This
is why I couldn’t get to sleep; I would’ve missed out on feeling him kiss me so deeply, a kiss so full of relief, and celebration, and honour, that I lose myself in it entirely.
If
this
is living, if this is happy, if this is enjoying a moment together, then Logan’s right too — I must be wise, because I’m certain that life doesn’t get any sweeter than this.
13. Everything Has Changed
O
n Tuesday morning, I wake up in Logan’s warm embrace, one arm lying under my neck, one tight around my stomach. His torso is flush against my back, his face buried into my mass of long hair. His mere presence means that today has already gotten off to a better start than yesterday. The feelings of happiness and security within me are enough to cause a goofy, sleepy smile to spread across my face. What a difference a day makes, I think, stretching leisurely
.
My instincts and insights are a world away from what they were yesterday, no unnerving thoughts plague my mind, only peace and gratitude.
Disrupting Logan as little as possible, I reach for my phone on the bedside table and spend the fifteen minutes that I’ve got before my alarm is set to go off, staring at Logan’s mobile phone number, memorising it as best as I can. When Logan’s alarm rings loudly at the same time as mine, he wakes with a start, and as he rolls away from me to hit the snooze button, I turn over, so that by the time he rolls back, we’re face to face.
“Bonjour, mon amour,” I whisper against his lips.
Good morning
,
my love
. I then immediately recite his number to him, only having to peek at my screen once for help.
“Très bien,” he smiles at my progress and I nod back, pleased with myself.
Very good
.
“Sommes-nous toujours ok?” I then tease with a giggle.
Are we still OK
?
“Mieux que jamais,” he chuckles.
Better than ever
. “Oh, today is going to be so much better than yesterday,” he says knowledgeably, stretching his beautiful body.
Nodding once more, I rest my hand on the side of his torso and run it all the way down his body, gliding over his smooth skin until I come to a stop on his thigh. “I loved last night, Logan,” I tell him honestly, reveling in the memory of how our kissing evolved into something more amorous. “The way you moved in me.”
He smiles again. “I loved it too, baby. You put my mind at ease like nothing and no one else can,” he says.
“Good,” I breathe, his words a perfect validation. “I’d gladly put your mind at ease a little more right now,” I grin mischievously, “but, alas, work beckons…” I sigh. Then I decide spontaneously, “I think I’m going to wear one of your shirts today.” I mentally scan his wardrobe, trying to think of an outfit for my day. “And you can wear one of mine,” I add, laughing at the thought as I give his lips a quick kiss and get out of bed, stretching entirely nude in front of him.
“Who needs coffee as a pick-me-up when I get to look at that,” he says, his eyes scanning my body appreciatively.
I give him a wink and then beckon him to follow me, desiring a little company in my morning shower.
* * *
Rather than wearing one of his shirts, I select a plain white teeshirt of Logan’s instead. With two strategic pleats folded into the back of it, it actually looks pretty good tucked into my pair of grey work pants. I’m able to hide the overly large arm holes under my favourite work jacket, which results in an outfit that no one would guess wasn’t entirely my own.
My car at my house, I take the metro to work, and as I walk from my exit stop to Pierson House, the lingering smell of Logan around me is invigorating. I’m going to kick ass today, I decide, intent on making up for my lack of productivity yesterday, and I’m going to do it whilst breathing in the scent of my delicious fiancé.
Getting ever closer to my work, I pull out my phone (which I’ve actually remembered today) and message Logan:
*This teeshirt thing was a great idea. I feel like you’re all over me ;)*
His responding text arrives as I walk into Pierson House, making me smile:
*All over you is my favourite place to be.*
He sends another text a few seconds later, which makes me laugh out loud:
*I wish I could say that wearing your g-string was also a good idea…*
He’s joking, I know he is, and yet his words inspire a very pleasing image in my mind. An image of the best backside that I have ever laid eyes on. I stared at it for five solid minutes this morning when he lingered in the shower after I was finished. He
had
to stay under the torrent of water a little longer in order to wash off the suds.
