His Secretary:Undone(11)

He gives me a warning look, but I ignore him. I have no idea why the  idea of this woman practically makes me break out in hives. Maybe  because it seems insane that Adrian would ever take someone's advice, or  to defer to anyone else's wisdom, for any reason, ever. All the times  I've talked to a brick wall, and all this Kara has to do is make a  suggestion and suddenly he's running all over town and coming up with  elaborate schemes.

I'm being ridiculous. Mostly because his hand is resting on his knee,  and I can't stop thinking about how his fingers felt when he touched me.

***

I've been practicing my autograph (Natalie's autograph, rather), and my  smile. But nothing - nothing - could have prepared me for what's waiting  in that hotel conference room.

They're all clutching copies of the latest book, and I'm kind of curious  how the hell he got them to press so quickly when I was just reading a  draft copy last week, but of course he's got his ways. The whole  building is practically quivering with hormones. And I can see a lot of  them staring at Adrian and murmuring to each other, which makes me feel  like I've swallowed an entire tub of thumbtacks. I don't particularly  want to examine why.         

     



 

'What if I stripped down to my bra and panties?' Fucking idiot. Of  course he didn't want to talk to you, he's embarrassed for you. Throwing  yourself at him. What the hell were you thinking?

It's a motley crew in here. A couple tables down, there's some guy in a  fucking cape, for instance - I hope for his sake that he writes vampire  romance, because otherwise there's no goddamn excuse for that. I'm not  sure why Adrian was so obsessed with me getting nice clothes. I'm pretty  sure one of the authors a couple seats down is wearing a Disneyland  sweatshirt that says "1994" on it.

Well, he's trying to project a certain image. I don't know exactly how  much money these books have made him, but it's enough that he's not  concerned about appearing as my "editor" in a suit that most editors  wouldn't be able to afford if they saved for ten years. I must be paying  him one hell of a bonus.

A woman comes storming in through the side door. She's a bit tall, not  as tall as I am, but she's slender and athletic. I imagine she's pushing  forty, although she's doing a decent job at passing for  thirty-something. Her business suit is sharp and angular, and pretty  sleek, but next to Adrian's it looks like something from K-Mart.

"You came in here without me?" she hisses, directing her glare at the man himself.

Adrian shrugs. "You were late," he says. "Natalie here was just wondering where you were."

He gestures to me, meaningfully. I realize this is Kara, and she has obviously forgotten whose agent she's supposed to be.

"Right. Well." Kara lets out a humorless laugh. "I hope you're ready for this."

A few moments later, the floodgates open.

Thankfully, the organizers here are obsessed with keeping the line  moving. There's no time for detailed questions that would actually  require me to think, although at this point I'm pretty sure I know  Adrian's work better than he does. I sign and sign, and smile, and shake  hands, and smile some more.

"Your books saved my marriage … "

"My husband told you to say thank you, from him … "

"You made me love reading again … "

Adrian's head is going to swell so big it fills the whole room. I'm absolutely sure of it.

I demur as much as I can. "Oh, you know, just doing what I love … thank you, that means so much … thank you … "

I'm surprised it takes as long as it does for someone to ask me for a picture.

"Um … " I glance around the room. I'm not sure if this is allowed, and  more than that, not sure if I want my face plastered all over the  internet as Natalie McBride.

"No pictures," says Adrian's voice from behind me. "I'm sorry. We have to keep the line moving."

"Thank you," I whisper, though I'm not sure he hears me.

The appointed time flies by. There's still a line out the door, but it  seems like a lot of people have crowded out into the lobby to gather  around someone else who's drawing nearly as much attention as I am. The  organizers enforce the cutoff time, to a chorus of groans.

As soon as the room clears, I let my head flop down on the table.

"How's your throwing arm?" Adrian touches my shoulder, and it absolutely does not feel like electric sparks on my skin.

"Mmmpph." I lift my head, looking around. "I could use a drink. Or ten."

