Christine Rimmer - His Executive Sweetheart

Jane was nodding grimly. “Showgirls?”

“That’s right. Nice showgirls, too. I hate that. It makes it even worse, somehow. I can’t even despise the competition—not that there is any competition.”

“Does he seem—” Jillian sought the right words “—as if he could be interested, if you told him?”

Slowly, pressing her lips together and swallowing down more tears, Celia shook her head.

“You’re sure of that?”

Jane jumped in. “Oh, how can she know for sure? She’s not objective about this. Look at her. She’s gone around the bend over the guy.”

“That’s right,” Jillian said. “Of course, she can’t be objective.”

“I can be objective.” Celia protested. “I am objective. I’m sure he’s not interested in me as a woman.”

Jane scooted over and took her by the shoulders. “Look at me, Ceil.”

“Fine. Okay.” Celia met her friend’s eyes.

“Are you sure this is the real thing? Are you sure it’s really love? Are you sure it’s not—”

“Stop,” said Celia. “Yes. I’m sure. It’s all I’m sure of lately. This is love, I know it. I’ve known it since V-day. I can’t explain it. I can’t convince you if you won’t believe. But it is the truth. I’m in love with Aaron Bravo.”

Jane stared at her for a several long seconds more, her eyes narrowed, probing. Then she whispered, softly, “I see.” She let go of Celia’s shoulders and went back to her pillows.

Jillian grabbed the bottle and refilled her own glass. “I’m going to ask you again, because I don’t think you really gave this question a chance before. Could he be interested, if he only knew how you felt?”

“No.” Celia sank back against the wall again. “I don’t think so. I really don’t.”

“But you don’t know, not for certain. You’ll never know for certain, not if he never knows how you feel.”

“I’m certain enough.” Celia traced the rim of her glass with her index finger. “I just have to decide whether I can stand this anymore. Or whether I should just…spruce up my résumé and find another place to work.”

Jane and Jillian exchanged looks. Then Jillian said, “But you love that job. You’re making lots of money. You have points in the company. And it’s only going to get better. Aaron Bravo hasn’t gotten where he’s going yet. And until now, you’ve been looking forward to being there when he does.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“And it’s only been—what—a week since you realized how you feel about him? You don’t need to go rushing into anything too drastic.”

“Jilly, you’re not telling me anything I haven’t told myself at least a hundred times.”

Jane said, “Well, here’s my opinion. Honesty is the best policy.”

Jillian groaned.

Jane looked vaguely injured. “All right, so it’s a cliché. That doesn’t make it any less true.” She pointed a finger at Celia. “Tell him how you feel.”

Jillian slapped the edge of coffee table to get their attention. “No. Hold it. Bad idea.”

“Why?” demanded Jane. “Why is telling the truth a bad idea?”

“Because when it comes to love, you should…never ask a question you don’t know the answer to.”

Jane winced. “And you get paid to give people advice?”

“Well,” Celia reminded Jane, “she mostly gives advice on things like which fork to use and how to get peach-juice stains out of silk blouses.”

“I beg your pardon,” Jillian huffed. “I give advice to the lovelorn, if they write in. I’ll advise on any subject. That’s my job.”

“Scary, very scary,” muttered Jane.

“I heard that,” snapped Jillian.

“Sorry.” Jane adjusted her skirt over her knees.

Jillian said, “I mean it. There’s another way. A better way.”

Celia sat forward eagerly. “All right. What way?”

Jillian cleared her throat. “Absolutely first of all, you have to make him notice you as a woman.”

“Oh,” said Celia, sinking back, disappointed and letting it show. “And how do you expect me to do that?”

Jane stopped fiddling with her skirt. “Oh, my God. I think she’s talking makeover.”

It was an old joke between them. Jillian gave her first makeover when the three of them were twelve years old. Jane was her subject. She cut Jane’s hair and dyed it—green. Jane wore a hat for months.

Jillian sniffed. “Oh, come on. In case you’ve forgotten, I now get paid and paid well to do what you’re groaning about. And I act as an adviser now—an extremely knowledgeable adviser. I let the experts do the actual cutting and coloring. I’ve come a long way from that first haircut I gave you.”

“And a good thing, too,” Jane said.

Jillian pulled a face at Jane, then turned to Celia. “Brighter colors,” she instructed. “Softer, more touchable fabrics. We aren’t talking beating him over the head with you. We are talking subtle, sexy little changes—and I think you ought to bring out the red in your hair. With that gorgeous pale skin, you’d be a knockout. And you’ve got those darling rosebud lips—what are those called, those cute, fat old-time dolls with those darling rosebud mouths?”

“Kewpie dolls,” Jane supplied. “And you’re right—about her lips, anyway. She’s got Kewpie-doll lips.”

“Lips that she never makes anything of.” Jillian sent Celia an I-mean-business scowl. “A deeper, riper shade of lipstick. Are you with me?”

