to give me this much space after our chat in his room. It’s not as if we’re avoiding each other. We text whenever we can, we play phone tag, and we see each other in sporadic bursts.
One day, on my way to the parade warehouse, I see him with a group of suited men and women walking down Castle Drive. I stop, transfixed by the sight of him at the helm, speaking to the group while pointing out something on the horizon.
He glances in my direction as they pass and winks at me without breaking stride.
My legs turn into Jell-O.
The next day, he knocks on the door of my dorm at 6 AM.
I assume it’s one of the girls—in need of a tampon or a shoulder to complain on—and I politely tell them to scram before I tuck my head underneath my pillow.
“Whitney, open the door.”
When my sleepy brain connects the dots—that sounds like Derek, that IS Derek, Derek is OUTSIDE—I fling my pillow across the room and make a mad dash for the door. It’s whipped open, he’s tugged inside by the lapels of his suit jacket, and we kiss like we’re addicts breaking our sobriety streak. The sign proclaiming the days since our last hit reverts to zero.
“Come inside,” I plead, tugging him into my evil lair so I can devour him whole.
“I can’t,” he half-laughs, half-groans. “I have to get into the office. We have a board meeting and I need to prepare so I don’t look like an ass.”
Speaking of asses… My hands find his.
Later, when I’ve had coffee, I’ll blush thinking back on this encounter.
With one last soul-stealing kiss, he tells me to go back to sleep. He just wanted to say hi.
Impossible.
That night, I try to work up the courage to text him the truth. In the end, I wimp out.
Whitney: I miss you so much.
Whitney: I really want to see you for longer than these five-second stretches.
Whitney: Hi. Are you busy?
He doesn’t reply for two hours.
Derek: Sorry, I was at dinner with some of our London team. They were in town for the meeting this morning and they fly out tomorrow. Are you still awake? Can I call?
The next morning, I see the text and a missed call and my heart sinks.
I regret my early bedtime. Derek and I could have talked! Maybe even had phone sex!
I throw myself back onto my pillow and dig my palms into my eyes, groaning with annoyance. I need to see him.
Two weeks after the day Derek kissed me on the float, I’m working a shift as Princess Elena and it’s dragging in a way they never used to. Without Derek by my side, I don’t look forward to work. I can’t muster up the same enthusiasm when a girl looks up at me with big googly eyes and tells me I’m her hero. I want to love my job the way I used to, but there’s no ignoring the fact that my old life is suddenly not good enough. I start to realize I’ve outgrown my role as a part-time princess.
On my way to my dressing room after my shift, I have my phone in hand, trying to come up with some way to, without sounding like a psycho, convey to Derek that I’m going to spin out into a full existential crisis if I don’t see him soon.
Then a hand grabs my forearm and I’m tugged to the side, into a dark room. The door slams shut behind me and I shriek.
“I have money! Back in my dressing room. And snacks! You like Fig Newtons?!”
My abductor chuckles and the light is flipped on. I blink, quickly taking in the room where I’ll likely be held captive for the next several months. In one corner, there are boxes stacked to the ceiling. One of them says FLOUR on the side. Good, I can use it to make a sort of paste to eat so I can survive down here.
Then I look at my captor.
Derek stands there, suited up, handsome, calm in the face of my panic.
I immediately rush toward him and pound my fists into his chest. “You scared the hell out of me!”
He lets me go at him another moment or two before catching my wrists. I try to wiggle free but he doesn’t let me.
“Forgive me?” he says, bending down to kiss my cheek.
I jerk my face away.
I thought I was going to have to share my Fig Newtons or eat flour paste. I’m