“Yeah.” He closes the computer. Though he doesn’t say it, I get the feeling Eryk understands. When Brendan and I broke up, it was mutual. I did what I felt was best for myself. That doesn’t make my history with the guy any less complicated.
I shuffle the entire way to my bedroom. Here’s hoping that if and when I see Brendan, it won’t result in my laying on the floor in a crumpled up crying heap.
*
“And call Wrigley’s office and let him know the new writer is coming in on Wednesday.”
I nod and scribble the note down on the growing list. I don’t know who Wrigley is or which writer Mr. Mulroney is talking about, but Dana will. I’m just here to write it all down.
He stands and picks up his briefcase from the floor then begins putting papers in it. I peek at him over the top of the notepad. It’s our first real exchange today and it’s gone extremely well. When I got to the office this morning, I didn’t know what kind of beast would be there waiting, but Mr. Mulroney’s good mood from yesterday seems to have carried over into today.
He looks over at me and I drop my eyes back to the paper, pretending to add an extra note.
“What do you think of blazers?”
Slowly, I look back at him. “Sorry?”
“This blazer.” He gestures to the black plaid one he’s currently sporting. “Is it too much? With the stripes and all?”
Everything looks good on you.
It’s also adorable that he called a plaid pattern “stripes.” I would have guessed the man knew at least a little bit about clothes, but he apparently doesn’t.
Sawdust gradually fills my mouth. I have to swallow before I can speak. “It looks great,” I croak.
He nods. “Thanks.”
Picking up the briefcase, he moves past me and for the door. A paper flutters from his desk and I go to pick it up for him. When I straighten, he’s only inches away. His hand extends for the paper, and I pass it over. Our fingers graze. It’s the slightest touch, but a surge of electricity goes through my whole body, starting at the point where his skin brushes against mine.
He feels it too.
Or at least he feels something. His eyes go slightly wide and he stares straight at me. I shuffle my weight backwards.
“Anything else?” I ask.
He looks like I slapped him. Which doesn’t make sense. All that’s supposed to be happening here is some simple note taking before he goes out of town for the rest of the week. Last time I checked, I made it crystal clear that I won’t be accepting any of his advances.
His jaw ticks. “No, that’s all. Have a good week, Sydney.”
“You too, Mr. Mulroney.”
And yet neither one of us moves. He still looks at me, and I look back. The air between us pulses, charged with the fiery energy from the touch. Everything about his face is intensified. His features stand out in a way that makes me sure I’ll carry the image of him in this moment to my death bed. The way the corners of his lips turn slightly down. The tiny scar next to his right eyebrow. The cowlick that sometimes pops out right over said eyebrow.
All of it is burned into my memory; burned into my body. The image of his face rests deep in me, searing a hole.
I blink as he turns, opens the door and leaves, walking through the outer office and into the hall. He doesn’t close either door behind him, nor does he say goodbye to the three other assistants.
My vision blurs. I take a deep breath.
Am I going to faint?
I stumble into the outer office and sit down in Dana’s chair. She’s pacing by the far wall, talking on the phone.
“Yeah, that’s what I did,” she says. “I had it delivered on Friday. Can you get them to send the invoices this afternoon? Thanks.”
She hangs up and comes to sit on the corner of her desk. “Can you believe those guys in San Francisco? I swear, you’d think the studio and the sets were on different planets, the way some people act. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Did you want me to do something?”
Her eyebrows bunch together. She added more color to her hair over the weekend, bringing the blonde to pink ratio to about fifty-fifty.
“No,” she says. “You just look… odd. Like unhappy, I guess.”
I shift uncomfortably in the seat, wishing I was more into acting than I am writing. If I were, maybe I’d be able to successfully play off the comment.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Her eyes narrow. “Did Mr. Mulroney do something to you in there?”
Oh boy, did he ever. He turned my world inside out, that’s what he did.
“What do you mean?” I hedge.
“Did he yell at you, or say something out of line?” She thinks about that. “I mean, more out of line than usual?”