She (5 page)

“No, no, I didn’t think that,” I lie badly.

“So, you live here?” he asks, and I nod. “Here, of all places?”

“What does that mean? Do
you
live here?”

“No, but I, uh…”

Swiftly I realise, “You own the complex.”

He nods, and looks a little shy. I sigh. Shy Logan is gorgeous. So gorgeous. “I do,” he says.

“Well, it’s very nice,” I tell him, and he grins. “And excellently constructed,” I add, making him laugh. I like that sound, I really, really do.

“I’m meeting the complex manager. I try to see him every three months or so,” he explains.

Ah, I think, that would explain why I haven’t seen him here before; because I hadn’t yet moved in three months ago. “I see, that was your six o’clock appointment,” I remember.

“It’s five past. He’s late.”

Behind him the lift pings, and a moment later a man that I’ve seen wandering around the complex several times steps out, looking flustered.

“Mr. Leary, I’m sorry for keeping you. I was attending a flooded kitchen in forty-five,” the man says in his British accent.

Logan looks at me, “That’s not yours, is it?” There is humour in eyes.

“No,” I grin, “I’m nine,” I tell him, and he nods, taking the information readily. “I’ll leave you two to it,” I say.

I nod at the complex manager who nods back, then unannounced, Logan steps forward and kisses my other cheek. It’s brief, but I savour it as best I can. His lips, my skin. Suddenly I feel like Claude might be right, I
am
radiating! I blush for the last damn time today, then I get in the elevator and the doors close.

When home, I dump my bag and head straight for the shower. I need to cool off. I turn the water on, and then strip quickly and step inside. The water is still cold and I squirm under it, but it’s what I need: a refreshing, mind-clearing soak. However, the water is not cold enough to wash my desire away. I suddenly doubt that anything can do that. Well, perhaps a long night of passionate sex with Logan would qualm it slightly, I think, smiling. Amber would be so proud of my thoughts!

I turn the shower colder, but the desire courses through me still, and soon one of my hands is traveling south until it reaches the apex of my thighs. I take two fingers and start circling them around my clitoris. I’m wet, and not from the water. I acknowledge that I’ve been aroused since lunchtime. In my mind, I think back over my encounters with Logan: his smile as he greeted me; the refreshing sound of his laughter; his burning light-green eyes. I moan gently, my breathing heavy, as I push against myself faster and harder. I remember watching Logan’s lips move as he talked; the way he stood so confidently for me to ogle him; the intensity of our bubble at the photo-shoot, and what I felt was about to happen. It wasn’t OK there; here it is!

Abruptly, I know that I want him. I want him on me; I want him in me. A carnal sensation runs through my body at the very thought, and I know I have only moments before my surrender. My eyes are closed, my head is titled back in calm, sweet ecstasy; I’m now palming myself, slowly and torturously, making the moments of bliss last longer. I think about meeting him downstairs only minutes ago, and I know he’s somewhere in the complex. So close! Bravely, I imagine that the hand I’m rubbing myself with is Logan’s hand, and I come almost instantly, moaning loudly, my whole body shaking, releasing the sexual tension that’s been built up for hours.

I breathe, steadying my heart-rate. I’ve got a satisfied smile slapped across my face. I know now that Logan and I are going to happen. It’s going to be hot; real; intense. I
am
going to make him mine.

2. My Funny Valentine

Logan calls me early the next morning to arrange our lunch date. As I listen to him talk I remember my shower last night and my face burns from blushing so hard. How am I going to face him without getting vivid flashbacks on his hand on my private area? I can just see it now, and it mortifies me: I’m either going to burst into nervous giggles or flush so brightly that I alarm him. I shake these thoughts from my head. Grow up, Gem. You’re a grown woman! Pleasuring yourself is a healthy, natural thing to do. Besides, Logan probably does it too.
That
thought does nothing to calm me, but rather distracts me entirely. I wonder
how
he does it, where he does it, and how often. Did he do it last night? Did he think of me? I shake my head again, and refocus on what Logan is saying.

“I’ll see you at twelve thirty, then?”

“Yes, I’ll shower you then,” I say…and then I blanch.

“Pardon me?” I can hear the amusement in his voice.

“Shit! I…uh…sorry…I didn’t mean to say that!”
Get some control of yourself
,
woman
, I shout at myself. “I just stepped out of the shower when you rang,” I try to backtrack. “Um…I haven’t had my morning coffee yet,” I use the ultimate morning excuse.

