If there were any clues remaining of the original draft of His Secretary, I'd find them there.
Praying he hasn't changed the password, I locate the site and log in.
Bingo.
It takes me a moment to come to grips with the navigation, but I'm finally able to sort by date and begin combing through the posts.
When I see a few dating back to the very same month I was hired, my mouth goes dry.
Would appreciate your thoughts on this early draft of Chapter One. Thanks, everybody! <3
Before I download the file, I skip to the comments.
… seems really specific … might want to make it more generic …
… don't know if her hostility is all that believable …
… really hot, but I found it hard to accept that he'd really be so attracted to a woman with so little self-confidence …
… I think you slipped up at one point there, who's Meghan? …
My heart stops.
Who's Meghan?
I zero in on the comment and read the whole thing again.
The story is really hot, I liked it. :) Not exactly believable, but hey, that's not what we're in the business for. The only thing I'd say is that you could use a proofreader. If you already have one, get another one or two. There are some typos, and I think you slipped up at one point there, who's Meghan? I thought the heroine was named Amanda.
Gripping the edge of my desk, I stare.
Who's Meghan?
With shaking hands, I click on the file. It downloads rapidly, and pops up on my screen.
Would you like to download an update for -?
"No!" I hiss, out loud, clicking the offending window out of the way. I just have to hope that Adrian didn't hear me.
Adrian.
I start reading.
The whole first chapter is very different from the version I knew, introducing Amanda while she fetches coffee for her insufferable boss. I almost want to giggle when I remember the incident it was based on.
I hit Control-F, and type Meghan.
"Meghan," Dirk whispered, his lips so close my ear that I shivered and squirmed.
This scene, I know. It was the first almost-but-not-quite encounter between the two of them, when he left her wet and panting, and she ended up getting herself off in the ladies' room afterwards. I read it many times.
There's just one difference.
Meghan.
Hastily, I close the file. The realization is coming to me slowly, and then all at once, and for a moment I feel like my head's been dunked underwater.
This isn't new. He's wanted me for a long time. But not just for a night, or he would have just seduced me the way he's certainly seduced a thousand other girls.
There's something at stake, here. I really do matter, and for more than just keeping his favorite fuckbuddy in a good mood.
The truth, I realize, has been there all along. Even Izzy saw it.
Standing up on trembling legs, I know what I have to do. I can't leave this alone.
I pop the first few buttons on my blouse, and knock on the door to his office.
"Hmm."
He's masking his anger pretty well, but I can still feel it radiating from him when I open the door. "Everything all right, Sir?" I ask, sweetly.
He looks up at me, and seeing his eyes fixed on mine - now that I know - makes me tremble inside. But I keep my cool.
"Yes," he says, sharply. "Bit of a difficult morning, that's all."
"I changed my mind." Clearing my throat, I sit down. "If you haven't found somebody else to do it, that is."
He gazes at me, curiously. "Changed your mind?" he echoes. "About what?"
I don't believe him for a moment. I just raise an eyebrow.
"That's over, Meghan," he says, giving in at last. "I'm finished with it."
"With what?"
"With Natalie. The books. The whole thing. I'm not writing anything else. There will be no more tours. Eventually, she'll be forgotten completely." His face is perfectly impassive, almost. But there's something behind his eyes. "I think that's best for both of us."
My cheeks are burning with anger and embarrassment. "Maybe for you," I tell him. "But that paycheck would be pretty nice, for those of us not already fellating a silver spoon on the regular."
He shrugs. "If you've got bills piling up, I'm sure I can find some extra projects for you to work on."
"I'm sure you could," I say, bitterly. "As long as it's all in private, right?"
Adrain's mouth thins. "See, this is why I knew it would never work." His eyes are blazing with barely-restrained anger. "Now everything's somehow about the fact that we slept together. That's exactly what I was afraid of, and God damn it, here we are." He lets out a dramatic sigh. "Okay, Meg. Here we go. Of course that's not the kind of project that I meant, Meg. I would never pay you for sex, Meg. I would never disrespect you like that, Meg. Now would you please, please stop acting like you're offended at an innocent comment, and tell me what's really upset you?"
Oh boy, where do I start?
"Nothing, Sir." I don't bother to tame the vitriol in my tone. "Did you need me for anything else?"
His eyes flick to my cleavage, then down my body, briefly resting on my skirt before they return to my face.
"No," he says, at last, his tone flat. "In fact, why don't you go home early? Take a half day."
My heart sinks. "I don't want to take a half day."
"You look like you could use some rest," he goes on, waving his hand dismissively. "Go."
Well, fuck you too.
***
I'm halfway through a Storage Wars marathon, and a bowl of Easy Mac, when I hear someone knocking on my door. My heartbeat quickens immediately, and I'm trying not to hope as I put my eye to the peephole.
It's him.
Swallowing hard, I pull the door open.
His expression is stormy, and he stands there in silence for a moment before he pushes his way inside, crowding me up against the wall with his body and kissing me.
He tastes like alcohol and a thousand bad decisions, and I moan into his mouth as his tongue claims me. The kitchen is the closest room to the front door so that's where we end up, my hands tangling in his hair and my whole body trembling with desire and anticipation.
I want to talk to him about what I saw, about what I've realized. That his books weren't just an ode to how much he wants to fuck me - they're much more than that. They tell the story he wishes we could have had.
But there's no time for talking now.
He hoists me up on the counter and pulls my pajama pants off, kneels down to taste me, his tongue darting in and out. Just a few moments, enough to get me ready for him, but not nearly enough for anything else. When he stands up, though, I don't complain. I just grab his belt and pull him close, kissing him again, and again, tasting myself on his lips and tongue, sharp and tangy, just like that fucking Beaujolais nouveau.
I want to laugh, but then he's slamming into me and I just gasp. It's hot and fast and explosive, and I hear my dishes rattle in the cabinets, all the silverware jostling together, and then I can't hear anything at all for a moment.
When it's all over, and my body sags on the counter, I hold him a little bit tighter for just a few seconds.
"Stay with me tonight?"
He shakes his head. "I can't," he says. A little hoarsely. Those are the first words he's spoken since he walked in.
He withdraws from me quickly and pulls himself back together, and leaves. It all happens within the space of a few moments, and I don't cry, although it's threatening, a lump in my throat that just won't let go.
After a few fitful hours of sleep, I wake up much earlier than usual and pull on my workout clothes. If I can't make any sense of my fucked-up relationship with Adrian, at least maybe I can get something productive done.
I know it's just the adrenaline, the stress, the mania, making me think that jogging is a good idea. I'll end up hurting my knee and limping home just like last time. But I have to try something. I can't keep sitting around and waiting for him to decide what he's going to do with my life.
As I step through the front door, something compels me to check the mailbox. I know it's unlikely that anything's been delivered since the last time I looked at it, but for some reason, I open the lid and peer inside.
There is a little piece of paper folded up on the bottom. No envelope. A wave of nausea slams through me, and I unfold it with shaking fingers. I know this paper. I know the heavy type on the heading, the particular way in which the letterhead is stamped.
It's not pink, but I know what it means without having to read the words.
I let myself see it - TERMINATION OF EMPLOYMENT - just so I can be sure. I let the words sink in, and I sit there in my front hallway with the door hanging open, and the paper hanging between my fingers, my head hanging between my knees.
My first thought is to call Izzy, but I realize I have no story I can tell her. This doesn't make any sense. I could concoct something about Adrian resigning from his job as my editor, but that's going to take more energy than I have now.