He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. "Don't worry, Kara's gone."  He's making a bit of a face. "I'm sure she didn't mean to be  standoffish, she's mad at me, not you. This whole plan wasn't  particularly her cup of tea. But I think it went pretty well."

"Sure. That's easy for you to say." I rotate my wrist a few times,  experimentally, wincing. "Does it ever embarrass you, the way people  gush?"

He shrugs. "Just glad to bring some more happiness to the world."

I search for a hint of sarcasm in his face. "Oh yeah, that definitely sounds like you."

"So how about that drink?"

Is he inviting me? I nod, before I have a chance to think the better of  it. I don't know exactly what's happening between us, but at least he  doesn't seem angry anymore.

Yet.





***

He takes me to a tiny, mostly-deserted dive that's just down the street.  I don't recognize anyone there with badges, thank God, and we're the  only two people who sit down at the bar.         

     



 

He orders two of his usual, and I don't bother arguing, because I don't  care what goes into my mouth as long as it's liquid and alcoholic.

"Cheers," Adrian says, lifting his glass.

The bourbon is a nice, warm burn down my throat. I can still feel my arm cramping up, but hopefully it'll pass.

"If I get carpal tunnel, you're paying for everything," I complain.

"Right. Good luck proving you didn't get it from fingering yourself to my books." He knocks back his drink in a single swallow.

I snort. I'm so beyond embarrassment with him at this point, I don't even get outraged. "You better lawyer up, asshole."

His eyes slide over to mine. "I notice you're not denying it."

It's in that moment that I remember he doesn't know. He remains  blissfully unaware of my Natalie McBride addiction previous to our  arrangement. My face colors bright red, in spite of my best efforts.

"I wasn't going to dignify it with a response," I tell him. Hopefully convincingly.

"I'm sorry about the pool thing," he says, abruptly. He's rotating his  glass on the bar, slowly. "Not for the incident. For acting like a dick  about it."

"You didn't," I tell him. "I mean, no more than usual. I don't think either one of us knew how to handle it."

"You certainly knew how to handle it." He grins a little. "Sorry. You're right."

Sighing, I rest my elbows on the bar. "It was just unexpected."

He's nodding, gesturing for another drink. "I always thought … well, after  five years, I guess I thought if it was going to happen, it would've  already."

I glance at him sidelong, cautiously. "You thought about it?"

He scoffs quietly. "You didn't?"

"Not until recently," I tell him. I'm not even sure if that's true anymore.

Adrian's mouth twitches. "Why do you always lie?"

"Honestly, I didn't think … " I clear my throat. "Well it's not that  you're not - attractive, obviously." My cheeks are reddening again. "I  just never really got those vibes. And I guess I was too busy hating  you."

"They're not mutually exclusive, you know." His knee nudges against mine  under the bar, and I can't tell if it's intentional or not. "Is it  really that bad, working for me?"

A burst of laughter escapes me. "Is that a serious question?"

"I know I'm difficult, but … " He frowns at his glass. "You seem like someone who appreciates a challenge."

"Apparently so." Oh, what the hell. I finish my drink and order another.  He's still watching me, waiting for an actual answer. How the hell can I  explain the situation to someone who's so clueless? "You call me names,  you snap at me if I'm five minutes late with your coffee, and you  steamroll over my personal life. You criticize everything. You never,  ever say thank you, or even get me a damn Christmas card. But I know  that's who you are, and I'm still here, so … I guess that's not really  your fault. It's mine, for expecting any different."

He sits there quietly, staring at the bar. I wonder if any of this has gotten through to him, at all.

"I didn't think you cared about Christmas cards," he says, finally. Flatly.

"Is that really your takeaway, here?"

His voice is still quiet. "I'm not sure what you want me to say, Meghan."

"Nothing." I shrug. "You're the one who brought it up. If you want  someone to blow smoke up your ass, you're looking in the wrong place."