He chuckles. “I see. You had me thoroughly intrigued for a moment there, Gemima,” his voice is teasing, but gentle and kind.

Finally I laugh. Oh god, it’s going to be a miracle to get through this lunch and
not
say something highly incriminating about my shower-fantasy. “Sorry,” I mutter again.

“No need,” he says. “Twelve-thirty?”

“Yes, I’ll see you then.”
See
you, not shower you!

*

I work tirelessly the whole morning, purposefully keeping myself busy so that I have no spare moments to ponder Logan. A somewhat nasty, self-doubtful thought came to me on my drive to work this morning, and it’s this I’ve been avoiding: what if the spark, the connection, the intensity, is gone? What if we meet today and there’s nothing there? What if one meeting was enough, and on our second meeting Logan gets bored? I can’t bear the thought, it induces panic, so I brush it aside as though it never occurred to me.

At twelve o’clock I bring some portfolios to Mrs. Clemence’s office for a brief discussion. She is formal with me, I suspect because her PA is present too. When Amelie sends her PA out for coffee and cake, her formality dies, and she wants to talk. About Logan!

“Are you having lunch with him today?”

“Uh, yes, Mrs. Clemence.”

“Call me Amelie, please.”

“I need to leave in five minutes, Amelie. Can we please finalise these plans? Then I’ll confirm them this afternoon. I won’t be late back,” I make a point of telling her.

She’s focussed on work for all of two minutes, making the quick and discerning decisions she known for. Her choices are bold and daring, pushing the boundaries, as always. To me, Amelie is the epitome of a classic French woman: stylish, classy, and sophisticated. She’s the kind of woman I envisioned myself becoming when I was eighteen, wide-eyed, and about to move here. Her two minutes up, Amelie says to me, “You may have an hour and a half for lunch today.”

I stare at her. “Really?”

“Oui,” she says casually. Logan has done this to her, I know it; he’s brought out her playful side. “That nice man deserves a nice woman, which you are, oui?”

“Uh, oui,” I stammer quickly.

She smiles at me and I can’t quite believe it. He’s turned her into a giddy schoolgirl! “Besides, I am too old for him…” she gives a little laugh.

“And you’re happily married,” I remind her.

“Oh, yes…that too.”

I pick up the portfolios.

“Enjoy, Miss. Samuels” she says, waving me out of her office.

*

Our date is perfect, providing me with reassurance, and a whole hour and a half of looking at this gorgeous man. I am beyond relieved to feel that our bubble is still intact; something that I notice just by approaching him. Logan kisses my cheek, and I his, and that electric charge is there once more, and doesn’t leave when we break apart. We sit opposite each other, like yesterday, but today when we gaze at each other, lost in our bubble, we’re cooler, calmer; less edgy and insecure. I am reminded of the knowingness I had after my shower that we, us, would happen. Our comfort in one another’s company today seems to support that. And to my great astonishment I do not blush nearly as much as yesterday, even though my candid, American-mouth says the usual slurry of inappropriate things. Even as I watch him speak with animated hands, and I think about those hands on my body, I do not flush. Seeing Logan again, I am suddenly no longer embarrassed by my fantasy; I can openly admit to myself that I want his hands on me. Ardently.

Along with prolonged moments inside our delicious bubble, we laugh a lot together, more than yesterday, as we share more stories and anecdotes. We’re both thrilled for the extra half hour we have together, especially because after today, Thursday, the soonest we’ll be able to see one another again is next Tuesday. Curse my prior commitments and his business trip to Japan!

At the end of our allotted time together, once Logan has picked up the tab again, he walks me back to Pierson House. Halfway there Logan glides his hand past mine and gently takes hold of it, cautiously judging if this advancement is permissible. It’s
more
than permissible! I smile up at him, silently thrilled, and hold his hand back, interlacing our fingers. Then we continue walking and talking without acknowledging the new contact, but rather quietly allowing ourselves to get used to this permanent touch. The intensity of our physical connection softens to something sweet, yet still sexy, and it slowly flows from my hand up my arm and then around my whole body, illuminating me from within. Being with Logan does something special to me. For me. I feel refreshed and enlivened, which supports the promise I made to myself after breaking up with Jerry to be more awake and self-aware. I feel more alive and present. It’s like we’ve met at the perfect time, and though Logan may have been ready for me, waiting and patient for the last two years, I am only now ready for him, and I thank my lucky stars that he was watching on from the sidelines… Suddenly life would be lacklustre without him.

