome, dear,” she smiles kindly. “I put your camera on top of your bags.”

I look around for them, feeling certain that I left them just outside of the elevator.

“Oh, and I put your bags in the dressing room,” Mercy tells me, ending my confusion.

I retrieve my camera and file through the images, thrilled with the numerous shots that Mercy has captured. Standing in the doorway once more, I take a few more of the completed project, before finding the light switches on the planter boxes and then peering up at the lights that line the outer-wall of Logan’s apartment.

“Lights,” I command. Nothing happens. “Lights,” I try again, louder. Still nothing. These must be the only ones that aren’t voice activated, and sure enough I find their switch hiding behind the ample curtains that Amélie installed two years ago. I snap several more photos with the lights on, before deciding that I have enough to create a well-rounded report.

Rather than making a start on my report, I while away the next hour helping Mercy finish dinner, before starting on an easy but delicious cake for dessert. We chat back and forth, mostly about her life, and her insights into Logan’s life. I learn that her passion and extensive knowledge for food stems from her parents, who are of North African decent, and I discover that in the nine years that she’s been working for Logan, I’m the first girlfriend of his that she’s ever met.

“I’ve heard him mention names occasionally, but he never brought them home,” she confirms everything that he’s already told me about his past – he had a hectic work schedule and an uneventful social life. “I think he was in a bit of a daze before you,” she continues. “Life gets like that sometimes, I suppose. Years pass and you just continue to coast along.”

“Now you’re describing my life before Logan,” I tell her.

She smiles at me; a warm, kind smile. “You’ve really awoken something in one another, haven’t you?” she muses. “When I picked him up from the hospital after his surgery, the last of his painkillers were still wearing off and he was very talkative. He’s usually quiet, reserved, respectful, but last week he didn’t stop to take a breath, he just talked and talked and talked. He told me all about you,” she says. “Gemima: the girl from the party. It was so beautiful to see this new side to him. But I assumed with him being so particular about who he lets into his space that I would have to wait months to meet you, if at all. Low and behold, you walked into his home with a key of your own that very evening.” She looks a little emotional, like she might start welling up. “I’m very happy for you both, my dear,” she pats my arm and clears her throat. “This is finished,” she turns the stove off. “Just give it a stir when you reheat it later,” she instructs me.

“Alright,” I nod.

“I must be going.”

“You don’t want to stay and join us?” I offer quickly.

“You’re very sweet to ask, but I’ll decline this time. This night is for you to meet his family,” she reminds me, causing butterflies to take flight in my tummy. “I’ll see you on Saturday, at the party?” she enquires.

“Oh, yes.”

She gathers her jacket and purse and as we wait for the elevator to rise to collect her, Mercy says, “Just a few key things to remember, Gemima: Rupert and Mary-Gene prefer red wine over white. Mary-Gene’s favourite colour is blue, and Rupert’s favourite singer is Springsteen,” she rattles off. “And they follow the Charleston Outlaws very ardently.”

The Outlaws? I wreck my brain trying to remember who they are. A football team? Or is it rugby?

The elevator arrives, and I hug Mercy, thanking her for everything that she’s done today.

“It’s been a real pleasure spending the afternoon with you,” I tell her earnestly. Even if I was shocked by her arrival. She echoes my sentiments and leaves.

Alone, I finish the cake and pop it into the oven, setting an alarm on my phone to remind me to take it out rather than using Logan’s fancy tablet on the wall. Then in a flurry of activity, I lay the table, first raiding Logan’s kitchen cupboards, sourcing his best crockery, cutlery, and wine glasses, before turning all the lights on the terrace off so that Logan won’t see them when he walks in. I want to save his surprise for the perfect moment.

With ample time to kill before they arrive, I settle at Logan’s desk with my camera, a blank piece of paper and a pen and make a start on my report for Amélie. I manage to get halfway through before boredom consumes me and I give up for the night. I laze back in Logan’s huge office chair, feeling sleepy. It’s been a long, exhilarating day, and the most exciting part of it has yet to happen. Requiring an energy boost (and deciding against a power nap) I just about manage to figure out Logan’s complicated looking coffee machine. The small amount of liquid that it produces is dark, potent and bitter, but it supplies the instant pick-me-up that I need.

I then hit the shower, washing away the dirt of the day, I touch-up my makeup, style my hair into a low, contemporary side ponytail, and then I stand naked in Logan’s dressing room, deciding what to wear. I have more options than I could ever reason having, and though most of the dresses I’ve brought with me are newer and less worn, I choose age over beauty, selecting my favourite, most comfortable dress – a sky-blue number that I’ve had for years, that I just can’t bring myself to get rid of despite its many newer counterparts. I wear this dress not when I want to impress, but when I want to feel good about myself. It’s my secret weapon, my confidence-booster, perfect for tonight.

After giving myself a once-over in the mirror, I sashay to Logan’s music system and scan his collection of CDs until I find the one that I want. Then swaying to the familiar sound of Bruce Springsteen, I scurry back into the kitchen to turn off the alarm on my phone and take my perfectly risen cake out of the oven. I turn my phone on silent, not wanting any rude interruptions this evening, and in doing so I see that Logan messaged me while I was getting dressed.

*The cargo has landed. I’m dropping them off at the hotel across the road first. They’ll get checked-in and then join us. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Love you.*

I check the time on the text; he sent it fifteen minutes ago. I scan my surrounds, ticking off my mental checklist as I do so: everything is done, everything is ready. I take a second to acknowledge that this might actually be the single most organised moment of my entire life, and yet despite everything going so wonderfully well, I can’t help the bundle of nerves that are mounting within me. They’ll be here so soon! I can practically feel my American Mouth rising, just waiting to say something incredible indecent or embarrassing. That notion induces a panic that I struggle to keep under control.

It’ll all be fine, I coo myself over and over again. Mercifully, I remember Logan telling me that he’ll still love me even if his mother thinks I’m a bitch. That’s something, at least, I think, grabbing this feeble silver lining and running with it.

What I need is a distraction from my thoughts. Picking up my phone I pull up an internet search engine and type: Charleston Outlaws.

I hit search and a long list of sites spring up on my screen. At the very top I see a results table which tells me that they won their game this past weekend. Good, I think, this is perfect smalltalk. But before I can search any further, the elevator pings and I’m on the move.

“Lights,” I say quickly, coming to a skidding halt in front of the doors. At least I think I’m in front of them, but everything is so dark I can’t be certain of my position. Somewhere vaguely in front of me I hear the doors open. With a mischievous grin on my face, I say, “Hello, lover.” And then I blanch. He is alone, isn’t he?

The thought suddenly occurs to me that despite what his message said, Logan parents might be with him… After all, this is exactly the kind of language I was afraid of using in front of them, and exactly the type of first impression that I expect myself to make. It’s something that could only happen to me!