His Secretary: Undone

***

I step out onto the tarmac in Austin, and I don’t feel the instant prickles of sweat on my scalp that I expect. It’s hot, sure, but it’s not inhumanly hot.

Adrian’s insisted that we arrive the day before the conference actually starts, so we’ve got time to "settle in." I don’t know what that means, but I’ve saved all of my really nice outfits – including the silky underwear – for the actual conference. I’m hoping that we don’t run into anyone I’m supposed to impress, but part of me suspects it doesn’t really matter. Nobody actually expects writers to dress like models, do they? Don’t most of them wear bathrobes and slippers?

I glance sidelong at Adrian, trying to picture him in a bathrobe.

Danger! Abort abort abort. Okay, yeah, picturing him in anything that can be removed easily with a single flick of the wrist probably isn’t good for my sanity.

The ride from the airport seems to take forever, following a complex grid of side streets and alleyways that make me wonder where the hell all those massive highways go. Clearly, not wherever we’re headed. But I start to enjoy the local color as we creep our way from stoplight to stoplight; the psychic palm reader across from the expensive-looking luxury homes, the taco trucks with the neon lights, the city bursting with a joyful energy that defies any thoughts of beige gentrification.

We’ve got adjoining rooms at the hotel, both under his name. I wonder what the clerk’s thinking, as she checks us in. I wonder why I care.

The first thing I do, after dropping my bags, is make sure the connecting door is locked. He made a big deal about the adjoining rooms when we checked in, and I can’t figure out why he thinks it’s going to matter. Unless he thinks we’ll have a reason to travel back and forth without being presentable enough for a hotel hallway.

Stop it.

It’s a pretty nice place, but I’m guessing it’s a far cry from the ultra-luxury hotels he’s used to staying at. I wander over to the picture windows to draw the curtains back, only to discover that the windows are actually sliding glass doors.

The midday heat is really starting to settle in now, but curiosity draws me out of my air conditioned oasis to explore the little balcony. It extends much further than I expect – and I soon realize that’s because it connects to Adrian’s room, as well.

He’s pulled his curtains back, too. I can see him pacing, with his tie undone, talking animatedly on the phone with someone. I immediately feel like a creep. He probably hasn’t realized yet that our balconies are attached. He’s got no idea anyone can see him, least of all me. This is the tallest building in the block by far.

Face burning, I creep back to my room and make sure to lock the the sliding glass door behind me, and close the curtains again. I don’t know why. It’s not that I actually think he has that little respect for my privacy, but I feel better anyway.

I flop down on the bed and start flipping through the channels. There’s nothing on TV here, either. The streets below us are bustling with activity, and when I was outside I could hear the thudding of live music starting somewhere down the street. A few years back, I would have thrown on a cute dress and gone down to wander the streets, stopping into any bar that had the doors open to see how cheap their beer was. I’ve heard Austin is a friendly city, and nothing I’ve seen so far can contradict that. Back before Adrian, I probably would have tried to pick up one of those hipsters with a handlebar mustache and rolled-up jeans, riding a rental bicycle to the Alamo Drafthouse. And I would’ve had a good time, too.

But that was me, then. This is me, now. I hardly recognize myself anymore.

The fact that I’ve agreed to speak on a panel is proof enough that I’m not even recognizably Meghan anymore. Of course, I didn’t really have a choice. But something that would’ve put me in a cold sweat, once upon a time – suddenly it doesn’t feel like such a bad idea. Maybe because I’m not me, I’m Natalie. And Natalie knows how to speak to a crowd. It’s something about romance trends or whatever – basically, I feel like I can reasonably fake my way through it, especially if I let everyone else do the talking.

My stomach’s growling. I frown at it, trying to remind it that I just ate on the plane. But traveling always makes me ravenous, and as usual, it’s not listening to reason.

I pull out my phone and text Adrian.

Any plans for dinner?

He starts typing back quickly, but it takes him a while to actually finish the message.

Got reservations with Kara actually. Feel free to order whatever you want from room service.

My heart sinks. Kara’s here? I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does seem odd that she didn’t fly with us. I’m grateful, but disappointed that she’ll be monopolizing his time like this.

Great. I don’t want to be around him, but I can’t stand to be without him. This is shaping up to be a fantastic trip.

I don’t answer his text. Fucking room service? Really? I’m about ten feet from some of the country’s best barbecue restaurants. I realize he was just offering to pay, but I’ll fucking buy some brisket myself if I want to.

I’m overreacting. I know I’m overreacting. But there’s something rude about the way he told me, isn’t there? Not even letting on that Kara was here, until he absolutely had to. He knew I wouldn’t react well. Why do men always try to hide things until the last possible second, thinking it’s going to be better that way?

It’s never better that way.

I run a brush through my hair, grab my purse, and stalk out into the lobby. I’m going to find some good barbecue, damn it. And I’m going to do it without Adrian.

***

I’m sitting on a crowded deck with the smell of hickory smoke all around me. I’ve got a plate of melt-in-your-mouth barbecue and my new favorite side dish, green chile mac and cheese, sitting in front of me. But I’m not smiling.

Fucking Adrian. Dragging me down here, and don’t get me wrong, it’s nice – people in this city are so friendly I’m starting to get suspicious – but now he’s ditched me for his publicist, and since when do authors even have publicists? I guess he doesn’t need an agent, seeing as he publishes under an arm of his own damn company.

I guess a part of me has always believed that what I share with Adrian is unique. Special. Why, I don’t know. It seems stupid now that I’m really examining it. And why do I care? The man’s heart is constructed from splinters and rusty nails. His approval shouldn’t mean so much to me.

But it’s all I have.

"You want another beer, hon?"

The server is beaming at me. I put on a smile, with a supreme effort, so she doesn’t worry about me too much.

"Yes, please," I say. "Please keep them coming until you’re legally obligated to cut me off."

Her face contorts in sympathy. "Rough day?"

I nod. "Travelling."