“I won’t claim it makes sense. But you have always been a strong person. Maybe this a good fit. I’ve never seen anyone affect you like this.”

I laugh. It’s weak. “What makes you think I’m so affected?” My arms cross over my chest.

He sweeps his hand exaggeratedly over the expanse of the dashboard. “Because we’ve been sitting here in your hotel parking lot for a good ten minutes.”

What the…? I look around, bewildered. The hotel sign lights the thin layer of ice on the lot.

Cringing, I realize I hadn’t even noticed we’d left the restaurant.

I have simply got to harness this. Get a lid on it. Control.

“I’m not in love with Alaric Canon.”

“Um, Emma…I never said you were.”

7:18 p.m.

*

Sofa

: Sitting on it.

*

Lights

: Off.

*

Mitchell

: Elsewhere.

I LEFT MITCHELL IN HIS TRUCK, crossed the lobby, went to the room, dumped my food in the trash, and sat on the sofa. About twenty minutes ago.

Canon could very well be helping Ms. Fralin make her way through her wine. Then, doubtless, she will want his help making a way through her.

I’m angry. Jealous and angry.

She has out-maneuvered me. Out-plotted me. Out-planned me.

I’ve let her. Because I’m not being me. Maybe if I was, maybe I would have put her in her place, called her out on her shit, schooled her.

More than that…more than that…the idea of her…him…

The thought is painful. I try to shut it down.

But I keep coming back to the notion that I’m not certain what it is that I—me, not this little PA part I’m playing—have on the line here. A romp with my boss? A couple of encounters?

A fling? A potential fling?

No, I don’t even have that.

Ms. Baker has that. He’s willing to give her the time of day…er, night…whatever.

I’m still unnoticed.

And—I think I’ve known all along—there is the distinct probability that I will remain that way.

I have made a giant mess of this.

If I weren’t here, on this trip, in these borrowed clothes, ironing my hair, hiding my studies, holding my tongue, he would never have known that I exist.

But, for me, he definitely exists. More than ever. Intelligent and intuitive. Precise and passionate. Decisive and desirable, and I am desperate.

I have planned my way into desperation.

There are two choices here: Grab the bull by the horns and make some memories, or let it go and regret not experiencing more…whatever this is.

If this is all I get, I will take it, and treasure it, and make the most of it.

Bargaining stage.

If he comes back tonight, I will be whoever he wants me to be.

Just let him come back tonight.

God, I’m not just in the neighborhood of pathetic, I’m circling the block.

The door opens. The light spreads across the carpet, growing from sliver to spear, then snapping back to dark with a click.

“Ms. Baker?”

“Mr. Canon.” I’m slumped forward with my elbows on my knees. I don’t know if it looks quirky or clumsy.

He looks around for the first time, apparently not expecting me to be here alone. “Where is the illustrious Mr. LaCygne?” He flips on the entry light. His jacket is undone. The access card bends in his hand.

“I don’t know. Not here.”

“I gave you your leave for the evening. Why are you here?”

“Because this is where you want me to be.”

A beat. “I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I have been sitting here too long; everything seems bogged down, with the world trudging by in slow motion. He hangs his jacket. It feels as though it takes a whole minute or more. Without a sideways glance, he’s gone into the bedroom. My train of thought has steamrolled down the mountainside as I’ve gone from nervous he would not come back to nervous he actually would, with a side track of the possibility he would come back covered in Diana residue, and then barreling into town with a load of he might very well not give a fair fig if I’m here or not, no matter who I happen to be.

This is crazy. I stand up on Jell-O legs—sitting on the sofa has taken its toll—and start toward the door.

As I wobble round the coffee table, Canon steps back into the room. Shoes and tie gone.

“Where are you going?” He stops trying to unbutton a cuff.

I look at the door and realize I have forgotten my card. “For a walk.”

“If I wanted you walking around the hotel in the dark, I wouldn’t have booked us into this single room.”

A record skips in my head. While I would love to contemplate how and why anyone dug up an LP just to scratch it inside my brain—and it better be “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” because God knows that song’s just asking for it—I am a tad busy trying to process Canon’s statement. Aren’t we in this room for productivity’s sake? The time to traverse the hotel campus between rooms and all that? He asked for that reason. Or wait…did I?

“You have given me my leave for the evening, as you say. I’m going for a walk.”

He shakes his head and sighs. “If you insist upon going for a walk, I will go with you.”

Him coming with me rather defeats the purpose of the walk.

“I’ll stay in then.”

“Because I would walk with you?”

“Because it’s cold outside,” I counter and step into the entryway with him.

“It has been cold all day.”

“I’m not dressed for it.”

“Change.”

Oh, my dear Mr. Canon. That is the operative word, is not it? “This is what you told me to wear.”

He winces slightly at my words. “I also told you to sit beside me, but you left.”

“You told me to.” I step closer.

“For someone who seems to pride herself upon knowing what I want, why did you pick tonight to insist upon acting to the contrary?”

Good question. “Why are your wants so contradictory?”

“They are not…” He wavers.

“You are quite the contrarian.” Closer. More.

“To the contrary, my wants are not contradictory.”

“That is a tongue twister. Did you reward Ms. Fralin for her efforts to get me out of the way tonight? She get your tongue all limbered up?”

His head pulls back, stunned. “What are you insinuating?”

I’m silent. I move again. Close.

“Answer me.” He tries to huff, rakes his fingers through his hair.

“You need clarification?” I’m in his dance space. Breathing in his breaths.

His hands go out as if he is going to touch my shoulders—but he hovers there. Hands fold inward and skim above my arms and down, brush my skin.

“If I wanted her, I would be with her,” he breathes. I press my hands to his shoulders. Warm.

“So…if you want someone, you would be with them.” Sliding down his arms, I bring them to me, to my waist.

His voice is nearly inaudible. “Yes.”

“You are with me,” I say against his neck.

Beside my ear: “Yes.”

Whoa. Hold up there, Buttercup. No fun storming the castle yet.

We need to talk.

I need to clear my head. I step away. To the balcony window.

The lightest of snow falls. A thin layer of white. Reflected lights.

He moves the curtain out of the way. “Why do you always do that?”

We both watch the snow fall.

“Do what?” The bare glass is cool under my hand.

“Leave.”

A car cuts through the fresh snow.

“When I was little, one Christmas, a cottontail visited our yard every day over break. Big, fat, gray. I would watch as it hopped through the snow, finding whatever little treats and treasures others overlooked. Some uncovered grass behind the bench. Last night’s dinner in the compost.

“After a few days, it felt like my own. My pet. I looked forward to it every day. Its fat footprints in the overnight snow. Then I made the mistake of trying to pet it.”

I turn to him, his arm still braced on the glass.