Page 31 of Forced Proximity

The Shawshank Redemption was as good the thirtieth time as the first. Last night, besides a brief moment when Justin got a phone call from someone he clearly didn’t like, the night was so comfortable it almost made me uncomfortable. If that even makes sense.

During the movie, Justin and I reached into the popcorn bowl at the same time and a small tingle flew through me. I know, I know. It’s so childish, like the way a fourteen-year-old would feel on a first date. But that was not a date. Justin is my client who’s given me zero indication that he thinks of me as anything more than an employee. Seriously, my immature physical reaction and lack of professionalism is over the top. I keep saying I’m going to do it, but I’m officially heading into an extreme drought era – one of these days, I’m getting laid by something besides my vibrator so I can release this tension.

A barrier between us shattered, so much so that I nearly broke down and told him that I’m still reeling from the news that my ex-wife just had a baby. I’ve never in my life wanted to share something so personal with a client.

Every day I’m growing more comfortable with him. Probably not all that uncommon after spending more than a month together. Normally I can only handle conversations in bite-size pieces. Letting people get too close threatens the little safety bubble I built after leaving Katey. But wanting the level of discussions Justin and I are having is putting me on edge. Nothing is more important than maintaining focus and keeping my clients safe, and these personal interactions are dangerously close to crossing the line.

But after the whole drug–insulin fiasco, when Justin opened up about Mia, something clicked. I tried to stay calm and casual and not let on how deeply honored I was that he shared so much. Sure, he’s supposed to trust me with his life. But trusting me with his emotions is a much larger leap. When he was done, I almost hugged him. And I’m not even a hugger. The sincerity in his voice, the pain, was so real, that I officially let the whole ‘jumping to conclusions’ situation go.

I need to create distance, however. Last night I dreamed about him, woke up horny and got myself off. I can’t help my subconscious, but in my waking hours I need to back off.

Before meeting Justin today, I make a quick stop at my favorite café for coffee and a scone. I sit outside on the sidewalk bench and FaceTime my dad.

‘Lexi!’ my dad says over the screen. ‘Pumpkin. Tell me what’s good.’

It’s only been a few weeks since we last chatted, but my heart pinches at my father’s smiling face. ‘Hey, Dad. What are ya doing?’

‘Just working on Sally.’ He pats his ’77 Trans Am.

At least, I think he pats the car. He’s trying to show me, but my dad hasn’t quite gotten the hang of flipping the camera the other way to show what’s in front of him. ‘Sally, huh? How’s she feeling?’

‘She’s good,’ he says. ‘Just finished changing the belt, and she’s purring like a cat in heat.’

‘Eww.’

He chuckles, pulls out a hanky from his overalls and wipes his face. ‘Well, you know Freddy, the guy that takes care of the five-acre plot? He ain’t lettin’ me help no more, so I’m gettin’ forced into the shed. I tried going into the house, but your mom wanted me out of her hair. I’m telling ya, kid, all she does these days is bake with her fancy tools. Your old man is getting fat as hell.’

‘Oh stop. You look great.’ I blow into my cup. ‘Mom around?’

‘Nah, she ran into town. You know her, she gets squirrely sittin’ around.’

So true. My father is completely content putzing in the shed on various projects. My mom will tear her hair out if she doesn’t leave the farm once a day.

For the next ten minutes, Dad groans about the Vikings’ draft picks, and swears if they don’t have a better season, he’s switching his loyalties to the Packers. Hearing my dad’s voice like this and picturing him and my mom’s new life, makes everything I’ve done worth it.

When Marcus first hired me, he gave me the starting salary range. $1,500 a week. Plus overtime! I almost spat my drink on the floor. He may as well have said he was giving me a million dollars. I paid off Katey’s student loans, upgraded my 2001 Ford to a car made in the same year I bought it, and started a nest egg for mine and Katey’s future family. I tried to send money to my parents, but they categorically refused.

Years’ worth of raises, bonuses and high-paying weekend gigs and the money piled up. I’d become so accustomed to my frugal lifestyle that besides running shoes, material items were meaningless. After the divorce, I had a savings account full of cash and no desire to buy a home.

Two years ago, a man showed up on my parents’ doorstep. He represented an anonymous buyer interested in purchasing five acres of my parents’ fifteen-acre plot, for an extraordinarily high price. So high that my father first laughed and asked if there was a hidden camera in his pocket. Then accused him of being a scam artist. The man explained the buyer looked at it as a long-term investment and had no use for it now but promised to maintain it as part of the purchase.

My father was skeptical and called me. I offered for a ‘lawyer friend’ to peek at the contract. I contacted my lawyer, the one who drafted the original paperwork and set up an LLC for me to purchase the land anonymously. Sixty days later, my parents had enough money to be debt-free and retire, plus plenty left over for some toys.

I say goodbye to my dad and check the time. Today, Justin has an early call time at the studio, so security hand-off will take place at the building. I toss my trash and go home to wait for a driver.

Traffic is freakishly light, and I arrive at the studio twenty minutes earlier than expected. I tap my thumbs against my cell.

Doc: Here early. Going to check in at the lobby.

Zane: Perf. Caterers are setting up now. Meeting should be done soon. I’ll let the coordinator know you’re here.

I pass through two security checkpoints to enter the corporate offices. Glass-blown sculptures, abstract artwork and ultra-modern furniture fills the space. After I sign the electronic guest log, the distinct click of expensive, thin stiletto heels on the marble floor approaches from the left.

‘Ms Morgan?’ A six-foot-tall, gorgeous woman with pristine, straight, pale blonde hair asks.

I quiet the urge to tighten my ponytail. ‘You can call me Doc.’

She flattens the bottom of her body-hugging blouse. ‘I’ll call you Ms Morgan.’