She: Part 2 (57 page)

He smiles and nods, before reaching over to pull the duvet double, covering us where we lie. Then he presses his lips to mine and murmurs, “And the night is only young.”

* * *

There are good moods, there are great moods, and then there’s the mood that I wake up in on Wednesday morning. Totally fucking euphoric! I stub my toe as I get out of bed, I slip in the shower, pulling a muscle in my back, I somehow manage to spray deodorant in my eye after drying off, and yet nothing can dampen my disposition. It’s like I’ve taken something herbal. In fact, the one time I
did
take something herbal, I didn’t feel nearly as good as I do now.

I linger in the dressing room, looking through the many dresses that I have hanging in here, before choosing something summery in keeping with my current mindset. It’s not until I step outside onto the roof terrace, where Logan is enjoying his morning coffee, that I realise how incredibly optimistic this choice is so early in the year. It’s far too cold to wear it as it is, so on returning to the dressing room, I pair it with tights and a blazer.
Much better
.

By the time I’m done adding to my outfit, Logan is back inside, standing at the kitchen island looking at the plate of muffins.

“I forgot about those,” I say, walking towards him.

“I found them under the sofa,” he chuckles.

I detour to the dining table, where I pick up some spare, scribbled-on paper from last night, and a pen. I then stand on the opposite side of the island from Logan and sheepishly slide the pen and paper across to him.

“I need your help,” I grin.

“Oh?”

“I’m going to replace the muffin that I stole at work, and I want to write a little note, but
I
can’t write it in case someone recognises my handwriting…”

“Uh-huh,” Logan chuckles, picking up the pen. “Just one standard apology this morning?” he asks and I nod.

“Anything you’re willing to give, I’ll take,” I say gratefully.

“In that case…” Logan theatrically uses his free hand to hide what he’s writing. When he’s done he looks up at me, appearing highly amused.

Sliding the paper back across to me, I look down and read:

I
’
m a guilty little thief. I
’
m the one who stole your muffin. This one
’
s for you to keep. No
,
I ain’t bluffin
’
.

I’m struck dumb.
He
’
s got another hidden talent
? I don’t know whether to laugh or to applaud, to call him a jester or a genius. “That’s…that’s really fucking good,” I blurt out.

It’s Logan who bursts into laughter. “It’s terrible!”

“No,” I shake my head. “Seriously, Logan, with your rhyming skills and my talent in choreography, we could be famous,” I get carried away by the (unlikely) possibilities. I walk around to his side of the kitchen island. “Can I have this?” It’ll definitely put a smile on whoever’s muffin I stole.

Standing by his side, I wrap an arm around his back, and still laughing, Logan nods. We then stand for a long moment, grinning at each, before something suddenly sparks between us and Logan rapidly leans down and kisses me as I grab the front of his shirt. Wanting to be even closer, he picks me up and backs me against the closest flat surface, the fridge, kissing me fervently, deeply, eagerly.

“Last night,” he murmurs, “Gemima, there are no words,” he breathes. We remained erotically entwined together in our duvet-cocoon for a gratifyingly long time.

I smile into his mouth. “Agreed,” I breathe, kissing him once more. I hear my tights rip as I wrap my legs around Logan’s waist, the fridge is freezing against my back, I
really
have to sneeze, and yet I’ve never been happier.

* * *

Pierson House’s kitchenette is my first port of call when I arrive at work. I hover over the kettle, pretending to be making myself some tea, whilst really waiting for the other women to clear out. When they have, I whip out the muffin, place it in the fridge where I found the other one, and balance Logan’s little poem-cum-apology on top of it. Then I causally walk to my desk and begin my day’s work, my conscience at peace.

* * *

When I’ve finalised all my deadline-sensitive jobs for the morning, I spend the rest of my time before lunch putting together two different design boards for Mrs. Clark. Wondering which of her personalities I’m going to get today, I hit the send button on my email with trepidation, and only have to wait for five minutes before her responding email rejects them both. No notes on what she does or doesn’t like, just flat out
no
. I groan and slump back in my chair.
The ability to read minds would really come in useful in this job
, I think. Like Mel Gibson in
What Women Want
, I start pondering. However even with that magical ability I doubt I’d be able to satisfy this particular client.

