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Barefoot. In Levi’s. Wearing a leather necklace that made me redefine all my opinions about leather necklaces.
“You’re early,” he said then, interrupting my ogle. “I was just getting dressed.”
I was still mute. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I could hear myself wanting to say, “I am exactly on time,” in a professional, even imperceptibly irritated voice—but I couldn’t actually orchestrate the required squeezing of the diaphragm to make it happen.
Using every ounce of willpower I had, I ratcheted my open mouth closed.
That was something, at least.
He frowned at this for a second, and then he said, “Wait. Are you early? Or am I late?” He checked his watch. “You know what? I’m still on mountain time.”
All I could do was not gape.
“Are you thinking that North Dakota is central time?”
No response, but I did maintain eye contact.
He went on. “Because I get that a lot. North Dakota is central time, mostly. Except for the southwest corner. Where I happen to live.”
He was unfazed by one-sided conversations.
This must happen to him a lot.
But now he turned and waved for me to follow. “Come on in,” he said, heading farther back into the house.
I closed the door behind me and trailed him to the kitchen. Get a grip, I scolded myself. He’s just a person! He cut himself shaving! He’s not even all that tan anymore!
“Cool pin necklace, by the way,” he called back as he walked.
Like a reflex, I touched my beaded safety pin. Huh. Observant.
And the pin must have been even more of a talisman than I’d realized, because only then did I magically remember how to talk. “Thank you,” I said—though it came out more like a question than a reply.
In the kitchen, Jack Stapleton bent down and started rummaging through the cabinet under the sink, like regular people sometimes do.
Imagine that. They’re just like us.
“I’m new here,” he was saying, as I watched, “so I don’t really know what we have, but just let me know anything you need, and I’ll get it for you.”
He turned and stood up then with a caddy full of cleaning bottles, scrub brushes, sponges, and trash bags, which he set decisively on the counter in front of me.
I frowned at him.
“For cleaning,” he said.
I shook my head.
He frowned again. “Aren’t you the…”
And then—so newly grateful for the power of speech—I answered with, “Executive Protection Agent.”
Just as he said, “Cleaning lady?”
Really? Here I am in my best pantsuit, and he’s thinking “cleaning lady”?
Maybe Robby was right. Maybe I couldn’t pass.
“I am not the cleaning lady,” I said.
