When I get home, I write Natalie back right away, telling her that her advice worked. It's Friday, and by Saturday morning I haven't heard back. I'm disappointed, but realistically, she probably doesn't answer fanmail on weekends.
Fanmail. Jesus. What kind of person have I turned into?
In the end, I don't hear back from Natalie for a couple of weeks. I finally stop thinking about it, and within a few days, Mr. Risinger pushes me to the breaking point and we're back to snarling at each other.
Finally, though, she writes back. She tells me how glad she is that things have worked out, and she's sorry she's been too busy to answer. She tells me she's still working a full-time job in addition to being a novelist, which kind of blows my mind, but I guess there are people like that. Me, I can't imagine having the creative energy to do anything after I get home across the river Styx.
She talks about her writing process and what a struggle it is sometimes to publish a book, like pushing your little chicks out to swim on their own, and knowing there's nothing you can do for them after a certain point. She's been dealing with a lot of anxiety and stress about her latest book, so her email's been neglected. She hopes I understand.
I feel weirdly comfortable with her, so I find myself answering right away, telling her all about my family problems and the reasons why I think I put up with Mr. Risinger in the first place. I tell her that maybe, if I can ever manage to find my way out of this job, I might be able to use her books as a safe outlet for my obvious pathological need for irritating bad boys. Better in fiction than in real life.
She answers quickly, this time, and she's got me giggling. I feel the kind of warm glow in my chest that I haven't experienced in such a long time. Is this what it feels like to have a friend?
I even confess to her that Mr. Risinger is probably just as sexy as Dirk, although I can't verify if he knows how to handle a woman quite as well. That seems to amuse her:
Haha, really? I specifically created Dirk with the idea in mind that NO real man could measure up. I've got to meet this guy.
I shoot back a quick response.
Is he really that sexy? Well, let's put it this way: when he walks into a room, this song plays.
LINK: Youtube - Sex and Candy - Marcy Playground
She answers almost immediately.
Oh my God, I died laughing. I don't know what I was expecting. This, maybe.
LINK: Youtube - Moving in Stereo - The Cars
I laugh for five minutes straight.
For a couple more weeks, we're emailing back and forth at a rapid pace. Mostly outside of work hours, although I find myself chuckling at things that happen throughout the day that I know I'll enjoy telling her about later.
You're acting like you've got a crush on her.
The thought pops in, unwelcome, and I'm not sure from where. Obviously, I don't. I'm not into girls. I'm pretty sure she's married. And anyway, I've just forgotten what it's like to have a friend. That's all. Not that we're friends, exactly. But we could be.
"What's so funny?"
Rise above it, rise above it.
But then I see his face, and everything flares up inside me. He's still cultivating that ridiculous two day's growth on his firm jawline, and he's walking in that particular way, like maybe he went and lifted weights on his lunch break. He certainly has a body that hints at some kind of regular strength training.
I'm remembering the scene where Amanda secretly watches Dirk doing his bench presses and basically soaks through her panties, and now I'm blushing. Great.
"Nothing," I mutter, quickly.
"Good," Mr. Risinger says. "I need you in my office."
When he disappears through the door and I don't immediately follow, he pops his head out a moment later.
"Now," he clarifies, with no hint of humor on his face.
Here we fucking go.
Bracing myself, I walk in, and shut the door behind me.
"Sit down, Meghan," he says. His face is serious and his fingers are interlaced. Shit, this can't be good. He doesn't look angry, and he doesn't look mischievous - it's like I don't even know him anymore.
I do what he asks, folding my hands in my lap. Waiting.
"You might recall," he starts, "the non-disclosure agreement that you signed when you started working here."
"I do."
"Then I trust I don't need to remind you of the steps we're authorized to take, if it's discovered that you've violated any part of that agreement."
My heart's hammering. "Am I being accused of something, sir?"
His brow knits. "Of course not," he says. "This is preemptive. The conversation we're about to have is confidential. Do you understand everything that implies?"
"Yes, sir." I have a feeling, whatever he's about to tell me, I'm going to wish for some brain bleach. Or a time machine.
He leans forward slightly. "Are you much of a reader, Meghan?"
I'm fucking blushing again. "No," I say, as coolly as I can manage. "Never really have the time."
He nods, glancing down at his desk for a moment. "Well, you're about to be. I need you to read a series of books in the next few weeks. Get to know them intimately. It's not all that much - about three hundred thousand words in total. You should be able to get through them quickly. They're light reading."
If they're anything like Natalie's, it should be no problem at all. But of course, I could never be so lucky.
"Okay," I say.
Then, he reaches into his desk drawer.
He puts a stack of books on his desk, one by one.
And that's when the world briefly stops turning.
It has to be a coincidence. It has to be. But it can't be, can it?
HIS SECRETARY.
HIS SECRETARY: STRIPPED.
HIS SECRETARY: BOUND.
HIS SECRETARY…every single one of them, in beautiful matte paperback, laid out in front of me. Part of my brain shuts down, while another part of my brain blessedly snaps into action and finds the presence of mind to react the way Old Meg would have - the Meg who hadn't yet discovered the majesty of Natalie McBride.
"Do I have to call H.R. on you, Mr. Risinger?" I hear myself say, coolly.
He just smirks. He's got the H.R. manager, wrapped around his little finger. And he knows it.
"Now Meghan," he says, with that wolf smile, "as you remind me on a daily basis, you're not my secretary. You're my administrative assistant."
I take a deep breath.
"What do you need me to read them for?"
He leans back in his chair, hands resting in his lap. Mirroring me. People like Mr. Risinger only engage in that kind of behavior when they're trying to be persuasive. But the dynamic of our relationship doesn't really call for a lot of persuading from his side.