“Why’d Cassandra call this meeting?”
“You’ve got me,” Betsy shrugged. “The last time she called us in unscheduled like this, they laid off half the mail room.” She peered furtively around the room before adding “See anybody in a suit?”
“If I wasn’t paranoid already, that just kicked me over the edge.”
“It’s a pleasure.” Betsy peeled the gold foil from a pack of RoLos. “Here. Medicate yourself.” Ororo plopped the gooey tidbit into her mouth just as Cassandra strode in on a cloud of Dior.
“Anna Marie’s gone rogue again,” she informed them. “She’s taking another sick day, so I’ll need you to take minutes, Ororo.” Her mouth was glued shut by caramel, garbling her response.
“Errrmmmm…herld arem…urk…hold on,” she stammered, fanning her hand over her mouth. “Let me hook up the laptop ““
“Grab a steno from her desk, it’s quicker.” Ororo smiled tidily and nodded, gratefully sweeping out of the conference room.
Must. Stop. Fist. Of. Death.
Betsy dutifully saved them a seat closest to the door as the staff crowded inside, pressing against the walls.
“I’ll make this quick, since we’re down to the wire,” Cassandra explained. “I’d like to start by sharing two items on the agenda that should please most of you.” No one reminded her that they never received an agenda, at risk of being sharply dispatched and spit out. “We landed the Lady X account. They’ve purchased six months of ad space, full-spread for their new fragrance. They’ve also graciously sent over a case of samples. Feel free to help yourselves after the meeting.
It’s also my great pleasure and privilege to announce that a new columnist will be joining our staff today.” The crowd nearest the door parted to admit a stylishly dressed blonde who reeked of entitlement and Elizabeth Arden. “Everyone, say hello and welcome to Valerie Cooper.” She gave the room a polite nod and then stared at Cassandra expectantly.
“Could I have some introductions?” One by one, each person in the room gave their name and sheepish blurbs of title and position. Ororo only looked up from her notes when Betsy sharply elbowed her.
“Oh! I apologize…Ororo Munroe. Managing editor.”
“Women’s health editor,” Cassandra corrected her. Despite her flat tone, Valerie beamed brightly.
“I just know I’ll be your shadow, don’t mind me!” This was greeted by a muted chorus of chuckles.
Valerie was as good as her word. Ororo no sooner reached her desk and began typing the minutes than the newcomer poked her blonde head around the corner of her cubicle.
“Hi,” she hedged self-deprecatingly. “Could you…help me with a little something?”
“Ooooh…I’m kind of in the middle of ““
“It’s my PC,” she interrupted, offering Ororo a look that claimed butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “I was wondering how I would go about getting a logon ID for the network.”
“You’ll be working off-site, won’t you?”
“Part of the time. Cassandra wants to make sure I have a connection to the network in case my emails aren’t received, so I can save my articles without worrying about the attachments. You know how these things get lost.” Ororo sighed in annoyance; she knew all too well, since she was the main contact for the out-of-area columnists and maintained the submission log. That didn’t mean she wanted to take credit for “these things” getting lost.
She wasn’t giving her the satisfaction. The meeting minutes were burning a hole in her in-basket.
“I’ll call Douglas and send him your way.”
“You’re a lifesaver!” She prodded Ororo for directions to the break room until Ororo gave up, escorting her down the hall with her own Wonder Woman coffee mug in hand. More impromptu introductions and a tour of the copy rooms and supply cabinets on the second floor threatened her to-do list for the day. Everyone wanted to stop to talk to the pretty blonde, and she was only too happy to oblige.
“I think you’re in good hands,” Ororo murmured, excusing herself when Douglas Ramsey finally showed up to connect her to the network. He preened like a peacock under her effusive praise and claims that “I’m horrible at technical things!”
Ororo checked her Web email account an hour later as she made the last of her edits in red ink to a piece on the benefits of Pilates. Spam, spam, spam, new services from her bank, a “forward me to ten of your friends” note from Emma, pictures from Yukio’s last catalog party…
“Hellooooooo, what are we doing in here?” She double-clicked the last one, also from Yukio, with “A little bird told me” in the subject line.
