waited for him to cal me, and when he didn't, I got up and

went into his office without knocking.

Paul stood in the center of the room with a handful of

sodden paper towels. He'd been using them to scrub at the

coffee stain al over his white shirt, but al he'd managed to

do was spread it. Smal bits of paper towel clung to the

fabric, adding to the mess. The harder he scrubbed, the

worse it got.

worse it got.

The first three days I'd worked for Kely Printing, Paul had

been out of the office. He'd hired me, one of three people

who'd sat in on the interview, but I hadn't known until I

showed up that day who was going to be my boss. I'd

assumed the thick sheaf of instructions left for me on my

desk were because he wasn't there to start me off. I knew

better now, of course, but looking back you always see

things you didn't at the time.

The first day I'd come into work to find him actualy in the

office, he'd had this same look on his face. It was because

he'd assumed I hadn't finished everything he'd left for me;

when I showed him al the tasks I'd completed, he'd

calmed down at once, and our routine had quickly become

the way I've described it. So I'd seen the panicked look

before, but not for a while.

"Stop." I didn't have to think about this. I took the paper towels from his hands and threw them in the trash. I went

to the bathroom and puled a handful of dry paper towels

out, then dabbed at the wet spot on his shirt. "What

happened?"

"I spiled my coffee," Paul said unnecessarily.

"I spiled my coffee," Paul said unnecessarily.

"I see that." I also saw there was more to it than that. I blotted the stain and scraped off most of the paper-towel

flecks.

Under my hands, Paul's chest was firm. He radiated heat,

though his face was dry and even a little pale. His hands

shook a little as he held them out away from his sides to

give me room to work. He was getting ready for a ful-on

panic attack.

"This isn't so bad," I soothed.

"I have a meeting to go to in five minutes, and Melissa

forgot my dry cleaning again. So I don't even have an extra

shirt." His voice went a little hoarse. "Damn it, why'd I

have to spil coffee on myself now?"

"You wouldn't be the only person at the meeting who ever

spiled coffee, Paul." I stood back to assess the damage,

then looked him over with a critical eye. "Did you bring a

suit jacket today?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Wear that. Nobody wil notice. It's a little warm, but you'l

"Wear that. Nobody wil notice. It's a little warm, but you'l

feel better." I patted his arm, and the muscles jumped

beneath my fingers.

Paul shook his head slowly. "Paige…"

I let him trail off and didn't offer a response. We looked at

each other. Without the harsh overhead lights, Paul looked

younger. The lines in his forehead visibly smoothed as I

stroked his arm.

It wasn't appropriate. If anyone had seen us, the gesture

could have been misconstrued. At the very least, it might

have started damaging rumors. But nobody saw us, and

Paul gentled under my touch. After working for him for so

many months, I knew what he needed.

It al fel into place. I thought of the day he'd put the

bandage on my leg. How he'd taken such care. And of his

lists, laid out in such detail to let me know exactly what he

needed and wanted. I thought of how he'd owned to being

difficult to work for, when in the end he'd made it so very

simple for me to give him everything he needed I couldn't

remember why I'd ever thought he was hard to work with.

And just then, I think we both understood.

And just then, I think we both understood.

He must have known before what he realy wanted, and

how hard it must have been for him to get it. Yesterday,

too focused on what I thought I'd needed and wanted, I

hadn't been able to see it.

"Put your suit jacket on, Paul. And go to your meeting.

And tomorrow, instead of coffee, you'd better drink water

until you can be less clumsy." I didn't say it lightly. I wasn't teasing.

I was testing.

He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them, I

saw relief and something else. A little shame. A little

excitement. I felt the sting and swirl of it, too, but I lifted

my chin and tried not to show it.

"Now," I said, "go to your meeting."

He put on his suit jacket and left.

There was nothing overtly sexual about what had

happened. I didn't want to fuck my boss. Until today I

wouldn't have believed he wanted to fuck me, either,

beyond the fact that most men would like to fuck most

beyond the fact that most men would like to fuck most

women. Yet something had passed between us, something

charged and tense and arousing.

Alone in Paul's office I had to bend and put my hands on

his desk, my head down so I could catch my breath. I'd

fainted twice in my life, and this didn't feel like that, the

gray-red haze taking over my vision, the ringing in my ears.

This light-headedness was more like the breathless rush

that comes just before orgasm, when every muscle

clenches. When the body takes over and nothing the mind

can do wil stop the inevitable.

It was synchronicity again, or maybe serendipity. Like

when you've never heard a word before and suddenly you

see it in every book you read, or how you've been craving

ice cream and the ice-cream truck rounds the corner just

before you go inside. Three men, similar but different. I

might not have noticed a few months ago, but now it was

al I could see. The notes had done that. Opened my eyes

to that need. Theirs and mine, too.

Last night, learning about Eric had rocked my world. This

morning, discovering I was about to lose my lists had done

it again. But now, just now, with Paul, I'd learned

something so basic it had been with me al along. Only like

something so basic it had been with me al along. Only like

Dorothy with the Scarecrow, Tin Woodsman and

Cowardly Lion, I simply hadn't seen it. I thought of lists

and notes and what they meant to me. And what I wanted.

And I knew what I had to do.

"Paige." Miriam gave me a broad, crimson-lipped grin. "So nice to see you. What can I do for you today? A gift for

someone?"

"No. Today I came in for myself."

I looked to the shelf where the boxes of ink, pens and

papers had been, but they were gone. Miriam came

around the counter and saw me looking. She tugged gently

on my sleeve.

"In the back. Come with me." She'd set the boxes on an

eye-level shelf, each displayed with its lid open to show off

the papers inside. "Not so many people wil see these

back here, but if they take the time to look, I believe they

wil be unable to resist."

I already knew the one I wanted. Red lacquer with blue

and purple accents. The paper inside bore the watermark

and purple accents. The paper inside bore the watermark

of a dragonfly, and there was enough to last a number of

weeks even if I wrote a letter on it every day. The brush-

and-ink set interested me less. I didn't intend to write in

caligraphy.

"This one." I closed the lid and slid the smal wooden clasp through the loop of ribbon to keep it shut. I turned to

Miriam and stopped at the look on her face. "What?"

"I knew you would find something to write on that paper,

that's al." She was already leaving the room and gestured

over her shoulder for me to folow.

The box was heavier than it looked because of the marble

stamper, also featuring a dragonfly, and the porcelain

container of ink paste inside. Heavier, too, because of

what I meant to do with the contents. The wood slipped

against my fingers as I carried it to the cash register. I

didn't want to let it go long enough for Miriam to ring it up

and put it in a Speckled Toad bag, but I did.

I was sweating a little, my stomach and throat buzzing with

anticipation. Colors seemed a bit too bright and sounds

too loud. I was already thinking of a quiet room and

candlelight, and the scritch-scratch of a pen on the paper.

I already knew what I was going to write.

Miriam rang up my purchase and wrapped the satin box

liberaly in tissue paper, then slid it into a bag. She peered

at me over her half glasses, her mouth pursed, and tapped

the countertop with her crimson nails. "You need

something else."

I was already spending too much. "I don't think so."

Miriam ignored me and turned to the glass-topped display

case next to the counter. She leaned over to look at the

Cross and Mont Blanc pens inside, each snuggled in its

own cradle of velvet. She ran her finger over the glass,

drawing my attention to each of the pens I'd lusted over

since discovering her shop. There was a Starwalker

rolerbal pen in black and one in blue. There was a

Meisterstuck Classique Platinum rolerbal in classic black

with silver accents. She even had one of the special

limited-edition Marlene Dietrich pens I'd seen online that