My pumps pinch, interrupting my train of thought. Why, oh why, did I wear high heels today? With the baby bump, my center of gravity shifted, and I have yet to achieve the right balance in anything but flats. I’m reaching under the desk to ditch the shoes, when a knock sounds on my door.
"Come in," I raise my head to find Mr. Carrey’s secretary and the last person I expect to see. Gabriel Storm.
“Hi, Liz. Hope we’re not disturbing you,” she says with a bright smile.
“No, of course not.” I stand, grateful the desk hides my bare feet.
“Mr. Storm wanted to take a look at the closing documents.”
“I’ll leave you to it then.”
“Thank you, Ms. Rodriguez. You’ve been so very kind.” He shoots her his dazzling smile which of course makes Jell-O out of Carrey’s AA.
“Yes, thank you, Carmen.” I bite out.
The door closes behind her, leaving Storm and me staring across my desk at each other, a desk not unlike the one I laid on while he pounded into me a mere day after we met. The day his condom tore and he more than likely got me pregnant. I swat away the unwelcome memory and glance up at him.
Without the high heels, we're even at more disparate heights. I always loved how my five seven felt next to his six three. Not that we spent a lot of time vertical. Most of our time we spent horizontal where height didn't matter. But other things did. Like the taste of him in my mouth, the scent of his skin in my nostrils, the feel of him buried deep within me.
A spasm of pain rolls across his face, and he points to a chair. "May I?"
I may not want Storm in my office, but my heart goes to out to him. "Yes, of course. Here, let me." Like any decent paralegal, my office is crammed with paper and the chair overflows with mounds of filings, research documents, library materials.
"Please don't go to any trouble."
His luscious Brit accent pours over me, scattering my senses. I cover up my unrest by shifting papers to my desk. "I'm used to this."
Once I clear the seat, he takes his time sitting down.
"Does it hurt much?" I ache for him. If I could take away his suffering, I would.
"Most of the time, it's manageable, but the travel . . ." He winces when he stretches his right leg.
"Made it worse."
A question about his accident trembles on my tongue, but I choke it back. Why would he tell the woman who betrayed his trust?
In the close confines of my tiny office, he seems larger than life, and, as usual, he smells of that maddening cologne and him. I indulge in a slight shiver before I turn to the purpose of his visit. "Let me get those documents for you.” I kept a couple of copies when I dropped the originals at Support Services.
“Please don’t bother. I don’t need to see them.”
I glance at him, confused. “But Carmen said . . .”
“It was just an excuse to see you. A small subterfuge if you will.” No smile accompanies his statement.
His gaze wanders around my office, my walls, my filing cabinets, so different from his ‘I'm-going-to-fuck-you-silly-first-chance-I-get’ he used to pin on me. He clears his throat, rests the cane across his thighs. Why, he's uncomfortable. Strange. That’s one emotion which never surfaced between us. Lust, anger, transcendental joy, yes, but self-consciousness? Never.
"What do you want, Gabriel?" I’m not about to address him formally, not in my office.