I start wondering what Amélie would do in this sort of situation. Should I ask her? Would that show an openness and willingness to learn from the more experienced, or would it make me appear to be giving up easily? I decide on the former. Between last weeks meeting with Mrs. Clark and this weeks meeting I’ve complied at least twelve different boards, well above my average. Amélie isn’t going to think less of me for being unable to appease one difficult client.
I hope
.

I gather everything that I’ve done for this project so far, and I’m all set to go to her office when she walks past me towards the reception doors.

“Uh, Mrs. Clémence? May I speak to you about something?” I call after her.

“After lunch,” she says to me over her shoulder, continuing on her way, disappearing through the double doors.
Damn
.

She must be on her way to an early lunch, I think, but I’m wrong. A few moments later she reappears with Madeleine Lily in tow. My inner fangirl starts flapping her arms.
Be cool
,
Gem
!

Amélie’s eyes dart to meet mine and she gives an infinitesimal shake of her head — her way of telling me not to make a fuss. No loud declarations of:
Lily
,
I
’
m so thrilled that you
’
re coming to Pierson House and I can’t wait to work with you
! Amélie doesn’t want anyone to know, I remind myself, which means that everyone else in the room has to be believe that Lily is a client and not a potential new colleague.
Discretion
,
Gemima
. It’s not my strongest ability, not by far, but I manage to keep my excitement at bay as they pass me on their way to Amélie’s office.

Busying myself, I then make a start on the project that I’ll be working on this afternoon, reading through the design brief and jotting down a few initial thoughts and ideas as I do so. Knowing that Logan will be here soon, I don’t progress onto the next phase. Instead I tidy up my desk, positioning everything in its perfect place with its perfect angles to everything else, because I’m
normal
like that.

I stare at my desk calendar — it’s Wednesday. I knew that, sure, but what I failed to realise is that today is exactly four weeks since Logan’s and my first lunch date! I count it out at least three times to make sure I’m right, and I am. Somewhat bemused by the realisation, I grab my handbag and seem to naturally migrate to the back of the building where the large courtyard is.

I push the doors open and stand in the doorframe, peering out. Four weeks ago I brought Logan out here, where Amélie shouted at me for being late, I apologised, Logan stepped in to take the heat off of me, and Amélie relaxed entirely. That had been my intention, to use his business prowess to get me out of trouble, but I didn’t realise at the time of suggesting it, that
his
intention was to watch me have my portrait taken. And while I did, we gazed at one another, both of us getting acquainted with our bubble, which now seems so foundational to our relationship. The feeling is
so
ingrained in me that it’s easy to forget life before it.

Was it really only four weeks, I muse once more. It’s just inconceivable! It feels more like a year than a month. So much has changed and grown and blossomed, publicly as well as privately. I’m sure my public persona already has, and will continue to change because I’m with Logan. But that outwards stuff is not what enchants me as I stand here, thinking over the last twenty-eight halcyon days of my life. What I really care about, what really matters to me, is not how I’m perceived nor what others say, but how I’ve changed
inside
.

Although leaving Jerry, moving into a new house, and getting a new job were several steps in the right direction, I was
still
in something of a daze in life when I met Logan. He’ll probably say that it was me who inspired him, and I say it’s him who inspired me, and who knows who’s right? All I know is that meeting him, and feeling the new emotions and sensations that he evoked in me made me
want
to engage more with my own life. His evident passion and zest for living made
me
want to live like that too, and I’d be lying if I said anything other than that it was
him
who brought me to life, who made me blossom, who showed me what real love is.

Gratitude courses through my veins as I stand here, smiling to myself. Disbelief parades around my mind asking me questions that I have no answer to.
How did this happen so fast
?
Why did this happen to me at all
? I ignore them. When something in life is this wonderful, I don’t think I should destroy it by trying to figure out the
how
’
s
and
why
’
s
. When something in life is this wonderful, I’m convinced that the right course of action is to simply bask in the feelings of it, and right now I feel like the luckiest person alive.

