The F-Word

A run would do it—did I mention that I run three or four mornings a week? Normally, I pass if it’s raining hard. And it is raining hard; there’s a skylight over my bed and I can see and hear the rain hitting it.

Hell.

What’s a little rain?

I get up, pull on sweats, running shoes, let Walter out into the garden to do his thing. The dog is smarter than I am. He gets back into the house fast, shakes off a ton of water even as I dry him with an enormous towel. Then I go into the soggy, gray morning. I don’t last my usual five miles—I’m not a complete idiot—but a couple of miles are enough to restore my equilibrium.

A hot shower, a couple of mugs of coffee, and I am calm and composed by the time I get to work.

I don’t even think about that kiss. It was an aberration, and it’s not going to happen again. Really, why would it? I’ve made my point. Impossible as it seems, Bailey and I can generate heat together. Well, sparks. Because surely my imagination has exaggerated the heat of that kiss. The point is, we’ll be able to exchange a couple of light touches, light kisses in front of an audience and make the touches and the kisses seem real.

I’m hoping Bailey has come to the same conclusion. That she’s figured out nothing spectacular happened in the doorway last night—and as soon as I step through the door, I can tell that’s what she’s done.

“Good morning, Mr. O’Malley,” she say politely.

I nod. “Morning,” I answer.

We start down the hall with her clipping along beside me, filling me in on a phone call that just came in from one of our suppliers. She’s wearing one of those sexless suits; her shoes are sturdy; her hair is yanked back in a no-nonsense knot. She’s completely businesslike; her tone is professional.

Excellent.

Life is back to normal. I was…well, not worried. Concerned, is the better word. I was concerned she’d have a difficult time forgetting that kiss. I mean, it’s one thing for me to see it for the dress rehearsal it was. Hey, I’m an experienced dude. But Bailey’s new to the game. And she melted in my arms just a handful of hours ago.

Now, that same woman is briskly lining up a stack of memos on my desk.

There’s not a hint of Bailey-From-Last-Night about her.

Okay. Maybe there is. She smells the same. As she leans over me, the scent of lemons and flowers drifts on the air. Is it from the tea she uses? Would white tea smell lemony?

“What’s that smell?” I ask. Actually, I blurt it. If I never quite got the meaning of that word, I get it now. The words shoot from my mouth before my brain can stop them.

She straightens up and looks at me. “What smell?”

“That scent. Lemon. And some kind of flower. Is it the tea you told me about?”

“The…Oh. Oh, no.” She blushes. “It’s lemon verbena. An herb. I use it.”

“Oh. Got it.” I look back at the memos. Then I look at her again. “As what?”

“As a lotion.” Her blush deepens. “If the scent bothers you…”

“No,” I say quickly, “it doesn’t bother me at all. I just—I just wondered what…You use it as hand lotion, you mean? Or, you know, as a body lotion. Something you put on all over your skin…”

I clamp my mouth shut, look back at the memos.

“Where’s my coffee?” I say—only I don’t say it, I bark it.

Bailey rushes out of my office at which point I groan, plant my elbows on my desk and put my face in my hands.

Didn’t I just tell myself I’d exaggerated the memory of that kiss? I’m back in the real world. So how come that simple word, lotion, is ricocheting inside my skull like a table tennis ball set loose in a closet? How come my mind fills with a picture of Bailey, naked, while I smooth the stuff all over her? How come, despite what I’ve told myself, I can’t forget that kiss?

Never mind those how comes.

The how come I’m interested in is how come her head isn’t back in that kiss too?

Okay. What I need is to settle into work. I have plans to go over, meetings to arrange, orders to place. I start leafing through the memos; Bailey hurries in with my coffee. I manage to mutter a gruff thank you.

“Sir?”