Thank God for the wine. It's dulling my embarrassment just enough to appreciate how terribly, terribly funny this whole situation is.
I'm seriously considering calling in sick tomorrow, or possibly fleeing the country. But it's not like me to run from a crisis. I will retain my dignity in this situation, even if it kills me.
Amanda writhed on the floor, pressing her thighs together, her body instinctively seeking the stimulation it so desperately needed. How long would he leave her like this? Her head was swimming with arousal, and she could no longer be sure if she'd been here for seconds, or minutes, or hours.
I toss the manuscript down on the bed and storm into the bathroom. Switching on the shower, I let it run. Cold. Colder than cold. Arctic cold.
Then I jump in, pajamas and all.
I shriek as soon as the frigid water hits my skin. I'm hyperventilating instantly, and I jump back out again, splattering water all over the bathroom with my sopping clothes.
I'm finding it hard to believe this is a thing that anyone ever actually did. Maybe "take a cold shower" has always just been a euphemism. A euphemism for the one thing I am determined not to do right now, considering what I now know about Dirk and Amanda.
Of course I could try diverting my attention to something else and just getting it out of the way, hopefully clearing my head for the rest of my task. But I know that's not going to work. For one thing, when it comes to these books, my libido is a renewable resource. For another, I'm pretty sure I will never be able to have an orgasm again without thinking about Mr. Risinger.
That's it. I'm finished. I am officially a completely ruined human being with nothing left to live for.
Teeth chattering, I pick up the manuscript and start to read again.
***
"It's nine-oh-five, Ms. Burns."
Those are the first words Mr. Risinger says to me, when I walk into his office with a cup of coffee.
Bite me.
Even though I only think it, the insult instantly backfires in my mind, as I picture him sinking his teeth into my shoulder, scraping them along my neck, nibbling on my earlobe. God damn it, what happened to me? How have I managed to transfer all of those feelings about Mr. Risinger's books to the man himself, less than a day after learning the truth?
Of course he's incredibly sexy, if you can ignore the scowl, but the fact that he seems to have some kind of psychic connection to my ladyparts is no reason to go nuts.
"Nine. Oh. Five," he repeats, his lips forming carefully around each word. I stare at them, and I hope it looks like I'm paying attention. He missed a spot shaving this morning, and that's highly unusual for him. It's a distracting little strip of stubble along his jaw, creating the illusion of a shadow that makes his face a little more angular.
"Sorry, Mr. Risinger. My clock must be running slow," I mumble, setting his important mail down in front of him.
"That's all you've got? Really?" He takes a sip of his coffee, and makes a face. "No well-timed jabs? Are you running a fever?"
I sigh. "Is there something wrong with your coffee, Sir?"
He licks his lips, frowning. "Is this the Sumatran roast?"
This fucking guy and his fucking coffee. "Yes," I say, slowly, even though I know I can't be sure. I let one of the interns do the coffee order again, in a desperate bid to keep my sanity. The rinky-dink company that Mr. Risinger insists we patronize only takes them by fax, and their lines are usually tied up or completely down for hours at a time. I just can't afford to spend my day dealing with it, so I outsource whenever possible.
And then, this happens.
"This is not," he says, my mouth drawing into a thin line, "the Sumatran roast. Who put in the order?"
There's no winning in this situation.
"I did." I fold my arms across my chest. "They must have sent the wrong one."
"Right." He sets the mug down. "This isn't A Tale of Two Fucking Cities. Don't put yourself on the chopping block for some intern who will be gone in a month anyway. Why do you always lie?"
"I'm not lying. But even if I was, I think you know why." I can feel my heart start to beat faster, the adrenaline of confronting him twisting with something new and unfamiliar in my chest. "I know how to deal with you. Those poor kids still have some joy and hope left in their lives."
"If you don't tell me who it was, I'll just yell at all of them," he says, mouth twisting into a humorless smile. "So you might as well spill."
Taking a deep breath, I stare him down, unwavering. "I just told you: I did it. So you can go ahead and rant at the interns all you like, but you're just going to look like a crazy person."
"I have to save my voice for the board meeting anyway," he says. "I'll give you the rest of the day to come clean. And get me another coffee."
I blink at him. "We're all out."
He gives me a so what? look.
"No," I blurt out, before I have a chance to stop myself. "Mr. Risinger, I can't. Not today. I didn't even have time to place the order in the first place."
"Ah ha." His eyes glitter, and he sits up in his chair. "I knew you were lying."
Fuck. Me.
I have to take a cab across town to the "only coffee shop that actually makes something worth drinking," and it's going to be at least half an hour, and I do not have time for this.
Plus, now he's not going to stop hounding me until I tell him which intern screwed up the order.
Plus, I've barely slept, and I have whatever the female equivalent of blue balls is.
I'm either going to end up killing him, or humping his leg. Either way, I might as well clean out my desk now.
***
There's an accident on the way to the coffee shop, and it takes me almost an hour to get back. I'm considering decking myself out in riot gear before I walk into his office, but he looks a lot calmer than I was expecting. When I set his cup down, he doesn't even seem to notice me at first. But then he looks up from his drafting paper and sort of nods in acknowledgement.
"So." He makes a shut the door gesture, and I do. "What did you think?"
I sit down, folding my hands across my lap, watching him evenly. "About what?"
"The books, Meghan." He gives me a pointed look. "Did you get enough sleep last night? I hope they didn't keep you up."
I don't know how I'm keeping my composure, but I'm gonna be pissed if I don't at least get a Golden Globes nomination for this. "Dunno. I feel like I might've missed something. I should probably read the other ones so I can follow the plot."
Pretty convincing. I'm feeling fairly smug.
Mr. Risinger frowns. "What do you mean, the other ones? Didn't you start with the first book?"
Shitfuckdamn.
"No," I say, slowly. "I just, uh, I thought they were standalone."
He's drumming his fingers on the desk, the way he does when his patience is frayed down to the very last thread. "Did the volume numbers not provide an adequate clue?"
I roll my eyes, trying to remember how normal-Meg - or whatever passes for her nowadays - would have reacted in this situation. "I don't know, Mr. Risinger. I didn't examine them closely. I just pulled one out of my bag on the way home and I started reading. I didn't know it was a continuing storyline, or I would've paid more attention."
My boss looks like he's holding something back. Usually, when he's biting his tongue, it's to keep from hurling insults at the senior partners. But this isn't that. No, not quite. I can't figure out why he'd feel the need to hold anything back from me; God knows he never does. Except basic human courtesy.
"Well, let me catch you up," he says. "They fight, they fuck, they fall in love. Lather, rinse, and repeat. Not always in that order."
"They fall in love more than once?" Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't you dare fucking blush.
"Of course. I have to keep things interesting somehow," he says. "Fall in love, fall out of love, fall back in - my readers have been locked in the same secure, level-headed, boring relationships for decades. They don't want to read about Dirk and Amanda unloading the fucking dishwasher."
I actually wouldn't mind, but he's not really asking for my feedback. Not intentionally, anyway. I still can't resist getting a barb in. "You know your readers awfully well, for somebody who's never actually met an average middle-American housewife."
"I know how they spend their money," he says, dryly. "And that's all that matters."
I've known Mr. Risinger for a long time, so I shouldn't be particularly grossed-out. But even I was taken in. I actually thought Natalie McBride was a kindred spirit, and that she cared about her characters and her writing, and the way she connected with readers. Mr. Risinger just wants to pad his already obscenely swollen pockets, and that's legitimately horrifying.