Fade In (19 page)

I've never been like this.

I effectively push her fat ass off me. All right, it's not fat. I'm just bothered about how she's uncharacteristically correct today, in terms of my behavior.

“Okay,” I give in. With her here, I can't puss out if this. And honestly, I don't want to. I like him so much.

She picks up my work phone and waits for me to dial. I hit number three on the speed dial and see the look of recognition on her face. Three on my speed dial is major.

She walks back over to the chair in front of my desk, giving me some much-needed space.

It rings once.

Twice.

“Hey,” he answers. No, “Hello.” No, “This is Ben.” Just, “Hey.” Like, “It's you.”

“Hey, how are things going? Did all of the deliveries arrive at The Yard today?” I'm not really sure how to break the ice, but party talk seems like a good way to lead into it.

“You know it. I'm just leaving there now. It's going to be great. No worries, remember? I've got it taken care of. Is Winnie excited?” Who wouldn't like this guy? He isn't just dicking me. He really wants to know if they're looking forward to it.

“Yeah, actually they both are.” My pest of a best friend is doing the international sign for “get there” by wafting her hand in front of her black Donna Karan number she is rocking today. By the way, I should borrow that.

Focus, Tatum!

“So, actually I was calling for personal reasons, not professional. Um...”

He cuts in, “Are you all right?”

“No. No. I'm fine, really. I was calling to see if you wanted to go with me to Winnie and Cooper's party on Saturday?” God, not my smoothest moment, but I got it out, so that counts for something. Even though I sound like a pimply sixteen-year-old virgin asking the football star to the Sadie Hawkins. Sound? Hell, I feel like that girl too.

“Tatum?”

“Ben?”

Winnie's eyes are about to bug out. The way her ass is barely touching the chair now is almost comical, and she's giving me the 'oh shit' face, teeth bared and all.

“Do you remember what I told you?” He voice changes into the authoritative, seductive one I crave. I'm just worried that this time it's to tell me no.

“What? Do you have plans or something? That's fine. I just… I didn't want to be rude and not invite you. You've been working so hard on it and all. Oh, shit, never mind. I'll just talk to you later.” I'm about to hang up. My blood feels like it's all being pumped to my face.

“Tatum, wait. I want to go with you. You said personally though, right? Not professionally?”

Winnie's sweet ass finally makes contact with the wingback and I see relief wash over her face.

“Right.” What the hell? What does he want me to say?

“Call me Benny and ask me again.”

“Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. Ask me again, like you’re not asking me to put your dog to sleep and call me Bennnnnyyy.” He says it slowly, and his voice puts me into that Ben-trance I'm becoming all too familiar with. He's going to make me jump through hoops, eh? I probably deserve it for waiting this long to ask him out.

This is getting a little intimate with Winnie sitting here though. But she's all settled in now and eating this up like an inmate’s last supper. There's only one way to keep this from getting embarrassing for real.

Ham it up. I can play his game. I invented this game.

“Oh, Benny.” I put a little needy pant to my voice. “Benny? Please. Please, go with me on Saturday. Please, Benny?”

“Fuck, Tatum.” He clears his throat. “I'm trying to walk down the street here.”

Winnie taps out. With both hands on her head, she walks towards the door to leave, but first she does a very classy and mature table hump, mouthing the words “Fuck. Him. Already.”

“Tatum, are you still there?” his voice sure and deep asks across the line.

“Yes. I'm here. Seriously, though. If you're busy, I will be fine going by myself. You shouldn't feel obligated.”

“I don't. What time do I pick you up?”

“Pick me up? Uh…” Shit, this is a date. This is a real freaking date.

No sensible shoes.

No pretending.

He's serious.

“Yes. You've asked me to take you on a date. Right? You did just ask me out, or am I mistaken?”

He's so intense when it comes to stuff like this. I never know what to think or say. “I did, but—”

“But nothing. Do you want me to go with you?” How many different ways and times is he going to make me say it?

“Yes,” I huff. “I want you to pick me up at six. I should be there a little early. I hope you don't mind.”

“Nope. I don't mind at all.” Then he's quiet for a few seconds. “Why are you asking me out now?”

He's so maddening. “I'm not sure what you're asking me.” Is this an ego trip? As crazy as he makes me, when he behaves like this, it's such a turn on. He's never easy.

“Tell me why, Tatum? What made you call me and ask me right now?”

“I just thought of it and I wanted to know if you'd like to go.”

“And?” Fucking fishing bastard.

“And I want to go with you.”

“As your...?”

“As my date, all right!? I want you to go with me. To a party. As my date. With me. On a date. Ben. Please?”

“Great. Call me Benny again.” I can hear his smile, and my own cracks my tempered face.

“No.”

“Please?”

I'm regretting this already. “Nope. You don't deserve it. You have to earn it from here on out. Now that I know how much you like it, I don't want to waste it. You have to work for it.”

“Fair enough. Listen, I was going to call you. I need a few days off.”

My gut reaction is to say no. To ask why. To know where he's going and what he'll be doing. But it isn't my business, so I say the only thing I can. “Of course, when?”

“I'll need to be out of town tomorrow and I'll be back either late Friday or early Saturday morning. Everything is set for the party and I'll still be over in the morning. I just have some things I need to do. Will that be all right?”

Again, I have to fight my curiosity and just agree. What choice do I have?

“Sure. I'm sure I can manage a few days. I hope everything is okay.”

His evasive excuse has my mind thinking all sorts of crazy scenarios in my head. We've yet to discuss at length how he knew about the position or exactly what he did before working for me. Only that it was in Washington and for the military, but not in it. Maybe I can dig for more information on our date?

Hell, he could be some undercover spy for all I'd know. He'd actually be a brilliant spy now that I think of it, and then it flies right out of my mouth.