Outside of Pierson’s we linger for an uncomfortable amount of time, neither one of us wanting to say goodbye. Eventually after a moment of prolonged silence spent staring into one another’s eyes, Logan unexpectedly leans down…and kisses me! Our hands are still holding onto each other’s, and I lift my other hand and place it on his face, softly but firmly.
Three points of contact
, I think. His face feels glorious under my hand; his short stubble tickling my palm. And as he kisses me, he smiles, his cheek curving to better fill my caress. His lips on mine feels...right.
Really
right! The first few seconds of contact take me by surprise but I quickly relax into it, closing my eyes like he has, enjoying the sensation that is running through my body. It’s passion, excitement, life-affirming, and...
loving
! I am falling in love with this man! Already. So soon, despite my reservations about men prior to meeting with him yesterday. Logan has changed my mind, changed my heart, in little over twenty-four hours! And, what’s more, I feel it from him too. In the way he kisses me, in the forwardness he exudes. It’s like he can’t help but kiss me; like he has no choice in the matter, but rather his desire has taken over him. His lips are soft against mine. This is where they’re meant to be, I think fleetingly. When I rest my hand on his face and he smiles, he is spurred onward, and he kisses me again, this time his lips forcing mine apart slightly. It’s a wetter kiss, more sensual, and drives me wild with desire for him. I’d like nothing more than to spend the rest of the day standing here, on a sidewalk in Paris, kissing Logan, but reality beckons.

Someone coughs at they walk past us, making us start. We gaze at each other for a moment, knowing that we have to say goodbye now; knowing, too, that neither of us want to.

“I just want to tell you…” he says quietly to me, “…in case I didn’t make it clear yesterday, that when I said I saw you two years ago and thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen...well, I wanted to clarify that you are
still
the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He grins a little as he adds, “I don’t want you to think it was a backdated compliment.”

I smile at him. “Thank you, Logan.” I can’t stop myself from adding, “But I don’t believe you.”

“
Thank you, but you don’t believe me
? Why don’t you believe me?” He looks genuinely curious.

“The
most
beautiful woman you’ve ever seen? Me? Out of every woman you’ve laid eyes on, and you think it’s
me
?”
“Yes,” he says clearly. “Have you never met a man that you find more handsome than any other you’ve ever seen?” There’s an edge to his voice; he’s wary.

“I think you know I have,” I say pointedly, smiling slightly.

His sweet, boyish smile is back. “Well, then…please accept my compliment. Because I mean it, I really do.”

“It’s not you I doubt,” I tell him. “You may indeed believe that I’m the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, but
I
cannot believe it. I think there are women in the world more beautiful than I am.”

“I have traveled the world, Gemima, and I can categorically tell you that there aren’t.”

“I’m the best it gets, huh?” Brown-haired, blue-eyed me?
Shame
, I think.

“Yes,” he laughs.

I laugh too, though I shake my head at him.

“What would change your mind?” he wants to know.

I grin at him and consider for a moment. “Alcohol…a little black dress…a karaoke bar…and Cindy Lauper’s,
Girl’s Just Wanna Have Fun
.”

He smiles back at me. “Excellent choices, Samuels.”

*

The rest of Thursday I linger in a Logan-Leary-stupor. I daydream about his lips on mine, and desperately look forward to feeling them there again. At night I’m kept awake by my thoughts of him. I toss and turn, trying to clear my mind, but I can’t. I lie awake, aimlessly, and I have to admit to myself: I’ve got it bad!

*

Friday is Valentine’s Day. Logan has meetings that will run through my designated lunchtime, and tonight, when he’s free, I have plans with my mom and her colleagues at her salon. So I face my first day of four without seeing him, and though that seems torturously long, there’s a part of me that thinks perhaps spending this day, V-Day, separately, might be a good idea. I feel it puts a lot of pressure on a new relationship — friendship— whatever this is — to celebrate the day of
love
only three days in.

I arrive at work to find it looking exactly the same, but for one large, red heart on the front door. Understated. Not very Amelie Clemence, I think. I had expected that she’d go all out with decorations, but everything is as usual. What seems less than usual is that when we cross paths she makes no queries about my extended lunch with Logan, no cheeky quips at all, and so I assume her mood is not at its best today, and I make a real effort to avoid finding out why. Her tantrums are legendary, and I don’t care to witness one firsthand.

