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Is he telling her I’m not his girlfriend?
Is he explaining that I’m just the hired help?
An uppity employee with a fragile immune system who wriggled her way into his home?
As if he can feel my gaze on him, Ian slowly twists to look directly into the camera. I stumble back a step and slap the laptop closed, only to realize that will just confirm to him I was spying on him.
Oh, for the love of butter.
I pace the kitchen a bit, then realize there are still biscuits sitting out on the pan. So I grab one, split it in half, load it up with butter, and shove half a biscuit into my mouth.
And that’s when I hear the front door open and then close. I whirl around to see him standing at the front door. He pins me with a look as he crosses to the kitchen. Meanwhile, I’m still struggling to produce enough saliva to swallow without choking.
He looks from me to the butter knife in my hand and I imagine he can see every golden brown, delicious biscuit crumb dotting my overalls.
“Mmmbsorby.”
Um … yeah.
If I could have a do over on today, I would definitely wear something more glamorous than overalls. Of course, I did not know that I would be face to face with an actual Hollywood starlet. Homegirl may be a bitch, but she is even more beautiful in person than she is on the screen.
And here I am, unable to even talk past the food in my mouth.
I wipe at my mouth with the back of my hand, swallow, swallow again, grab the nearest coffee cup and choke down a gulp of cold coffee and try again. “I’m sorry.”
Ian tips his head to the side. “For what?”
“For lying to Ava. About being your girlfriend.”
Ian’s frown deepens.
Almost against my will, I keep talking, babbling in a geyser of nerves. “Martin called and said Ava was on her way over. He said she’s bad news and you shouldn’t be alone with her. So I ran down here. But she was about to kiss you. So I did the only thing I could think of to distract you.”
He seems to be puzzling through my admission. “So you pretended to be ill?”
“Yes… I mean, sort of, I guess? I was winded after running down the hill. But mostly I was trying to distract you. And it worked. And then I told her I was your girlfriend because I thought it would make her leave. And it did. And now … we’re here.”
Fantastic.
I am a brilliant orator. I should obviously run for office. Or maybe offer to write for Rachel Maddow. My ability to sum up complex situations is top-notch.
Ian takes a step closer, still looking confused. “What were you apologizing for again?”
“For lying to Ava about being your girlfriend.”
Suddenly, he seems very close.
“Was that a lie?” He reaches up to brush more crumbs away with his thumb.
“I …”
Oh god. I can’t think.
Not when he’s this close, and he’s touching me.
Or maybe I have brain damage from being so out of breath. That’s believable, right?
“Is it not a lie?” I ask. When he doesn’t respond, I swallow, muster my courage and ask more pointedly, “Am I your girlfriend?”
