Chapter 9 Cleo
CLEO
“Stop.” Franklin is squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, holding his French-press coffee maker with the other.
“Stop waving red-and-green cardigans in my face—this is my actual nightmare come to life.” He exhales for around seventeen seconds before squinting at me and stating, “There is no such thing as a fashion emergency at nine on a Sunday morning during the holiday season. That’s not a thing. Why must I be awake?”
“Elijah Abrams hired me to be a temp assistant at his office for a couple of days and I have to go to a kid’s party this afternoon, so what should I wear?”
His eyes and mouth are suddenly wide open. “Say more. Tell me everything.”
I suddenly realize he was still out when I got home last night, so he doesn’t know that Elijah was at the party I went to.
I break it down for him and watch as his expressions morph from horror to secondhand embarrassment to gleeful shock to villainous glee to just plain glee to lip-smacking bemusement.
All the while maintaining his snarky-gay-housemate vibe, which is very impressive.
“So, yes, his ex-wife is now remarried and their son hired me to play Elijah’s date and now I’m going to work with him, probably alone at his office on a Sunday.
I need to wear something that’s work-appropriate but also mildly boner-inducing for power-play reasons yet also kid-party appropriate in case I don’t have time to change into my costume before I leave the studio.
But I also don’t want to give him the wrong idea because it would obviously be a terrible idea for us to hook up. ”
“Got it. Sweater dress, transparent black tights, sexy black boots. Hair down.”
“What if I wear my elf costume without the Santa’s helper hat and, like, a trench coat?”
“No. Stop. You will wear the sexy boots.”
“But I have a blister from wearing them last night, and I don’t want to wear high heels all day before doing a kid party job.”
“You are wearing the boots.”
“I really don’t think I should lead him on like that, though…”
“You’re wearing the boots.”
“Franklin. I’m not wearing the boots.”
I’m wearing the boots.
But only because Franklin threatened to change the locks to his house if I didn’t.
And also because Franklin is always right when it comes to mildly boner-inducing work-appropriate fashion choices.
ELIJAH
I’m at the office.
When do you think you’ll get here?
I would prefer it if you got here sooner rather than later.
Let me know when you’re at the gate. Simon is the security guard on duty today and he is excessively talkative. Do not get sucked into a conversation with him.
ME
Too late! I just parked outside your building. See you in a few minutes.
I parked next to the only other car in the parking strip in front of the building that houses the Always Right Productions offices.
It’s a black BMW, and there’s a booster seat in the back that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy.
Warm and fuzzy feelings are a lot more appropriate for a work environment than the hot and bothered feelings I had in the shower this morning.
I still can’t believe Paxton is Elijah Abrams’s son. I still haven’t had time to truly process this. I don’t even know how I’ll process it when I do have time. It felt so good to hold his hand and he was so attentive, it was surprising.
Not that it means anything. We’re all wrong for each other. Total opposites. He was born into an empire of steel barons, and I was born to a couple of hopelessly romantic community-theatre lovers who worked retail and were always scraping by.
I enrolled in film school because it was my mom’s unfulfilled dream, and he enrolled to piss off his dad.
I approached every assignment as a fun opportunity to learn new skills and get to know people.
He approached literally everything as a competition and an opportunity to prove to everyone that he wasn’t just some entitled trust-fund kid.
It became clear pretty early on that we were the top students in our year.
We did push each other to be better. I know he recognized that too.
At the end of the first term in our second year there was an actual competition for best short film. We both produced, wrote, and directed ours. The films were screened for a panel of professional judges. And I won.
And I was really happy I won because my parents were so proud when I called them to tell them.
But I also didn’t care much. Elijah cared. I saw his face when they announced my name.
I thought he would be furious with me, but at the Christmas party later that night…well. That was the first time he surprised me. But I can’t think about that night right now.
I can’t believe I pretended to be Elijah’s date at his ex-wife’s wedding party.
I can’t believe I kissed him under the mistletoe again, eight years later.
I can’t believe both Paxton and Elijah offered me jobs within twenty-four hours.