Totally my fault
. In our joint shower I suggested using Logan’s bottle of body wash as lubrication for the hand job that I was eager to give him, and though at first it was a perfectly practical choice, soon the lathering action kicked in, and an enormous amount of foam was produced, much to our amusement.
I type back:
*It probably smells like potpourri down there now!*
Then I stand stock-still in front of the double doors that lead through to my desk, quickly looking behind me to make sure that nobody is snooping over my shoulder; those last messages read out of context could be disastrous. I notice that for the second morning in a row, Layla isn’t at her desk and I’m about to find out why.
Much like yesterday, today my colleagues have gathered just beyond the doors and
this
time when they shout, “Congratulations,” I don’t fall to the ground, nor do I burst into tears. Instead I beam at them all, and very consciously exit my messages application and drop my phone into the depths of my bag.
I spend the next fifteen minutes talking with them in pairs or small groups, which not only enables me to thank them, but also saves me a time consuming trip around the entire office regaining favour after yesterday’s embarrassing display. Everyone I speak to, familiar faces and not so familiar, is extremely nice and mercifully no one accuses me of muffin thievery. Layla is very lively and chatty, and I’m almost certain that I hear her tell a few women that she and I migrate in the same social circle. I don’t have the heart to set her straight.
Amélie is quick to excuse herself from the short gathering, requesting that I stop by her office before the end of the morning. Once the chatting and mini-celebrations have died down, before I settle at my desk, I retrieve the drawings that I finished last night, as well as several notebooks full of garden sketches and designs, which I keep tucked away in my desk drawer, and I set off for her office. The extra elements that I’m handing over to her are all in keeping with my new Tuesday morning mindset. Whilst sitting on the metro earlier, I made the decision that I would communicate more openly here at work. No more tiptoeing around Amélie, pretending not to know things that I do know. I’m going to be open with her, and I’m sure that if she doesn’t like it, she’ll let me know in no uncertain terms.
I knock on her office door.
“Entrez,” her stern voice calls.
Come in
.
I immediately scan the room, looking for Rosita.
Good
,
she
’
s not here
, I think, however someone else is — André Pierson is visiting once more.
Ah
,
what now
,
Gem
? We stare at each other for a long moment. What would Logan do in this awkward moment, I ask myself. An answer coming to me immediately, I stride towards my boss’s boss, my hand outstretched.
“Mr. Pierson, we weren’t properly introduced the last time I saw you. I’m Gemima Samuels,” I say formally and courteously.
Soon to be Gemima Leary
.
“Oui, bonjour, Gemima,” he smiles and nods a little, and shakes my waiting hand.
“What is all that?” Amélie asks me, eyeing the amount of notebooks and papers that I’ve brought with me.
“Oh…” I look from Amélie to Mr. Pierson and back again. Do I continue with my new mindset? Yes, I think, confidence filling me as I lay everything down on Amélie’s desk. “Mrs. Clémence, these are the drawings that you asked me to do,” I begin. “I’ve completed the six that you requested, as well as other sketches that I thought you might be interested in seeing. These notebooks are full of ideas. Ideas largely inspired by the work of Madeleine Lily,” I say pointedly.
She looks at me in that way she does, as if able to read my thoughts.
Throwing another quick look at Mr. Pierson, I then tell Amélie, “I know about the possibility of her coming to work here and I’m guessing you’re thinking about having me work with her in some capacity. I don’t know where in the process you are with everything, and I know that it’s none of my business, but I just wanted you to know that I’m in,” I say surely. “I enjoy the job I do now, don’t get me wrong,” I add hastily, “but this,” I tap the notebooks, “this is what I’m really good at, Amélie. And given what you said to me the last time the three of us were in here together, I assume you think I’m good at it too.”
Her expression is hard to read. I can’t tell if she appreciates my forthcomingness or if she’s pissed off, thinking it brazen of me, especially in front of her boss.
Shit
,
Gem
! Have I been
too
open?
“I, um, just wanted to be honest,” I explain myself, my confidence wavering.
“Son audace me rappelle la vôtre, il y a vingt ans,” Mr. Pierson says, looking at Amélie with an amused look.
Her audacity reminds me of you
,
twenty years ago
.
