Undead and Underwater (7 page)

“Me, what?” Hailey was fumbling for her phone . . . Linus was texting her again. A good trick, since she hadn’t given him her cell number. “What?”

“Come on. You know what. I know you have hair ADD, but you’ve gone eight shades darker in three days.”

That was only the truth; Hailey’s mop of unruly strands had been medium brown when she woke up two hours ago. She did not want to think about what that meant, and so did not.

“I just think you could try a shade slightly longer than, oh, eleven hours? Maybe? Sometimes you have. Sometimes an entire week goes by and your hair remains the same color. It’s eerie, but also nice.”

“Hush,” she told her absently. Again, Audrey was correct, and again, Hailey didn’t want to think about what that meant.

Besides, she was quite fond of Audrey the Receptionist. It was hard not to like someone who found the whole your-job-is-your-identity thing so silly she referred to herself, constantly, by her first name and job title. All the time. Everywhere: at work, at home, at the grocery story, at family reunions. “My hair is my hair, and it’s silly that we’re talking about it at all.”

“You just do not even care that you’re so utterly, utterly weird, do you?”

“Not for a while now,” she admitted, and hurried back to her office.

“Twenty-four hours!” Audrey the Receptionist called after her. “Maybe even thirty-six! Hey, how about forty-eight whole hours with the same hair color? Just think it over! That’s all I’m asking.” She plunked back down in her chair. “It’s
not
that much to ask,” she said to no one, and turned back to her computer.

CHAPTER

SEVEN

“Ah,” Hailey said upon entering her office. Linus was instantly on his feet when he saw her. “There you are. I got your texts.” Another unpleasant fact she did not wish to dwell on, but had to. Best apologize first, and then get to it. “I know you must be angry about our lunch, and I’m sorry I had to mmmmm uumm mmm.”

She’d mumbled the last because he’d grasped her by the shoulders, and kissed her on the mouth. She was so startled she dropped her briefcase, mentally groaning at the thought of the folders spilling everywhere (stupid broken zipper!). No, wait—that was verbal groaning, specifically,
her
verbal groans. Possibly because Linus was an amazing kisser. A wonderful kisser. An astounding kisser. What briefcase?

“Astounding!” she said, pulling back with real regret. “You are wonderful! Which is bad. Why did you do that? It was . . . ah . . . astounding. Yes. The perfect word.”

“Yeah, thanks, I had to,” he replied, which made no sense. Worse, she didn’t much care. “I mean, you’re a department head and I’m just an accounting cog. Probably you’d get in trouble if you nailed my lips at the office. Not that I’d mind,” he assured her. “I wouldn’t! And I wouldn’t sue for sexual harassment or anything. Unless that’s what you’re into. So I figured we’d talk and I’d ask you and then I sort of forgot about that and kissed you.”

“I never understand half of what comes out of your mouth,” she complained, but she was glowing. She knew it; she could actually feel herself all warm and flushed and happy and ready for more kisses.

Which was all just awful, really. Under the circumstances.

“You don’t understand half of what comes out of
my
mouth?” His eyebrows arched; his sweet mouth curled into a darling grin. “Have you heard
yourself
ever?”

She sighed. By not smacking him, or suing him, she’d made the situation worse. And now there was nothing for it but to plunge.
Glowing feeling fading . . . fading . . . gone.
“Look, you don’t have to do that.”

“What?”

“Pretend to like me to cover up the notes.”

“What?”

“I just want to know what your purpose is. To out me? To complain about my work habits? To put more pressure on me as an individual or us as a society? What?”

“Are you talking about those Post-its you walk around with all the time?”

“It’s not all the time,” she said, trying to keep her anger in check. “It’s only since you got here, which you must very well know. What I want to know is why—”

“Hailey: I’ve never left you a single Post-it.” He rolled his (big, dark, beautiful) eyes and shook his head. She had the impression he wanted to shake
her
but had decided against it, at least for the time being. “Why would I ever be okay with words on a tiny yellow piece of paper when I could see you in person and hear your voice and look at your eyes and your weird, always-changing hair and your four-seasons-ago Coach Lena flats?”

She stared down at her feet. “Four seasons—okay, this proves you’re spying on me. How else would you know how long I’ve had these—”

“I am not spying on you! I’m not leaving Post-its and I have no idea where you live, although I’d love to be invited over for dinner and you could run off and leave anytime you wanted though I’d hope you’d stay at least through the first course, and I’ll cook if you don’t want to because—”

He was like a human blender of words. “Again: I never understand half of what you say, and I also never gave you my cell phone number.” She truly hoped he wasn’t going to morph into a full-blown crook weirdo stalker she would then have to pummel after eating the contents of her In bin. “But you’ve texted me multiple times, the notes started showing the same week you did—” Had he only been there a week? Had all this madness been happening for a mere seven days? She felt like she’d been listening to yet not understanding him for much longer. She felt like they’d known each other and amused the hell out of each other for much, much longer.

