was not going to work. First, I was pretty sure Raggedy Anne on crack was not the look he had in mind: swollen lips from the beluga salt, eyeliner smudged six ways from Sunday, and red splotches on my cheeks like a blush-stick gone wild.
Knock. Knock.
“Hurry it up. Someone’s coming,” he whispered.
“Oh, coming!” I tried to say sexily.
I slipped on a kiddie-sized pink t-shirt and a pair of old boxers, fingered my hair into a ponytail, squirted lotion into my hand, and peeked through the door while rubbing eyeliner off with my fingertips.
“Hi. What’s going on?” I poked my head out the door, trying to disguise my panting.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He leaned towards me, as though inviting himself in.
“Okay? What. . . uh. . . yeah, I’m okay. Come in,” I said, covering my mouth, certain my breath smelt like Camembert and he was some sort of heavenly apparition.
“I was wondering what happened to you.” His eyes darted around as if he thought he’d been followed, then he slipped by me to get comfortable.
“How come you’re still up?”
Actually, how come you’re here? Did I win the Cosmic Justice Sweepstakes? Is Ed McMahon with you?
“Karl. He flew in late tonight from LA, so it was our only time to discuss how he wants me to handle the talent.”
“Aren’t you talent too?”
“No, I’m the host. Don’t lump me in with those crazy beyatches.” He winked.
“Someone has to give you a hard time for your cushy job,” I said, pretending to be cool while continuing to rub the mascara grease from my eyes. I hoped that, by some miracle of God, at least my face had an au naturel glow to it.
Alex grabbed the chair beside the desk. I sat on the edge of the bed, self-consciously crossing and uncrossing my legs, and trying various lady-like positions to make my healthy thighs look not so healthy. Meanwhile, my heart was doing triple axel salchows at the prospect of a James Bond ringer sitting within three feet of my sheets. As a late night bonus, he was wearing a basic gray Hanes t-shirt that read “Joe’s Fish Supplies,” and it looked like the real deal.
“Have you been crying?” He reached for my towel, which I was neurotically using to dab at my face like someone locked in a sweat lodge.
“No,” I said, thinking, Should I? Would it help my chances? Because I do good cry.
It was sort of sad that I could have someone so luscious in my grasp, who came to me, unprompted, unasked, unexpected, and still be so insecure about it. I should’ve been bouncing around my hotel room, singing Billy Squier, “Everybody wants me!” Instead, I felt like Roseanne Barr at Fashion Week.
“Karl totally over-reacted with you. He’s a bit of an ass.” He shook his head and laughed. “I think it’s awesome you had the cajones to go in there to deal with tech stuff. It’s not like you were eating their food,” Alex said with a chuckle as I tried to contain my surprise.
Of course! Why would this gorgeous specimen of a man show up to my room if he actually believed I was pigging out on celebrity scraps? “Right, yeah, total misunderstanding. The stupid wire was loose. I could see it,” I muttered, staring at my kneecaps, half giggling.
“Got any more of that wine?” He grabbed a plastic cup from the desktop. “Can’t sleep. I’m still on LA time. Guess it’s good we ran into each other tonight.”
The fluorescent light bounced off my leg stubble as if it had been hit with the glitter gun. I needed an hour with a blow dryer and a push-up bra, or even just two minutes with a comb.
“So, who are you eye-balling?” Alex said, giving me the once-over and drinking his wine.
“Huh?”
“You know, any dudes on your list?”
“What do you mean? I just got here. I’m not—”
“Come on, pretty girl like you could have any guy you want. Especially with this ratio. What is it, ten guys to every girl? Thank God for the chambermaids.”
Slightly redeems himself with the pretty comment, then wham with the maids.
“Nope, no one. But, uh, the way things are going, someone might pop up,” I said, smiling playfully. “What about you? You’re sorta cute. I’m sure one of the maids is looking for a ticket out of scrubbing toilet sludge.”
“Touché. But seriously, I don’t mix work and pleasure. Too dangerous. Never works.” He continued to sip his wine.
So, why are