I wonder if Elijah would have even remembered begging me to temp for him for a few days if I hadn’t made him repeat the offer while I was recording it as proof.
I wonder if he even remembers kissing me last night before drinking three more glasses of scotch.
I wonder if he’ll be able to tell that I can still feel his lips on mine even though the kiss we shared last night was very PG compared to the kisses from eight years ago.
Maybe I won’t spend the entire day or rest of the month or rest of my life wondering if he felt anything too or if he was only doing it because he wanted his son to think he was having a nice time with the song-and-balloon lady he hired to be his playdate.
Maybe he’s really hungover and he’ll look a lot less handsome today!
That would be great. I step off the elevator and immediately know for a fact that he does not look less handsome today.
Because Elijah is standing at the end of the hall, outside the door to his office, in a beautiful blue suit.
I can tell from twenty feet away that it makes his eyes even bluer.
But he didn’t shave today and his hair is wavier than it was last night so he looks infinitely sexier.
I want to scream “All I Want for Christmas Is You” at him because I just know he would hate it.
He’s tossing a ball back and forth between his hands, but when he gives me the once-over and his gaze lands on my boots, he clenches his jaw and squeezes that ball so tight, I watch the veins pop out on his hands.
Gosh darn it.
How does he manage to make anxiety and aggression look so hot?
“Why are you carrying that enormous duffel bag and a garment bag?” That’s his greeting.
Not Hey, let me help you carry that! Or I haven’t been able to stop thinking about our mistletoe kiss last night and seeing you in that sweater dress and those boots that your fussy gay housemate forced you to wear is giving me a very unprofessional semi-boner.
I decide to respond with my own question. “Do you have a lunch date or something?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“You’re wearing a suit.”
“Of course I’m wearing a suit. I’m at the office.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Exactly. This is my casual suit. I’m not wearing a tie. Thanks for not wearing your saucy elf costume. You look nice.” He takes a few strides toward me. “Lemme carry that for you—it looks heavy.” He takes the duffel bag from me.
I appreciate the compliment, but at the same time, I don’t appreciate that he looks so hot while complimenting me and insulting my elf costume at the same time.
It’s complicated. “Thank you. I’m not wearing my costume at the moment, but I did bring it with me in this garment bag because I have a kid’s party that starts at four.
I’ll have to leave here at three fifteen. ”
He gestures for me to enter the front office and then follows me in, saying, “That is unacceptable.”
“Why?” This front room is tastefully decorated in a clean, bright mid-century-modern style that doesn’t quite go with the art deco of the building and absolutely clashes with the dark, odious swamp that is Elijah’s personality.
There are four large framed posters of the very high-grossing feature films he has produced.
In eight years. One of which he won an Academy Award for.
It’s unbelievable. Infuriating. But impressive nonetheless.
And just as I suspected—there isn’t one holiday decoration in here. Not one of any kind.
“Because I don’t want to accept that.” He places the duffel bag on the floor next to the desk that I assume I will be seated at today. “I need you here. You said you’d be here today.” He takes the garment bag from me and hangs it on a coat rack.
“I didn’t say I’d be here all day.”
He exhales spitefully. “Right. I almost forgot. Even if you said you’d be somewhere that doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll show up.”
Oh, for crying out loud.
So he’s still mad about that?
After eight years.
After having a child and a marriage.
I’m the bad guy.
Well, I won’t engage. I will diffuse his anger with logic. And good-smellingness. And this sweater dress. I place both hands on my hips, drawing his attention to them. “You need me here after three fifteen on a Sunday, even if we work for nearly five hours before then?”
Staring at my waist and my hips, he says, “I need you to be available in case I need you here at any time of the day or night.”
As I bend down to adjust the zipper on my boot, I ask, “May I inquire what it is you need me to be available to do for you here?”
He clears his throat. “I require you to listen to me vent while I pace around, and I want you to spitball ideas with me.”
“Got it. Well, you can record voice memos and then text them to me. I can respond to your messages when I have time after the party.”
He scrunches up his face as though that’s the most ridiculous thing either one of us has said today. “I’m not going to pay you a hundred dollars an hour to listen to my voice memos.”