Page 17 of Cuffed to my Roomies
“Oh well,” said Derek affably, “we want you hurt or robbed or any of the other things that happen to people in this city. It’s better than worrying.”
“You two worry about me, it’s so cute,” I teased.
“Do you wanna walk?” Brett joked, “Because a simple thank you is good enough. You don’t have to act all weird about it.”
“Okay, fine, stick a pin in my balloon there, man. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” they both said together, and we laughed.
“If you’re not careful, you’re gonna spoil me,” I said.
“So let us spoil you,” Derek said.
He elbowed me playfully, like a friend. So I couldn’t explain the way my cheeks heated or the shiver of desire that rippled through me. I blinked fast to dispel the image that bloomed before my eyes, the pair of them spoiling me in bed. I bit down on my lip. I felt foolish, ungrateful. They were caring friends and I was using them as fantasy material. Granted, I’d kissed them both, but at very emotional times when none of us was acting like ourselves. It was to be expected that I’d get attached to them. But ‘attached’ didn’t begin to describe how confusing and wonderful and scary it was to be attracted to both of them, to have feelings for them both.
I didn’t say anything else. I just sat, sandwiched between them on the bench seat, warm and safe, breathing in the spicy aftershave Derek always wore and tipping my head back onto his shoulder. I closed my eyes. It felt so good to be right where I was.
9
I was back from another coffee run at Envy. My phone beeped with someone’s early lunch order. I sighed. I loved the magazine and the people I worked with, but the downside of being an intern was that more often than not, I was a copy girl and errand girl. I wanted so much to be invited to join the staff, and I wanted to prove myself, so it didn’t make sense to whine about picking up lattes and wraps for bona fide writers and designers. I didn’t want a reputation for being anything but brilliant and easy to get along with.
I balanced the coffees in the elevator and delivered them to the right desks in the open floor-plan office. I was going to grab a water before the lunch rush started and see if I could squeeze in some copying, but my phone rang. It was Celia, one of my friends and secretary to editor Liz Markham, my absolute idol.
“Babe, I have to pee. I’ll grab your lunch in a minute,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” said a voice on the phone.
“Oh my God. Ms. Markham. I’m sorry. I thought it was Celia. Her number came up on my phone. I’m so sorry,” I babbled. I shut my eyes in embarrassment.
“Lynette, when you’re finished with your rather urgent trip to the facilities, please join us in my office.”
“I will. I’m sorry. Again.”
I ran to the bathroom, muttering to myself the whole time about what an idiot I was. I washed my hands, touched up my lipstick; because a swipe of that Benefit sample was going to totally make up for my immature gaffe on the phone. I made myself take deep breaths and try to look composed, professional, not like someone who announced bodily functions on the phone.
Celia waited for me at the door of the office, and as I went in, she squeezed my arm.
“It’s okay,” she said.
“I want to die,” I whispered. She smiled, shook her head.
I took a seat, perched on the edge of it, facing the massive shiny black desk with floor to ceiling windows behind it, the killer city view of a woman who’d worked her way to the top of the industry. Awe and covetousness pushed my embarrassment aside a little bit.
“I have a task for you if you’d care to undertake it. Sylvia Winchester, one of our relationship writers, has two stories on the docket for the next issue and a handful of online articles to complete. She’s in the hospital with an ovarian cyst just now. Should be on her feet in a couple of days, but she could use a bit of help.”
“I’ll run right over. Which hospital is she in? Does she like tea or coffee?” I said.
Liz, laughed, “Not that sort of help. We were hoping you had time to complete some research on an upcoming article for her.”
“Absolutely! I’d love to help. What am I researching?”
“IUD’s. The myths, the recalls, the lawsuits. I want actual peer reviewed medical studies, not someone’s cousin Ashley whose IUD fell out at a frat party. Something more in-depth than what’s already been done. I don’t want cautionary tales, I want scientific fact,” she said.
“I’ll get started right away.”
“Very good. I need sources and summaries in my email by Friday at 9AM.”