Looks like your ears must have been burning before we went back to the party, Ro-chan, because Logan got a hold of me today at work and told me to give you his email and home number. His work number’s already on his card that he gave you. He asked me if you were single. I didn’t tell him how recently…feel free to fill in the blanks at your own discretion.
Like I said, don’t get hurt.
…and I want details. Every single, sticky, filthy detail.
Yukio XOXOXOXO
A warm tingle ran through her bones as she archived the message and added his information to her contact list. The same quirky, sappy little smile occasionally snuck back onto her lips as she reviewed each submission and tucked them into their respective folders.
~0~
Two days later:
Ororo was on a mission.
“You could just wear that nice black dress you already have,” Yukio reminded her.
“I need help here,” she sniped, restlessly sliding metal hangers along a circular rack of jeans. “What should I wear for a guy who works in dirt all day?”
“Anything but dirt?”
“Still not helping,” she muttered, and she held up a pair of skinny, bootcut pair of distressed denims at her waist, eyeballing the fit.
“Where’s he taking you?”
“Movie. I get to choose.”
“Chick flick?”
“I was thinking an action movie…what do you think?”
“Do you want to watch an action movie?”
“No.” She wrinkled her nose and draped the jeans over her arm. “Vic burned me out on bullets, titties and explosions six months into him moving in with me. If I had to watch any of the Mission Impossible movies or Reservoir Dogs one more time, you would have had to have me committed.”
“So pick something you want to actually watch. There’s a novel idea,” Yukio snorted.
“It doesn’t work that way. It’s a first date.”
“And?”
“I have to pick something he likes. It’s an easy conversation opener. I don’t do small talk.”
“You could talk about work while he’s buying you the popcorn.”
“I hate talking about work.”
“Eh. It’s a no-brainer.”
“Only if I want to watch him run screaming from the monotony.”
“Give yourself some credit.”
“Maybe when I get a job that doesn’t make me want to rip my ears off the sides of my head.”
“What did Cassandra do now?”
“Nothing. She’s not the culprit this time. We’ve got a new columnist.”
“She annoying?”
“Bingo. Not to mention one more sheep to herd back into the corral. I’m having a hard enough time keeping Remy on a tight rein. Forty-eight hours or less before deadline is when he slinks back to me with his articles.”
“He back from London?”
“Just for five frickin’ minutes. He’s back on a plane on Friday.”
“He’s hiding from you.”
“He sent me a cool postcard, though.” Their travel journalist’s dark auburn hair zipping around the corner was often the most that the office of Ultimate Woman ever saw of their most popular travel columnist and entertainment reporter. Remy LeBeau took great joy in what he did for a living and kept his personal life personal; few people knew him as well as Ororo did, owing that privilege to their time spent as interns while they each finished degrees in journalism and communications.
Ororo relied on him for pertinent insight on the men in her life, calling him her “subject matter expert.” He was second only to Yukio whenever she began dating anyone new or suffered an ugly breakup in regard to giving him the dirt. Remy also had the distinct advantage of having been divorced from his wife of less than a year, Belladonna; that was long enough to major in the study of female living habits in an immersion program. He’d become fluent in specialties such as I Need Chocolate 101 and Introduction to Taking Out the Garbage.
But more importantly, he was honest and a good listener, and he knew how men thought. He’d played the game long enough to give good advice on how not to play games, something Ororo still hadn’t mastered.
It was too easy, too seductive to fall back into old habits, like a comfortable pair of shoes.
He’d known Vic was cheating even before she broke down at her desk, when he’d approached her to keep their lunch date.
“He ain’ worth it, petit,” he assured her, silently fanning away one of the interns attempting to bring her a handful of press releases. She marked Remy’s initial reticence to talk about Vic with her to the two men not having anything in common. She was the one who had to live with Vic, she reasoned, not Remy. She sniffled more loudly into the wad of Kleenex he produced when he reminded her that when she started dating him, she’d been on the rebound and ever planned on a real commitment from the onset. He’d been stumped when she moved the huge, blond construction worker into her apartment.