“She’s right,” Jane conceded. “You’d look great in brighter colors. Red hair would be good on you—so would darker lipstick. Go there if you want to. But as far as Aaron Bravo goes, tell him. Three little words. I love you. There is no substitute for honesty. It’s the place where every relationship should start. If you let him know how you feel, you give him a chance to—” The ringing of the telephone cut her off. “Don’t you move.”

Celia slumped among her pillows. “Where would I go?”

Jane uncrossed her legs and stood. She went to the phone on the table at the other end of the couch. “Hi, this is Jane… Yes…” A smug little smile curved her lips. “Of course. Can you hold on? Thanks.” She punched a button in the headset and turned to Celia, one dark brow lifted.

Celia frowned at her. “For me?”

Now Jane was grinning. “Speak of the devil, as they say.”

Celia’s heart started pounding so hard, it felt as though it slammed against the wall of her chest with every beat. It was a very disconcerting sensation. “Aaron?” She more mouthed the word than said it.

Jane nodded.

Jillian let out a short, loud bark of laughter.

“Shh!” Celia reached over and bopped her on the knee. She hissed in whisper, “He’ll hear you….”

“No he won’t,” said Jane. “I’ve got him on Mute—and did you want to speak with him or not?”

Celia shot to her feet and raced to grab the phone. She put it to her ear. “Hello?”

No one answered.

“Here,” said Jane. Celia held out the phone and Jane punched the right button. Celia put it to her ear again, opened her mouth—and shut it. Jane was still standing there, watching expectantly.

Celia made frantic shooing motions. With a sigh, Jane returned to her pillows.

Celia turned away, toward the wide double doors that led to the entrance hall, seeking just a tiny bit of privacy. “Hello. Aaron?”

“Celia. There you are. Good.” He sounded preoccupied, as always. Preoccupied and wonderful. His deep, rich voice seemed to pour into her ear and all through her body, melting her midsection, turning her knees to water.

She asked, quite calmly, she thought, “Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? No.” She heard the telltale clicking sounds that meant he was sitting at a computer. “I was typing a note to Tony Jarvis….” Anthony Jarvis was Senior Vice-President of Project Development. For Aaron, High Sierra was just one step in the road—a big step, but not the only one. Silver Standard Resorts, High Sierra’s parent company, had to keep growing. Tony Jarvis was the main man responsible for scouting future venues. “The note has vanished. Can’t seem to bring it back up.”

She couldn’t help grinning. Since he never typed his own e-mails, he’d forgotten the finer points of the program they used for them.

“Celia. Find my memo.”

She told him what to click on.

“Ah,” he said after a moment. “There it is. Thank you.”

“No problem—Aaron?”

“Hmm?”

“How did you get this number?”

A pause, then, “You’re irritated, that I called you there?”

“Not at all.” Never. Ever. Call me anytime. Anywhere. For any reason… “I just wondered.”

“You said you were going to Jane Elliott’s. I called information. It’s a listed number.”

He’d remembered that she was going to Jane’s! She could hardly believe it. He so rarely remembered anything personal she told him. Her heart pounded even harder, with pure joy. “Oh. Of course. You called information. I should have known….”

“Celia?” He sounded puzzled. “Are you all right?”

“Oh. Yes. Fine. Just fine.”

“Have a good weekend.”

“I will….”

The line went dead. She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it, wild joy fading down to something kind of hollow and dejected.

Really, the call had meant less than nothing to him. She had to face that, had to accept it.

Jillian said, “See? He can’t live without you.”

Celia put down the phone. “That is so not the case.” She returned to her spot against the wall, dropped to the floor and flopped back on her pillows.

Jillian was adamant. “He can’t live without you. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

“Tell him,” Jane commanded for the third time that night.

“Give up,” Celia cried. “I’m not telling him. And I’m not changing my hair color, either.”

“Then what will you do?” asked Jane.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Her friends groaned in unison.

They worked on her all weekend, advising, cajoling, prodding and instructing. They wore her down, little by little.

Jane kept pushing honesty. Jillian talked hair and wardrobe and subliminal seduction. Celia moaned and protested and begged them to let it go. They would, for a while—and then they’d start in again.

She couldn’t hold firm against them forever. And she loved that they listened to her, that they cared. They really were the best friends any woman could have.

By noon Sunday, when she got in her rental car to drive to the Reno airport, she had made a decision.

She would take Jane’s advice and tell Aaron of her love.

C elia’s course of action seemed perfectly clear to her when she was waving goodbye on that crisp, snowy Sunday in front of Jane’s wonderful old house.

First she would tell Aaron of her feelings. And depending on how he reacted, maybe she’d consider some of Jillian’s suggestions—if she wasn’t too busy nursing a broken heart while pounding the pavement looking for another job.

It was the “if” part that ruined her resolve.

Because how could she help fearing that the “if” part was reality? She would tell him she loved him. And he would tell her, very gently, because he was a kind man at heart, that he was sure she’d be happier working for someone else.

She’d lose him and her job.

All right, she was miserable now. But she was miserable and employed. She just couldn’t see the tradeoff. If she told him, she’d still be miserable. And she’d be out of work, as well.