Animate Me

“He’s not going to Vegas?” I ask, my nerves shattered to think I won’t be her Emmy date. I knew it was too good to be true.

“No!” she huffs like that would never happen, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

She sits up straight and throws her shoulders back proudly. “I read him the riot act. I warned him if he tells me one more time that my ass is too big or my breasts not big enough, that it’s the last time I’ll be around to hear it.”

I grin, happy to see her standing up for herself. “Oh, that’s great. What did he say?”

“He was speechless. For the first damn time I can remember, he was completely speechless. He just nodded his head and kept eating his osso bucco.”

“Ha! I’m sure you surprised him.”

“That I did,” she laughs. “You really inspired me. When I woke up this morning, I laid in bed and ran my hands over my body…and I felt so good…you know…sexy. It was the best I’d felt in that regard for a long time.”

I swallow hard and look down. Does she have any idea what saying things like that does to me? Now I’m going to be distracted all afternoon imagining her in bed touching herself.

I clear my throat and look up. “Well, you’re the sexiest woman I know, so I’m glad I could help. I’m also really happy that you set him straight.”

Wow…if he keeps screwing up, maybe he’ll be out of the picture soon.

She reaches across the desk and squeezes my hand. Her warmth lingers even after she pulls away to pick up her coffee. No matter how or when it happens, I love it when she touches me.

“Now what do we have today?” She turns the cup until my drawing faces her. This cup is so special that I had Starbucks give it to me empty ahead of time, so I could take my time rendering the image.

“Oh my God, Nathan! You need to draw this for me on good paper…I love it!”

I’m so happy she likes it; I put extra effort in to my illustration of an Emmy award and even used gold and bronze markers to fill in the drawing. In my version Brooke has replaced the winged bronze woman who normally holds up the sphere of metal. Brooke’s little feet are attached to the base as she stretches upwards, her hair flowing behind her. I paid particular attention to capture all of her curves. Brooke is the prize I would be so happy to win.

She reads the line I wrote small, underneath. “You’re always a wi

“Nathan.” She sighs.

“Yes?” I ask tentatively. I hope I haven’t upset her for some reason, or stepped over some boundary I don’t understand.

“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I hope you know how much I adore you.”

I smile, relieved and excited. I’m kind of flying and I’m going to need some time to think about what she just said.

“Well, I feel the same, Brooke.”

Unfortunately, just then Morgan comes in with several messages and Brooke nods. I stand up realizing she must need to get back to work.

“So Sunday, at five.” She smiles warmly.

“I’ll be there.”

On my way out of her office Morgan stops me. She looks concerned.

“Arnauld wants to see you. Go check in with his assistant.”

“What does he want?”

“I have no idea,” she insists, giving me a look. “He usually doesn’t confide in me.”

Great. It must be bad. She hasn’t been sarcastic with me like that in at least a week.

“Okay, thanks,” I respond politely, not wanting trouble.

“Oh, and you got the info for your hair appointment tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Now, make sure and tip Bradley twenty percent and give whoever washes your hair five bucks. I told you the consult and cut will be a hundred, right?”

I nod, still marveling at how a haircut could cost so damn much. But I’m not going to say anything because I’ve got to get this right for Brooke. “Is it really Arnauld and Brooke’s stylist?”

“Yes, so be careful what you say. What are you going to have him do anyway?”

“I was thinking about a mohawk,” I say with a perfectly straight face.

She laughs, or snorts. It’s hard to tell. “Yeah, you do that Indian boy, and I’ll pull a Pocahontas and nail you with a an arrow from my bow on Monday. Now get your ass over to Arnauld’s before he starts yelling.”

I thank her and turn to head down the hall. What the hell does Arnold want with me? He knows I’m taking Brooke on Sunday so how bad can it be? It’s not like he’s going to fire me or beat me up until at least Monday, when I’ve completed my task.

I approach ice princess, Alana’s desk. “I’m here to see Arnauld. I’m…”

“Nathan,” she says with a pinched face. “Wait here.” She stands up and moves with great efficiency into his office. A moment later she steps back out.

“Wait over there.” She points to a chair in the waiting area. “He needs to take care of something first.”

Okay, then what was the rush for me getting over here? Oh yeah, that’s what “suits” do to toy with you.

About ten minutes pass where I imagine every possible horrible thing he could say or do to me before Alana picks up the phone. She does a hand motion like those guys on the tarmac giving signals to planes. “He’ll see you now.”

When I walk into his office he’s tapping away on his Blackberry and doesn’t even look up. So I pause in the middle of the office and wait. The only noise besides his tapping is the sudden closing of the door behind me. How did he do that?

I study him, marveling at why he pays so much for a hair stylist when his hair’s so short—practically shaved. Joe, the guy I see on Magnolia in Burbank would charge about ten bucks for that. I note his strong features as he continues to text. I guess he’s what women would call handsome. If only they could see his back right before waxing.

The ass who wanted some doctor with a mechanical straw to suck Brooke’s perfect bottom away, finally looks up at me.

He gestures towards a chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat…” He’s searching for my name.

“Nathan,” I reply.

“Yes, Nathan.” He pushes his chair away from the desk and leans back. “So I wanted to make sure things were set for Sunday, that everything is in order.” He studies me for a moment like he’s trying to figure something out. He finally seems to have an idea.

“Where are your glasses?

“I got contacts,” I reply, watching him continue to study me carefully. “And yes, Morgan helped me with the arrangements.”

“All right good. And you weren’t full of shit when you said you had an Armani tux, right? Because I picked out my girl’s dress, it’s an elegant black Valentino and I don’t want you showing up in some burgundy polyester number.”

So if you’re so concerned about how Brooke and her escort are going to look, why don’t you take her yourself, Mojo?

Then I remember the red dress. I internally smirk about the change in dress plans, but bite my tongue. If I tell him he’ll surely harass Brooke about it.

“I wasn’t lying, it’s a black Armani tux.”

“Make sure you comb that crazy hair too, you look like a rag-mop.”

Gee thanks, asshat. At least I don’t have a receding hairline forcing me to go for the Bruce Willis look.

“Yeah, I’m getting a haircut. Anything else?” I’m getting pissed and don’t know how much of this humiliation I can take.

“Just don’t do anything stupid. If you don’t know what to say, stay quiet.” He folds his arms over his chest. “This is a big night for Brooke, and I want it to go well. I have no fucking idea why she thought you should take her…you seem to be her latest ‘project,’ but I couldn’t talk her out of it, so I’m just warning you.”

Project? I feel a wave of panicked insecurity, but then remind myself that he doesn’t have any idea about what is between Brooke and I. My back bristles but I force myself to speak.