Tears leak from the corners of my eyes as I continue to shake with mirth. “You’re killing me!” I rest my hand on his cheek.
He turns his head and kisses my fingers. “You’re not mad?”
“No!”
“Oh. Good. Because I did what I did because I thought maybe you’d feel safer talking to me if you knew your friend had sent me. The crazy thing is that I lied about the whole thing so I wouldn’t seem like as much of a weirdo, but that was worse than telling the truth.”
“Yep.”
He groans at himself.
“I have my own confession,” I drop lightly, hoping I don’t regret it.
“Well, well, well.”
“I was still awake last night, when you said you loved me.”
His smile fades, and he looks down at the mattress between us. “Oh. Well, that’s okay. It’s not a secret, or anything.” He blushes, keeping his eyes down. “I just wasn’t sure you were ready to hear it. But I had to say it. I felt like I was going to burst if I didn’t. So I waited until you were asleep—or I thought you were.”
When he lifts his eyes, he clears his throat and shoots me a wobbly smile. “I told you I was pathetic.”
I trail my fingers down his cheek. “You’re too good to be true.”
He locks his gaze with mine. “I just love you, Maura. That’s all.”
When he makes slow, tender love to me, so different from our frantic first time, he reassures me that last night wasn’t a one-time thing, that he doesn’t use the “l”-word like a post-coital “thank you.”
Afterward, as we lie side by side, I say lazily toward the sun-drenched ceiling, without moving, “Yep. I’m never getting to work on time.”
He grabs my hand and kisses it. With his mouth against my knuckles, he says, “Don’t go at all. Stay here.”
I laugh. “No. I’m not playing hooky to have sex with you all day.”
“You know you want to.”
“Well, duh, but it’s not any better than all the people who are going to call in sick due to their Super Bowl hangovers. I can’t do it.” With major effort and willpower, I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
Jet follows, scooting against my back and kissing my shoulder. “Quitter.”
I laugh while idly wondering where the majority of my clothes are, before remembering I left them in the guest room bathroom.
“Is anyone going to see me walk half-naked from this room to the one next door?”
“The neighborhood already heard you,” he teases.
“I still don’t want Helen to see me,” I say, referring to his housekeeper.
“She’s not here yet. God, I’m already hard for you again.”
“Jet!” I jump from the bed and retrieve my t-shirt and panties from the floor, putting them on in double-time.
He laughs at my prudish reaction, collapsing onto his back and wheezing at the rafters. The tented sheet proves he wasn’t kidding and almost makes me reconsider my suddenly strict work ethic. Almost.
But I must be strong.
As much as I would have loved to stay in bed with Jet this morning, I couldn’t. Arnold’s been giving me more and more responsibility to prepare me for his departure in a few months. I thought the more I learned, the less freaked out I’d be about the fall fair, but the opposite has happened. The more I learn, the more I realize I still don’t know, and the more I realize that as complicated as organizing and running these events is, the outcome is generally lackluster, and I don’t want to be associated with something that lame when my time comes around. The system needs an overhaul, but I have no clue where to start. Therefore, I haven’t.
After all, I have until September to organize and launch this stupid thing, and since it’s only February, that means I have months to not think about it, according to my usual process. Whatever that is. But based on things said in the spring job fair planning meetings, this passing of the baton is a test of sorts. With Arnold leaving, I’ll be one of the senior-most counselors (the turnover at this place is ridiculous, ironically enough), and the others already have their pet projects and responsibilities. It’s time for me to step up and claim mine, if I want to keep my job.
And I guess I do want to keep it. Because I don’t want to leave and start over somewhere else. Plus, I do like helping people find employment. So if the status quo is no longer an option, I’d better get my act together.
I keep telling myself I’m too busy helping Arnold with the spring fair and learning what needs to be done to start planning my own event. That explanation isn’t going to cut it with my boss for much longer, though. Cynthia’s going to want to see some concrete plans.
As of this moment, I have zero.
As I’m about to leave for the night, eager to see Jet, Arnold corners me in my office and drones on and on about the pros and cons of having a full-service complimentary food cart at the job fair.
“I’ve had mixed results in the past,” he says. “I guess I’ll do it this time, and I’ll send you a memo with the cost-to-benefits ratio, so you’ll be able to make a more informed decision for the fall fair. By the way, how’s that going?” He sits in the chair across from my desk, and I want to scream.
Instead, I stand and say, “Great. I have some, uh, ideas about, uh, things.”
“What kind of things?”
“A theme, for one. Something to bring people in, drum up interest.”
He chuckles. “That’s hardly necessary. Paying jobs sell themselves.”
“Yeah, but some of the jobs aren’t all that attractive. A theme will drive people to the less popular booths. Maybe. I’m hoping.”
“Sounds like a lot of trouble for nothing.”
I walk