“Rem still single?”
“What do you think?” Ororo scoffed. “Stick a fork in him, he’s done. His voice mail’s so full, you just get that long beep that sounds like a fax signal when you try to leave a message. He doesn’t even give out his email.”
“Guess I don’t blame him, then.” Yukio was happily single following a bad breakup with her girlfriend, Carol Danvers, which followed too closely on the end of a five-year relationship with Kenuichio Harada. She was done with both men AND women at this point, and she was contemplating getting a nice golden retriever.
“What color do you think Logan would like if I were to get this top?”
“What color do you like?”
“Yukio, don’t leave me hanging!” She pressed one, then the other of two short-sleeved knit tops against herself. “Black or charcoal?”
“They’re both perfect. Buy both.”
“You’re not helping!”
“I’m not the one going on the date.” Then she added “Half your wardrobe’s black. The charcoal would be a nice change.”
“Right,” she answered thoughtfully before returning the charcoal top to the rack. “Black it is. Stick to what works.”
“Brat,” Yukio muttered, shaking her head. Her dangling gold hoops swung with the motion, set off nicely by her boyishly short, spiky black hair. Her hairstylist fell in love with her the day that she took her suggestion to whack off two feet and let her “try something new.” That was two years ago, and Yukio never turned back. She was no less striking than Ororo, even though she was her polar opposite. Her complexion was fair and had warm, brown undertones. Japanese features were set in a heart-shaped face, and her body was willowy and slender. Most things came easily to Yukio, except for her love life. Her expectations were high, no matter who she was with, and she would seldom bend.
Ororo, on the other hand, bent over backward, left, right, and into a pretzel knot every time she exchanged her phone number with someone new.
“I need a belt with this,” she muttered as they approached the accessory racks in the back of the store.
“Shoot, why not?”
One simple outfit became more and more complicated with each progressive store they perused. Shoes, makeup, leave-in conditioner, earrings, and a new pocketbook went home with her in white plastic shopping bags while Yukio walked out empty-handed except for a cinnamon sugar soft pretzel.
~0~
Six hours later:
So it begins.
Hurry Up and Wait.
Those last, agonizing, ten to fifteen minutes of pacing, checking the peephole in the door, fluffing your hair in the mirror, looking for lipstick on your teeth, making sure your shirt isn’t tucked into your underpants, and deliberating if an outfit makes your butt look big enough to need to change it one last time.
Ororo was dying to eat something, but she was saving room for popcorn. She couldn’t greet him at the door with Cheese Nip breath or crumbs on her hands; butterflies duked it out with hunger, and her stomach was making strange, petulant noises.
She pressed her palm against her abdomen. “Stop that!” she hissed.
Logan picked that moment to knock. She nearly tripped over the hallway throw rug in her haste; her stumbling steps sounded heavy against the hardwood floor. “GAH!”
*Knock, knock, knock…*
“Coming! I’m coming!” One glance through the peephole wasn’t enough to get the full effect of how he looked; she was eyeball to chest with him from the angle where he stood, his body distorted by the curved lens.
She jerked open the deadbolts and stared at him through the narrow gap between the door and the frame, the slender chain from the lock separating them.
“Hey, darlin’.”
“Hi!” She hated how breathy and girlish her voice sounded. He merely grinned. Her stomach graduated from odd noises to performing flip-flops; she wondered if he could hear her heart pounding.
Picture him in his underwear… she coached herself.
No, no, that didn’t help at all.
He was undeniably sexy.
Hazel eyes skimmed over her from head to foot, lingering on the places he liked best. “Ya look nice. Ready ta go?”
“Let me get my pocketbook.” She stepped back to let him inside, thanking herself that she’d tidied up her apartment before she did her nails. “Relax for a minute.”
“Nice place.”
“Thanks!” she called out, digging in her jewelry box for one last detail: Her lucky pendant. She fumbled with the clasp and checked to make sure it was hanging neatly around her neck without catching her hair, but she smothered a curse when she yanked out a few random strands anyway.
