Her blue eyes shine as she releases me. Lying back, she shakes her head against the pillow and beckons me over her. “Walking is overrated.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Shana
Friday lunch and Stephen looks at me over his glass of iced tea, his gaze narrowing as he assesses what he sees. “Take a step back,” he says. “I like you better all giddy and sexed up than bitchy and mean-spirited.”
I toss my plastic fork into the plastic bowl filled with a green leafy salad that I’ve barely touched and stare at the man who is supposed to be my best friend. “First off, I’m not bitchy.”
“Right.”
“I’m not. I’m not bitchy.” I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest, and assess the people walking by. Our small bistro table isn’t anything special. It isn’t like we’re in Paris or Rome. Stephen and I are simply at a small round table on the sidewalk outside a local deli hidden down a less-traveled street.
“I know,” Stephen says, “this attitude of yours is because you want to go with me upstate tonight and spend a glorious weekend with my parents and siblings. Boss lady, you’re welcome. You know my mom loves you. I just thought you’d rather keep up this bunny-rabbit sex thing you’ve had going on for a few days now.”
My lips come together as I shake my head. “I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“I want you to go to your parents. I want you to see them. Because as far as our work is concerned, this has been a week from hell. If I have to listen to Vicky talk about Saks Fifth Avenue standards one more time, I’m going to cut the bitch, and then you’re going back to London alone and I’ll be in an American prison.”
Stephen sets his cup of iced tea on the table between us and reaches over toward me. I know he wants my hand, and maybe I’m being petty, but damn it, I’m in a bad mood.
And, for the record, a bad mood is different than being bitchy.
Perhaps, not technically, but I’m pissed at the way Vicky has been acting. I’m upset that despite the good sales, she seems unwilling to relent on the whole me-stepping-into-the-fashion-show thing. I keep coming back to the fact that I saved the show. The designers are happy and the numbers are good. From what I’ve seen, she’s the only one with a stick up her ass. Yes, she says she’s speaking for others, but we’re here at corporate and she’s the only one raining on my parade.
Therefore, instead of reaching out to Stephen, I keep my arms crossed over my chest. “Stephen, I’d let you hold my hand, but if someone saw us, I’d probably get reprimanded on proper supervisor-assistant behavior. Here’s the thing, orange washes me out. My complexion is just too fair. It’s a known fact that blondes don’t do well in bright orange or pale yellow, for that matter. Since most prisons use orange jumpsuits, yellow currently isn’t my concern.”
He wiggles his fingers, beckoning my hand. “So the selfies I took sleeping in your bed the other night? I should take those off my social media?”
Instead of holding his hand, I reach out and hit it.
Not really a hit. It is more of a tap.
“Ouch! I think that violates something too. Where is HR when you need them?”
“Kimbra is HR for Duncan’s company. Maybe you should contact her and find out if you have a case.”
Stephen laughs. “You want me to ask the HR associate who blackmailed her boss who is now her husband about sexual harassment in the workplace?”
“Yes. And while you’re at it, find out if verbal assault is as bad as physical because knowing me, when I snap at Miss Witch Vicky, it’ll start out as verbal.”
Stephen rubs his hand that I tapped. “Lucky me. I’m so glad that you’ve escalated to physical only with me.” He leans across the table. “Seriously, my dad used to work with this guy. I’m pretty sure he still has the connection. Let me give you one saying...concrete shoes.” He nods as his lips come together. “Okay, two…swimming with the fishes.”
“Stop.”
“No. It’s a real thing. Where do you think Hollywood got its material? And judging by the heels that woman wears, she loves shoes. You could consider it a gift.” He shrugs. “It might even be a tax write-off. But I’d check with your accountant first.”
“It would be a gift for the world.”
“Now you’re talking.”
Letting out a long sigh, I lean back and try to think of something else as the air fills with the sound of horns. “Why do horns make me happy?”
“Because everyone in New York uses theirs.”
“I’ve never understood it. It’s not like honking will make a stoplight change or intersection suddenly become clear. Yet as soon as the stoplight changes, there’s a chorus.”
“If you’re trying to change the subject, you can think about the bunny-rabbit sex.” Stephen shrugs. “It’s a good subject. Sex always makes me happier.”
“Bunny-rabbit?”
“It means a lot—a lot of sex. You know, rabbits do it all the time.”
A smile breaks my stern expression. “I really haven’t researched the mating habits of woodland creatures.”
“Think of it as Disney’s education. There are always rabbits...Snow White, Cinderella, and even Bambi. Why do you think they named him Thumper?” He smiles at me. “I’ll give you a hint. It wasn’t because of his foot tapping. And did you notice how big his feet were?”
I try to get the image of animated rabbits out of my mind. “Trevor and I do other things,” I say. “For example, the other night I went to his place and he made me dinner.”
“So he cooks and is great in bed?”
“And don’t forget about the roads and bridges,” I volunteer.
“At least those thoughts are making you smile.”
“I just feel like since the show, I can’t do anything right. We were in this meeting this morning and had this big campaign all spread out with many of the fashions from the show. Since it’s spring, we’re working on the fall campaign and started talking about the holidays. Every suggestion I presented was shot down. Maybe I’ve lost my touch. I just don’t know anymore.”
“Did I tell you the apartment in the village is a sublet?”
Just the mention of his pending apartment combined with my terrible week at work makes the little bit of salad I’ve consumed churn. “No.”
“It belongs to a friend of a friend. He’s going to be in California for six months and doesn’t want to pay double rent. He also doesn’t want to lose his place here. It’s a two-bedroom and the location is prime.”
“Stephen...”
“Shana, the point is that I can back out. Nothing is set in stone. He’ll find someone else.”
“But you don’t want to back out,” I say, knowing I’m right.
Stephen shrugs. “I didn’t. I’m not sure anymore.”
Tears fight to move forward, stinging the back of my eyes. “I’m surer than ever before that I want to stay here.”
This time when Stephen reaches across the table, I do too, and our hands clasp. “If we go back,” he says, “it won’t be like it was before. The two of you—obviously with the rabbit thing—have gotten to know one another better than before. Last time it was infatuation. This time, there’s more to it. You’ll make it work long distance.”