After lunch I have a list of emails to attend to from clients…mostly from clients. As I scan down the list of names, randomly selecting who to reply to first, I am startled to find an email from Jerry! Automatically I click it, and read:

From: Jerry Cassidy
To: Gemima Samuels

Subject: I’m sorry xx
Date: February 14, 2014 13:24
Gem,
Baby, I’m so sorry! I was an idiot…it meant
nothing
…she is nothing…I still love you…you are my world…I want you back! Please, Gem. Pleeeeeeaaaaase, baby! Say you’ll give us another go!
It will never, ever happen again!
Can you forgive me? Please…
Jerry.
It takes me five read throughs to finally comprehend the intention: Jerry wants me back! The slimy, cheating fucker wants
me
back! I gag at the thought of returning to the way we were. No! Never in a million years would I take his proposition seriously. No, Jerry,
no
! But the fact that he’s got the balls to even ask…
what a cheeky shit
, I think. “She is nothing”…how can he say that about another person, especially someone he’s had sex with! His words are so distasteful to me! Besides, if
she is nothing
, then what does that say about you, and your inability to keep it in your pants, Jerry, I ask him in my mind. And he calls me
baby
... I shudder in my seat. It’s so smarmy! I can just see him in my head, grovelling, and I note that all attraction,
all
of it, is gone. He has no redeeming qualities to me. All he has, is my wrath! Something that I’d let go of weeks ago, or so I thought. No, I
have
let go, I tell myself. I’m not going to let him make me take several steps backwards, I’m staying where I am! The fucker!
Instinctively I press the *forward* button in my outlook; Amber has
got
to see this. After I’ve sent it on to her, I hit reply.
From: Gemima Samuels
To: Jerry Cassidy
Subject: Fuck you.
Date: February 14, 2014 13:31
Dear Dipshit,
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?!
Firstly, I’m glad to inform you that you are correct: you
are
an idiot.
Secondly, you
don’t
love me; if you did, you wouldn’t have cheated.
Thirdly, you can want all you like, but I’m not coming back.
Fourthly, don’t contact me out of the blue and call me baby...it’s GROSS.
Fifthly, my name is GEMIMA, not Gem!
Sixthly, I am in no way attracted to your ugly, cheating ass anymore.
Cordially,

Gemima Samuels.

I hit send and instantly regret not being meaner. He got off light! I shake my head, getting him out of my system. I peer over the edges of my cubicle to see if any of the women working in the cubicles near me have noticed the steam coming out of my ears. Fortunately none of them have. I delete Jerry’s email, and then set to work replying to legitimate ones.
I look up ten minutes later to find Rosita, Amelie’s PA, standing awkwardly beside me, clearly waiting to get my attention. Casually she crouches down next to my desk so that none of my coworkers can overhear her.
“Mrs. Clemence has sent me,” she says very quietly.
“Uh, OK,” I mutter back.
“She’s received a warning from the IT department.”
“A warning? Why?”
“About one of your emails.”
I stare at her nonplussed. “Why?” I ask again.
“She bid me tell you that the next time you send an email from this office that contains the F-word, you will be suspended from your work.”
“Oh shit!” I slap my forehead with my palm. Then I look back at Rosita whose eyes are wide. I’m getting told off for swearing and I just swore…again! “Sorry,” I say. “For both indiscretions.”
“Water under the bridge, Miss. Samuels.” She stands up and straightens her dress.
“Thank you for your discretion,” I say quietly.
“You’re most welcome. Incidentally, the email in question has been deleted from the server, meaning it has not been sent. Perhaps I might be so bold as to suggest a slightly more serene approach next time.”
“Yes. Of course. Thank you, Rosita. And please thank Amelie too, for the second chance.”
“Will do. Good day, Miss. Samuels.” She walks away, looking slightly amused.
I face palm again. Shit, shit,
shit
! It’s not enough for the fucker to ruin my day, he has to go ahead and get me into trouble too! Bastard!
You are accountable for your own actions, no one forced you to send that email
, I tell myself.
Fuck that! Blame it on the bastard! In my outlook I scroll through my deleted emails, quickly finding Jerry’s, and then I hit *reply* one more time. It takes everything in me to be civil. Think like a French woman, I tell myself. Be elegant, be eloquent. Just be honest. As I write the email I realise that honesty is more cutting than swearing my ass off. Yet, somehow it’s not as satisfying.
From: Gemima Samuels
To: Jerry Cassidy
Subject: I’m NOT sorry.
Date: February 14, 2014 13:46
Jerry,
I’m not sorry you cheated. Life is better now. The answer is NO, I will not give us another go.
Don’t contact me here again.