“Are you reminiscing?” a familiar voice asks behind me, causing my smile to grow.

I turn and look at Logan, standing a few metres from me, here to pick me up. I nod and hold out a hand to him, and in a few short strides he’s with me, and peers out into the courtyard too.

“It’s four weeks today since our lunch date,” I tell him, though I suspect that he’s already remembered.

Confirming this, he grins, and says, “That was the first time I’ve ever conceded to sweet-talking a business associate. I usually leave that to Buddy.” I watch his breathtaking face as he stares outside, his dimples prominent. Then looking at me, he says meaningfully, “Four weeks and one hell of a ride.”

“Yes,” I laugh.

“Shall we go and celebrate it?” he asks me. “I’m only allowed you for two hours,” he adds with a smile, “and I want to make the most of it.”

14. She

L
ocation confusion plagues me. I’ve no idea where Logan has brought me. We’re standing in a pristine ballroom, where on the other side of the room one solitary table is positioned near the doors that must lead out to the rest of the hotel. I’m
certain
we’re in a hotel, given the huge commercial kitchen we were lead through to get in here. Logan took only unknown backstreets and then parked at the back of the building, all part of his plan to keep the surprise as long as possible. I thought perhaps it might be Six Zero Three, Logan’s hotel which he brought me to a couple of weeks ago, however Six Zero Three is a boutique hotel, and granted, I didn’t have enough time to explore everything the way I wanted to — I was too consumed with getting Logan naked, if I recall correctly — but I’m certain that it is too small to house such a sizeable space as this.

I stare nonplussed at Logan. “This isn’t Six Zero Three, is it?” I say.

“No, but good guess,” he smiles, taking my hand and leading me across the room to our luncheon table. It looks to be set for around a dozen people, considerably more than just Logan’s parents and us, and appears entirely bizarre sitting alone in such a large room.

“Um, it’s also not the same ballroom that we were in on Saturday night,” I note, taking in the very different decor.

“Nope.”

“It’s definitely a hotel, though. One that you own? Or Buddy, maybe?” I wonder.

“Neither of us,” Logan reveals.

Think
,
Gemima
,
think
. Logan told me yesterday that if I knew the location it could make things amorous between us, so clearly we’re standing somewhere of importance, but I just can’t work out
where
.

Logan watches my brain working overtime, trying to solve the riddle, with a broad smile on his face. He leads me straight past the table to the ballroom doors, coming to a stop just short of them. Then he unexpectedly leans down to kiss my lips, his pale-green eyes gleaming.

“Stay here,” he whispers against my lips.

My eyes dart wide in surprise, making him laugh.
Where the hell is he going
? Not far it seems.

He walks back out into the room, stopping near the lefthand side wall, half way down the length of the room.

“There were tables all the way up and down this wall,” he tells me. “Drinks, nibbles, that sort of thing.”

He then walks away from the wall into the very centre of the room, saying as he goes, “There were lots of blue lights everywhere, and snowflake-things.”

I stare at him perplexed.
Snowflake
-
things
?

“I was standing right here,” he stops in his tracks, facing me. He couldn’t look any sexier in that suit of his if he tried, I muse. Long legs, broad chest, hands in pockets, cool stance. Though I might just be noticing his physicality because I
still
don’t know what he’s talking about. His next words confuse me even more. “And you were standing exactly where you are, right now,” he continues.

“I’ve been here before?” I ask, my shock evident in my voice. I look all around me, but see nothing of familiarity. “Logan,
where
are we?” I finally ask him.

“We’re in a memory,” he beams at me. “I was standing right here,” he says again, but this time he adds, “the very first time that I saw you, the very instant that I fell for you.”

My mouth hits the floor, my heart pounds in my chest, and tears pool in my eyes. The winter AABD party…it was in
this
room!