“Ben, are you a secret agent or something?”

He laughs. And then he laughs some more. If it weren’t one of the best sounds, then I'd chide him for laughing too long at my not-joke. It morphed about twenty seconds ago from one of the laugh-
with
-me kinds into the
at-
me variety. But it still sounds perfect to my ears.

“Answer the question,” I insist.

“Nope. I guess you'll have to earn that bit of information. Ms. Elliott, that's classified.” Then the smartass laughs even harder.

“I have to go, Double-O Dickhead. I'll see you later.”

It's only about an hour later that I see a delivery man walk past Cynthia, and in equal measure, I hope that the package is for someone else and for me at the same time. As he rounds the pit, I know—it's for me.

He knocks about the same time I get it to the door.

“Ms. Elliott? A package from Agent Benjamin.”

I can't help myself. Laughing, I sign and thank the delivery man.

When I open the package, first I see the note.

Tatum,

Since I'll be gone tomorrow and you'll likely be bored with no one to torment, here are two tickets to the Monty Python show on Broadway. Take Winnie. I owe her one.

Enjoy,

Agent Benjamin

Ben arrives first thing in the morning. I sent him a text last night after I got home to thank him for the tickets. Of course, he made me re-text “Thank you, Benny.” But he deserved it. I really want to see that show and he got us fantastic seats.

When he comes in, I'm surprised that he isn't wearing his usual casual Ben attire. Not today. Today, he's in a suit. He looks so good that I want to put my schmear on him and lick him up for breakfast.

“Good morning, Tatum.” He smiles and come into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water, and stands across from me at the bar.

“Good morning, Ben. You look very nice this morning” I say in my most innocent voice.

“So do you. Are you ladies ready for tonight's show? You wrap for the season next week, right?” He's right. We have one more show—the Big Show—and then it's adios for a few months. I'm so looking forward to it. This year I'm helping a few screenwriters with edits, which won't be much, and that's it. I would be nice to take a vacation, but who knows. I guess I'll have to see what comes down the line.

“Yep. One more and then we're out until probably late July or early August. I am totally ready for a break, too. What are your plans for the summer? Any big trips? Secret rendezvous? Any covert operations?”

“Not that I can think of or speak of,” he replies on a wink. My stomach does a little whoosh.

Check yourself, Tatum.

“So you'll be back in time for Saturday night then? It won't be rushing you?”

“I already told you. I'll pick you up at six. Quit trying to back out. You clearly want to go out with me. So drop it.” He takes a long drink of his water to camouflage his glib grin.

“You're so arrogant in the morning, Ben. I'm not trying to back out. I want you to go.” There. See? I can be a grown up. “I'm really looking forward to it. I think we've planned a great party.”

“Are you parents going to be there?”

I'm surprised that their attendance is only now coming up. “No, they couldn't attend. Prior engagement. But you'll meet them at the wedding I'm sure.” Even as I'm speaking that sentence, I'm regretting it. The wedding isn't for another month and a half, and here I am, making assumptions that he'll be going.

“I'd like to meet them. From what you've told me, they sound really cool.”

“Oh, they're cool all right. I hope you like patchouli, and you should probably brush up on your celestial easy-listening music.” Hell, they'll probably share a joint if they like him enough.

“I'll have to remember that. What are you going to do after the show tonight?” This is the question I've been asked every Thursday morning since Pete sticked me.

“I think that Cooper, Winnie, and I are just going to go get some dinner and then I'll most likely come back here. Don't worry about it. Ben, that was a freak accident and totally my fault.”

“It wasn't your fault. Accidents don't have fault. I was just asking.” He seems a little sensitive about it, but I don't care. I'm a grown-ass woman. He can't babysit me all the time.

“Seriously, I've lived in New York my whole life. I can make it a few days without you baby-proofing ahead of me.”

“That wasn't what I meant and you know that,” he says sternly.

“Okay, fine. I'll wear a helmet. I've been wanting to get one anyway. I've been thinking about a Kevlar vest, too. That would have come in handy at the bar. Seriously, I'm not a child.” As I hear myself say the words, I actually feel like a child throwing a tantrum. However, I commit to my arguments and give him a death stare for good measure. Benny can deal with it.

“I know.” Ben's arms shoot in surrender. “Look, I just want to make sure that you're safe. That's all. I'm not trying to get into your business. I care about you.”

Such simple words. I care about you.

I care about you.

He cares about me.

“Thank you. That's sweet.” Before I get all goo-goo eyed, I decide it's time for me to head downstairs. “Are you riding with me to the studio today?” I ask as I grab my bag and briefcase.

“No, I can't. I brought the Jeep and I need to head out. I just wanted to stop in and make sure there weren't any last-minute things you needed me to do first.”

I'm not sure why I'm this disappointed, but I am. He is only leaving for two days and we've only been on one kind-of date. However, we've spend the better part of the month together and I'll genuinely miss him.

“I'll walk you down though.”

He smiles sweetly in consolation and offers me his hand. Taking my free hand, he takes my briefcase from the other and we head down. Together.

“I'll have my phone on me all the time. So feel free to call if you need anything or...” He trails off, and this is when I notice the back and forth of his thumb over my knuckle.

We step into the elevator and the air is thicker, pregnant with what he was about to say.

“Or what?”

“Or you could just call me if you want to. I'd like that.” How can the most basic of sentences say so much?

They
mean
so much.

“Okay. Maybe I'll call you tonight when I get home.”

His grin is as wide as Bow Bridge in Central Park when I offer. “Maybe I'd really like that.”

“Maybe it's settled then. I'll call you later and you'll have a nice trip.”

“And you'll have a great show.”