She was just looping her strap over her shoulder, choosing her regular, black pocketbook that held all the essentials, when he looked up from her coffee table tome of “Superman Sunday Comic Classics” with a smile.
“Ready ta roll?”
“Reddy, Freddie.” He relieved her of her jacket before she could shoulder her way into it and held it out for her. She felt the faint brush of his hand lifting the fall of thick hair up from the collar before she tugged it closed, and she felt a fresh wave of goosebumps. His voice by her ear was rumbly, deep, and very, very male.
“Smell nice.”
“Oh…er, thanks…”
“Whatever it is, it’s nice on you.” If she didn’t know better, she’d have sworn he had crept closer, almost nuzzling her nape to get a better whiff.
“Curve,” she stammered.
“Hmmm?”
“Curve. Perfume. It’s…my perfume.” She saw him nod from the corner of her eye as she fished out her keys.
“Perfume ain’t the kinda thing I’ve ever memorized when I’ve smelled any I’ve liked. Flowers are a different story.”
“What, you know all of them by scent?”
“More than ya’d think.” Again, a faint touch when they reached for the doorknob at the same time.
“Where are you parked?” The night was crisp, and it was early yet; she wagered they’d be able to see their breath by the end of the movie.
“Right over there.” He nodded across the street as they strolled to the stoplight. His car was unremarkable, clean, but showing gradual wear and tear in the paint from living so close to the shoreline. The “H” was missing from the hood. “Buncha kids in my neighborhood went around vandalizing Hondas in the apartment parking lot. They collected these things,” he explained, pointing to the blank outline where they’d scraped off his logo.
“At least they didn’t take the hub caps or the tires,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “Any thoughts on what movie you’d like to see?”
“Thought I’d let you pick,” he offered. She stared again at his hands, weathered and rugged as he started the car. She jerked ineffectually at the seat belt until he peered over at her struggle. “Sorry, darlin’, it’s a pain in the ass. Been meanin’ ta get that fixed.” He leaned over without any further excuse and reached for the offending buckle, giving a strong tug “just the right way.”
He was close enough for her to inhale his masculine scent, mingling his own pheromones with a hint of his aftershave and shampoo. She could make out the pending, stubborn bristles just beneath his skin that threatened five o’clock shadow. She felt heat radiating from his body as it brushed hers with the simple task, and she fought back more of those infernal tingles. Get a grip, girl.
The drive to the theater was uneventful; they arrived just late enough to get a parking space toward the back and to miss half the previews. A single, large bucket of popcorn guaranteed more close contact, something that became jitteringly obvious once they sat down in the back row. What was she, twelve?
The Bourne Ultimatum was a safe choice. Logan wasn’t the kind of person who talked during a movie, except for asking her if she wanted another soda halfway through. Vic had annoyed her and half the people around them with a running commentary (loudly) of what was happening on the screen. No wrestling for the armrest, no Vic hogging the soda, no listening to him fumbling for his cell phone when he should’ve turned it off during the previews.
It was nice.
It took a while for her ears to adjust to the sudden loss of Dolby surround sound when they emerged from the theater; she rubbed one absently as he chucked the popcorn bucket into the trash.
“What’d ya think?”
“Mmmm. Not bad. It was decent.” He quirked one shaggy brow and made a thoughtful sound in his chest.
“Decent? That ain’t yer kinda movie?”
“It was fine,” she assured him. “I had fun,” she added, since he was the reason.
“We coulda seen something ya liked more.”
“Even a soppy chick flick?”
“If it had nekkid people in it, sure,” he deadpanned. She suppressed a mild snort.
“You’re awful.”
“Uh-huh. Wanna eat?”
“Yes, please.”
~0~
Ororo and Logan were playing Twenty Questions once the server swept their menus away and left behind tow glasses of iced water.
“Where did ya grow up?”
“Harlem, for a while. My parents went overseas when I was five when my dad was reassigned.”
“Where to?”
“Ghana.”
“Wow.”
“Have you ever been out of the country, Logan?”
