Page 31 of Jane Deyre
Over the next five minutes, I watch while he hangs the board. Just for fun, or maybe just because I love watching his biceps flex and observing the contour of his forearms, his long fingers in action, and the curve of his ass, I drive him a little crazy. “Up an inch... Down an inch... A little to the right... A little to the left.”
Funnily, the man who seemed to have no patience at Target this afternoon, doesn’t get frustrated or flustered. He obliges with my every command as though he’s thoroughly enjoying this little game I’m playing... until it’s perfectly placed.
“Perfection,” I shout out.
He steps back from his handiwork. And for the first time, studies my vision board. I feel a sudden, uncomfortable invasion of my privacy. Of my dreams.
“My godmother is on your vision board?” He studies the picture of Edwina in her famous red gown.
Wrestling with my discomfort, I swallow it back. “Yes, she’s always been an inspiration to me.”
His eyes scan the other photos. They linger on that of an old Hollywood mansion. “And this one looks a lot like Thornhill.”
“Yes, I’ve always fantasized living in a house like it.”A castle.
He twists his lips and lets out a low “hmm.” Is he judging me? I’m not sure. His eyes move to a photo of Audrey Hepburn. The iconic one fromBreakfast at Tiffany’s.In her little black dress and pearls, her hair swept up with a tiara, and a cigarette holder between her gloved fingers.
“I met Audrey once when I was a kid. My godmother knew her. Even in her later years, she was a rare beauty. A one and only.” He pauses. “You remind me of her.”
I feel myself flush. I’ve always thought of myself as nothing but plain. Plain Jane. A nervous laugh escapes. “It must be my ears.”
He pivots around and studies me. “It’s more than your ears. The shape of your face. Your doe-like eyes. Your cheekbones. Your petite frame... I can imagine you in that little black dress.”
The closest thing I’ve ever had to a little black dress was the polyester waitress uniform I had to wear when I worked at a local diner in high school. It was a far cry from Audrey’s elegant Givenchy sheath.
His eyes linger on me. Goosebumps pop along my arms. I squirm on the bed.
“Well, thanks for everything. I have a big day planned with your daughter tomorrow.” Truth, reader: I haven’t planned a thing. “So, I’d better call it a night.”
His eyes stay on me. “How about a glass of wine? Just one before I go?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
His gaze holds me captive. “I’m your boss. And we’re sharing some wine. End of discussion, Miss Deyre.”
Minutes later, we’re sitting in the living room, drinking the chilled white wine. Me curled up on the couch, him on one of the armchairs flanking the coffee table, his legs crossed. Close enough to propose a toast.
“To visions,” he says, clinking his wineglass against mine. His eyes travel down my body. I wonder: is he mentally undressing me? Imagining me naked? Why am I having these lewd thoughts? Am I projecting my own desires?Get a grip, Jane.This gorgeous, successful man is totally out of your league.
With a nervous smile, I follow suit after he takes a sip of the pale golden liquid.
“This isn’t bad.” He takes another sip. “Honestly, sometimes I can’t tell the difference between a hundred-dollar bottle of wine and a ten-dollar one.”
“I wouldn’t know.” The only wine I’ve known is the cheap one John Reed’s mother guzzled. And I never touched the stuff. Based on my experience in foster care, alcohol can do evil things to evil people. Make them eviler. My consumption of the alcoholic beverage makes me anxious.
“Thanks for hanging up my board,” I say, fumbling for conversation. “And for bringing the wine over.”
Absently, he swirls his chardonnay. “Actually, I came over to apologize.”
“For what?” There’s a note of surprise in my voice.
“For being such a grump this afternoon.”
“Yeah, you were a Grumpasaurus.”
He laughs. “I’m not sure that’s a word.”
“You’re the writer. You should know.”