First Draft Romance

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Thanks to my slightly shorter commute, I have barely enough time to stop at the Manhattan Public Library before I get to work, printing off each page of my notes on Roz's draft and using a thick binder clip to hold them together. Years ago, I read in an article that Roz prefers to read over her notes on paper, so she can mark them up with her own ideas. She says she needs the interactivity of it.

I already feel like I'm winning at the "suck-up assistant" game today.

I'm all smiles on my way up to her floor. Even the little old elevator man can't resist my charms; he finally returns my smile on my way past him into the elevator. I use my access card to get into Roz's apartment, peering around at the slightly less-pristine-than-usual set-up. The decorative couch cushions are strewn about the floor, and there are two wine glasses on the counter next to the sink, only one sporting Roz's infamous red lipstick stain.

With a frown, I walk over to them, placing the thick stack of notes on the counter. The binder clip clicks against the white marble when I set it down. A quick glance inside the wine glasses reveals tiny pools of a blood red wine. One of the wine glasses still has a little sip or two left at the bottom, and I wonder if they both belonged to Roz, or if she maybe had another guest over. A Willow Leave-type guest.

I hear a burst of laughter down the hallway toward Roz's room. It startles me and I jump, nearly knocking over one of the wine glasses. I barely manage to catch it before it topples completely off the counter. Unfortunately for me, it's the one with a few sips' worth of wine still in it. Dark red splashes on the vinyl wood floor and the lower cabinets.

"Fuuuck," I whisper.

And that's how Roz finds me when she walks into the kitchen: hidden behind the counter, sprawled on my hands and knees, attempting to wipe up the wine spill with a wet wipe.

I hear her footsteps come to a stop in front of me before I see her. I'm almost scared to look. But then I do—my gaze trails up from Roz's fuzzy grey slippers; up her bare legs; past the dove grey silk robe she has cinched around her slight waist, with its deep v-neck that shows off a truly torturous amount of cleavage for this early in the morning; all the way to her bare face, and her furrowed brows.

"Marcella?" She rubs her forehead, then her eyes, before peering back at me, almost as if she wants to make sure she isn't dreaming before looking at me a second time. "What are you doing here?"

"It's Monday morning...?" I sit back on my heels and stare up at her expectantly. "Nine a.m.?"

"Oh. Fuck." She crosses her arms in front of her chest, as if only just realizing how exposed she is. It only presses her breasts up more, though, and I find myself looking down at the floor as sweat gathers at the back of my neck. I am seriously no better than a man.

"Do you want me to leave?" I ask, still looking down. "I can come back later."

"No, no, no, it's fine, I just ... have a guest over." She bites her lip. "If—no, no, I shouldn't."

"What?" I ask immediately, looking back up at her. She could ask me anything right now. I don't think I'd have the capacity to say no.

She bites her lip again. I think I'd like to bite it for her. "Well, I was thinking about ordering us breakfast in. Would you be willing to go down to the lobby to grab it for us, then plate it up so it feels a little bit ... y'know." She flushes, as if embarrassed to suggest it. "Fancier?"

I almost want to laugh. Seeing Roz like this—embarrassed, shy, and severely underdressed—is seriously doing something to me. Not to mention, her hair is crazier than usual. It's wild and messy and sticking up in different directions, and my stomach squeezes as I recognize that my boss probably just had sex.