He looks at the clock on his cell phone and gives a low whistle. “You’re cutting it a bit fine.”
“I know,” I say shortly, rushing into the elevator when it arrives. I press the button for the ground floor; he presses the button for the parking garage.
“Do you have a plastic sheath for that paper? It’s pissing it down out there,” says the guy with the lake-view office.
My stomach drops. “No.” Shit. I didn’t even notice. But I would have known if I had been listening to the rising scream in my leg and hip that alerts me to dips in the barometric pressure.
I shove the document inside my shirt. The FedEx is just about as close as my car, which I had to park in an uncovered lot thanks to running late this morning (fantasies in the shower are especially time-consuming). Either way, the proposal’s going to get drenched.
“Ah… I can give you a lift.”
My heart starts pounding. Partly because I just got a flash of the fantasy I was having in the shower this morning. Partly because I can’t imagine being in a car with him. Of all the things I’ve pictured us doing, riding together in a car isn’t one of them. And for some reason, that matters.
“No! I mean… Oh. Well… I don’t know… You don’t have to.”
He raises his eyebrow at my strange string of replies. “I know. But it’s no trouble. Really. My car’s in the underground car park.” He motions to my shirt. “Come on. That’s not going to do the trick. It’ll be rubbish by the time you get five feet up the frog and toad, and all your hard work is going to go down the pan.”
“It’s only three blocks away.” I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him that my shirt will keep the rain at bay or if I’m assuring him that I won’t be too much of a bother. I’m too focused on filtering out the parts of his sentence I don’t understand (which are many) to examine my motives.
“I think I have enough petrol,” he jokes.
“Okay. Thanks.”
We bypass the ground floor and descend to the second level of the parking garage. In silence. I’m suddenly very aware that my hair looks like it hasn’t seen a brush in several hours (because it hasn’t). And I’m also noticing that Real Jude doesn’t smell like Fantasy Jude. It’s not a bad thing; just different than I imagined. Fantasy Jude smells like books and gin and tonic. Real Jude smells like cinnamon Altoids. And Tide.
We glance at each other at the same time, smile tightly, and look away. Finally, the elevator doors open, and Jude leads the way to his car. When we stop next to it, I start laughing, which he immediately misinterprets.
“Yeah. Sorry. It’s a bit of a pigsty,” he apologizes.
“No!” I say, even though on closer inspection, it kind of is. As he throws fast food wrappers and bags into the backseat to clear the passenger seat of the compact navy blue import, I explain, “I have the exact same car.”
“Stroll on!” he cries.
“What?” Is he telling me to walk? “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it,” I stutter, thinking he’s taken offense to something I’ve said.
“Come again?” he questions, then seems to realize I’m confused by what he said. “Oh! No. I just mean, that’s incredible!”
Relieved, I elaborate, “I’m not kidding. Same model year, same color, same everything!” I pat the small spoiler on the trunk.
He comes around the car. “Then you drive. You know where we’re going, and we’ll get there faster without your having to direct me.”
I’m not entirely sure about driving his car, but I don’t have time to argue, so I answer, “Okay.” I hand him the proposal, which is warm from being up against my body. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
Other than having to scoot the seat up considerably so that I can reach the pedals, it’s eerie how at home I feel in his car. It even smells like my car, thanks to the fast food wrappers scattered around.
I shoot onto Lake Shore Drive, turning on the wipers and the headlights at the same time. Then I weave in and out of traffic, looking in the mirrors and over my shoulder as I drive as fast as legally possible to get to the nearest FedEx. We’re there in less than five minutes.
“See? Much faster,” he says, smiling shakily. There’s sweat on his brow. “You’re a very… confident driver, Lisa.”
While I wait anxiously in line inside the copy store, I fume. Fantasy Jude would never mistake me for someone else. Then I try to calm down by telling myself it could have been worse: he could have called me “Leslie.” Of course, he wouldn’t make that mistake, since he and Leslie are such bosom buddies. Gag.
After ridding myself of the proposal, I return to the car, where Jude’s sitting behind the wheel. I settle into the passenger seat and tuck my company credit card into my purse.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say stiffly, all earlier feelings of camaraderie gone, thanks to his gaff. I just want to get to my own little blue car and home, where I can spend some quality time with Fantasy Jude in a hot bath.
As he backs out of the parking space he says, “I got your name wrong just then, didn’t I? You’re Libby, not Lisa.”
I look out the window. “It’s no biggie. People do it all the time.” It’s true; I don’t know why I’m being so unforgiving about it. I don’t care when Gary does it, which is surprisingly often, given how long we’ve worked together. And every new person calls me “Lisa” at least once (usually more often) until they get to know us better and realize how very different we are.
“It’s difficult to keep the assistants straight; your