“Canada. Lived there most of my life. But yer cheatin’, it’s still my turn.” She chuckled as she tapped her straw to unwrap it.
“Shoot.”
“Got any siblings?”
“No. Always wanted one, though.”
“Eh. That can be overrated. My brother John jacked me up every chance he got.”
“Poor baby.” Her smile was wicked.
“Brat,” he tsked, borrowing Yukio’s favorite nickname. “What do ya do for a livin’?”
“Ah. Work. Right. I’m an editor. I work for Ultimate Woman.” He raised his eyebrows.
“Nice. What’s that like?”
“Oh…boring. You wouldn’t want to hear about ““
“Try me. Do ya write, too?”
“Sometimes.” She found herself warming to her topic. “I manage interns to make sure they’ve done their fact-checking and line edited the drafts.”
“What’s the difference between line editing and proofreading?”
“You’re checking the copy to make sure it was inputted correctly, line by line, with no inconsistencies. Especially with material you received from an external columnist, a wire story, or letters to the editor.”
“Ah. Makes sense. So, do ya like it?” She pondered that for a minute.
“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”
“What don’t ya like about yer job, ‘Ro?” She stifled a laugh.
“Ro? That’s different…nothing above and beyond the things people usually hate about their job, I guess. Meetings. Minutes. Paper cuts. Annoying interruptions.” She bit back “Annoying new columnists and my bitchy boss.”
“How long have ya been there?”
“Five years. Just long enough to have enough experience to compete with the other ten thousand editors in this city who want to work for a magazine.”
‘What about doin’ something else?”
“I’m too stuck in what I’m doing, I guess. It’s safe. Comfortable. I’m in my zone.”
“Bet ya could do anything ya set yer mind to.”
“That wasn’t a question, so it’s my turn,” she reminded him smugly. His answering smile was sheepish, and he held up his hands.
“Hold up. I get one more. Favorite record of all time?”
“Eric Clapton’s Timepieces. You?” she countered.
“Abraxas. Santana.”
“I listen to different kinds of music, preferably something I can dance to.”
“Uh-oh! Ya missed yer question, darlin’.”
“You owe me!” She leaned back into the booth and folded her arms beneath full breasts. “Favorite color?”
“Blue,” he answered easily. His eyes were hooded as he peered up into hers. She felt a current of electricity sizzle between them, and she felt her traitorous nipples harden into pebbles. She cleared her throat.
“How long have you been working in a flower shop?”
“Since I took it over from a friend of mine named Clementine. Her kids didn’t wanna keep the business up and running. Jean-Paul and Jeanne-Marie both took off ta Paris.”
“Do you live in the city?”
“From hand ta mouth. Rent’s a crime here, but I love bein’ this close ta the action,” he admitted.
“Ever wanted to do anything else?”
“A few different things. When I was a kid, I wanted ta be a superhero.” Laughter made her chest shake this time.
“Superman or Batman?”
“Which one do ya think?”
“Between those two? Batman.” She glanced around the crowded dining room for their server before resuming their talk. “How long have you been single?” He sobered a moment, and she used the pregnant pause to kick herself.
“After a while, ya stop countin’ the days, but for a while now. Single, and not lookin’ that hard. I do all right.” She appreciated his honesty.
“How long was your last relationship?”
“Long enough ta think I knew what I was supposed ta know about her, and for her ta prove me wrong. ‘Bout a year and a half.”
“Favorite TV show?” She decided to let him off the hook for a while.
“Heroes.”
“Good enough.” Conversation suspended itself while steaming plates were set in front of them with the customary warning of “Watch that plate, it’s hot” before they were once again left alone.
“Ya mind me askin’ ya the same question?”
“I’m partial to Battlestar Galactica.”
“The other question.”
“It ended up being a little too long.” She twirled her pasta onto her fork. “But that’s about it.” She didn’t volunteer any more information than that. He didn’t pry any further.
“So I was right ta assume ya live alone?”
“Correct,” she replied cheerfully.
“Works for me.” His smile was wolfish as he cut his petite sirloin.
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