Uh…is that a
good
thing?
“Elle parle français, André,” Amélie tells him.
She speaks French
.
“Uh, oui, je le parle,” I say to him as well.
Yes
,
I do
. I look back at Amélie who appears undecided in her response to me. “I’ll leave these with you,” I indicate my work.
“Merci,” she nods.
“I’m sorry, you were probably in the middle of something—” I’m about to excuse myself, but she cuts me off.
“We’re just discussing how much we should offer to pay you to be Madeleine’s apprentice…”
I can’t contain my squeak of excitement.
Oh my god
! “So you really
are
launching the new sector of the company?” I blurt out.
“It’s a very real possibility,” she reveals.
I hold my second squeak in, though I’m overly aware that due to containing my excitement I probably look like I’m constipated.
Deep breaths
,
Gem
!
Amélie sighs, telling me, “Seeing as you already know about this potential, we might as well inform you of the condition that would be in place on you. You would have to retrain part-time for several months, at least. I won’t have people pay to hire you if you don’t have the correct qualifications.”
Back to school, I think. Sure, for my dream job, why not?
“All expenses will be covered, naturally,” Amélie adds.
“Absolutely,” I stutter, feeling amazed by the prospect. “No problem at all.”
“It won’t be happening until autumn at the earliest. And no one is to know about it until then.
No one
,” she impresses.
I nod my understanding. According to Rosita, Amélie’s entire reason for wanting to branch out into a new design field was to stay ahead of the competition, and it seems that she wants the element of surprise on her side when she does.
“Les salaires sont la prochaine chose à discuter,” Mr. Pierson says.
Salaries are the next thing to be discussed
.
“Quelque chose de généreux,” I suggest for mine.
Something generous
.
André laughs at my words and Amélie Clémence
actually
cracks a smile.
A world first
?
“There are
several
things still to be discussed,” she then tells me. “Your enthusiasm is evident, Miss. Samuels, and therefore I don’t want you to get your hopes up. Nothing is set in stone.”
“I understand,” I say.
“However, it is encouraging to know that you would be willing to take up a new position within the company,” she continues.
“More than willing,” I press, unable to keep the smile off of my face. We then stare at each other for a moment. It starts to get awkward. “OK, I’ll, uh, wait to hear more,” I say, getting to my feet.
“I will look through your drawings with interest, Miss. Samuels,” she says as I walk towards the door. “Before you go…” she calls me back, and I turn on the spot. “How did you find out about Madeleine and these new prospects?”
Fuck
!
Cue Marvin Gaye to start playing in my mind. “I heard it…through the grapevine,” I nod sheepishly.
“Qui ça?” Mr. Pierson asks Amélie.
The what
?
“Broutement américain,” she says to him.
American chatter
. “Elle parle comme cela parfois,” she then explains on my behalf.
She speaks like that sometimes
. “I don’t believe you,” she tells me, “but as I doubt you’ll give me another answer, you might as well get to work.”
“Absolument. Au revoir, M. Pierson,” I say, and then I leave, practically skipping back to my desk.
I have an amazingly productive morning, somehow spurred on by the thought of there being a limited number of days left that I’ll be doing this job. Sure, Amélie said that I shouldn’t get my hopes up about a new position, but it’s
way
too late for that! I’m giddy as I phone clients, make orders, and finalise sketches for my existing jobs. I’m on such a roll that come lunchtime I consider just staying here to continue working, but as I move my chair from one end of my large desk to the other, I roll over something on the floor which inspires quite different plans. It’s the project file for Leary Constructions that I threw over my shoulder in frustration yesterday; it’s been waiting for me to pick it up ever since.
An abrupt new plan in mind for my lunch hour, I grab my handbag and head for the door. Hurrying out of Pierson House, I look up Logan’s office as I walk, already knowing the vague direction of it, but needing to confirm its exact location. I should message him to see if he’s even there, I tell myself. It’s highly probable that he’s out at one of the many sites that he’s running, but I ignore my own advice, and march to Leary Constructions’ main office in Place de Papier quickly, looking forward to surprising him. After the horror of yesterday, something sweet and spontaneous feels just right.