Over Her Dead Body — Spicy + Unhinged

Santa Fe. Three years earlier.

Emma tells me to take off my tie.

It is eleven forty at the hotel bar. There are several ways I could choose to understand her, and for once I would appreciate a moment to enjoy the wrong one.

“You keep pulling at it,” she says. “Either take it off or buy shirts that fit.”

“That ruins the effect.”

“What effect?”

I loosen the knot.

She watches me do it. Then she goes back to the file on the counter between us.

Emma has spent dinner convincing a collector that the estimate he dislikes is considerably kinder than the one he deserves. I have spent dinner agreeing with her, which she seems to find more suspicious than the collector’s valuation.

“You enjoyed that,” she says.

“Watching you explain the same number four times?”

“Watching him understand it the fourth time.”

“He understood it the first time.”

“I know.”

She smiles into her glass.

There are women I like better when they are being nice. Emma would be wasted on the exercise.

✦

She has taken the stool beside mine instead of a chair at the small table where I suggested we sit.

Probably because she can see the file better.

Probably because the table was beneath an air vent.

I have given this more consideration than it deserves. She has given it none, which is one of the less attractive possibilities.

Her dress leaves one shoulder bare. I noticed at dinner. I have since learned exactly how long I can look before she catches me.

Not very long.

“Is something wrong with it?” she asks.

“With what?”

“My dress.”

“No.”

“Then we can both relax.”

I take a drink.

She turns a page. There is a faint crease between her eyebrows. A person unfamiliar with Emma might mistake it for concentration.

She is deciding how much to enjoy herself at my expense.

“You’re very quiet,” she says.

“It happens.”

“Not in meetings.”

“In meetings, you disagree with me.”

“I can do that here.”

“I know. You travel well.”

Her laugh is low and brief. She keeps her eyes on the page, giving me the pleasure of knowing I caused it without the satisfaction of seeing her admit anything.

I could spend another hour here.

That is becoming a problem.

✦

The bartender asks whether we want another round.

Emma looks at me.

I have negotiated seven-figure consignments with less concern about my answer.

“One more?” I ask.

“We have a meeting at eight.”

“Eight thirty.”

“I know. I wanted to see how badly you wanted the drink.”

“Badly enough to know the schedule.”

She closes the file.

“One more,” she tells him.

Emma turns toward me as he takes our glasses. Her knee comes to rest against mine.

We both have ample room.

She could move. I could move.

Neither of us does.

I look at her mouth and get caught immediately.

“Something else wrong?”

“Several things.”

“That sounds personal.”

“It is becoming personal.”

For once, she doesn’t answer quickly.

I like that too much.

Her knee leaves mine when the bartender returns. She thanks him, takes her glass, and asks whether I sent the revised condition report.

The transition is insulting in its efficiency.

“Yes.”

“To Celeste?”

“And the client.”

“Good.”

She takes a sip.

I would like to put my hand against the bare skin at the back of her neck. I know how it would look if I leaned closer. How little she would have to turn.

Instead, I ask whether she wants to review the email.

“Christ, Owen. No.”

Fair.

✦

By midnight, the file is closed and we have stopped pretending to need it.

She tells me about a man who sent her photographs of his wine cellar before asking her to dinner.

“A collector?”

“A date.”

“What did you say?”

“That the storage looked excellent.”

“And?”

“He sent the guest room next.”

“Ambitious.”

“Terrible curtains.”

“Obviously you declined.”

“I haven’t decided.”

The answer annoys me more than the man deserves.

I picture her canceling from my bed. Telling him exactly where she is. Letting him hear me laugh.

I don’t even know this man’s name, and I have assigned him a speaking part. Apparently wanting Emma isn’t enough. I would also like someone else to lose.

She sees it happen.

“Oh,” she says. “You have an opinion.”

“I have several.”

“About the curtains?”

“About men who think showing you a room is an invitation.”

She sets her glass down.

“What would you do?”

I could make a joke.

I should make a joke.

“Ask.”

Her attention stays on me.

The bar has become inconveniently quiet. The last couple leaves. The bartender moves toward the far end of the counter.

Emma waits.

I wanted her to ask. That was the arrangement I had been making in my head while she sat beside me: she would say something sufficiently clear, and I could stop being responsible for wanting it.

It is less attractive once I notice it.

She picks up the file.

“Then I suppose the curtains weren’t the problem.”

✦

We take the elevator together.

I press her floor, then mine.

For sixteen seconds, I watch her in the mirrored wall. Her bare shoulder. Her mouth. The loose end of my tie hanging between us.

I want her to take hold of it. Pull me down to her and make some impatient remark I can kiss out of her mouth. I have spent the evening imagining how she would sound when she stopped being careful.

Now she is close enough that I could ask.

The doors open.

My palm settles against the small of her back. Warm skin beneath my fingers. I mean to let go immediately. I don’t quite manage it.

She turns her head. Her mouth is inches from mine.

I have to make myself look at her eyes.

“Eight thirty,” I say.

Her expression changes.

“I know the schedule, Owen.”

She steps out. My hand falls away.

The doors close.

I want to hit the emergency stop. Open them. Go after her.

I’ve seen how she looks at our clients’ lives. She doesn’t have to say she wants that.

Emma deserves it.

I want to give it to her. Not show her a guest room and wait for her to be impressed.

I look at the button.

Not yet.

But soon.