She also wished he’d kissed her for much longer.

Stupid thinking, especially if he turns out to be dangerously deranged instead of merely deranged.

“Sure, I’ve got your number—you gave it to me.” His hand plunged into his front left pocket (khakis, she noted approvingly, which was fine for business-casual Friday) and he pulled out a tiny yellow stamp.

No: it was a Post-it note. She saw he had very carefully folded it with crisp corners, and folded it again, and again, so it was teeny and yellow and a bare half-inch across. “I have little pockets,” he mumbled, his pale freckled skin blushing, “and didn’t want to lose it, so I was careful when I stuck it in there.”

“That is so adorable I might pass out.” It was.
I must stop saying these things out loud to him.
She carefully unfolded it, observed her cell number written in handwriting not her own, then carefully refolded it (teeny origami!) and gave it back, feeling loads better. “I didn’t write that.” In fact, she had a solid idea who did. The relief that Linus seemed to like her for herself was enough to make her knees weak. Or was a residual symptom of his kiss. “I didn’t leave that for you. Isn’t that great?”

“Oh.” His blush deepened. “I guess you didn’t mean for me to have it, then. Here.” He tried to hand back the teeny origami but she wouldn’t take it.

“That’s not what I meant! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—it’s fine that you have my number. It’s not a state secret or anything.” She felt awful, knowing he thought
she
thought he’d been a creep and, worse, a creep she did not want to give her digits to. His dear face was rapidly nearing the color of a ripe beefsteak tomato. It was strange, but his mortification touched her almost as much as his kiss had. His sweet kiss and his dear face and now he couldn’t look at her; he was in an agony of embarrassment and she had never felt more tender and protective of anyone, ever, in her life. “See? I can prove it. Like this.”

Then she seized his shoulders, yanked him forward, and kissed him back.

CHAPTER

EIGHT

Sometime later (seconds, hours, a month?) they both came up for air. They’d staggered around her office like two people trapped in a sack together, their arms around each other, kissing with the fury of two people who had remembered that often the best part of a relationship was the part they were embarked on right that moment, in her office, on her Corporate Yawn–colored carpet.

Linus hadn’t even remembered when they’d left their feet. He was having trouble remembering any specifics at all. He had been so glad to see her and so happy to kiss her and so angry to realize she thought he was
pretending
to like her and then—pretending? What the
hell
? Who would? And why?

He had no idea how someone could fake being enchanted by a beautiful smart wonderful woman like Hailey Derry (hero, hero). He hadn’t been able to think straight for days; who could
fake
that? The thought upset him all over again and he instinctively put a hand to her. She took it, turned it over, and planted a soft kiss on his palm that he instantly felt . . . somewhere else.

“I never thought the name Linus was especially erotic.” She shook her head and let him take his hand back (not that he was in any rush to do so). “How little I know.”

“That’s right. More fool you!”

“It’s the name. Do it to me, Linus. Fill me up, Linus. Ooooh, give it to me haaaard, Linus!” She raised her voice to be heard over his helpless laughter. “If you kissed me as some sort of negative reinforcement because I ducked out on lunch, it was an utter failure.”

They were both sitting on the carpet, thoroughly rumpled. They’d both called a halt right around the time they both went for the other’s shirt buttons. (“Uh . . . probably not the best idea.” “Right.” “In my office, I mean.” “Right.” “To be continued.” “
Damn
right.”)

He shook his head. “It wasn’t negative reinforcement. I was just so damned glad to see you. You came rushing in like you do, in a hurry, and I’ve sort of been worried about you, but when you rushed in, you looked so gorgeous the reason I was waiting went right out of my head.” He sobered, hopped to his feet, then helped her to hers. “Hailey, I’ve got to talk to you. And you have to stay in this room with me until you’ve answered my questions. I’m not trying to come on like some Rambo jerkweed chauvinist, but come on. Something’s up.”

“Rambo jerkweed chauvinist?”

He didn’t smile back. “You disappear all the time, you come back looking like somebody’s beat you up, your mind’s on something else—a lot.” He took a breath, then let it out. “I’m the new guy and even
I
know something’s wrong. I talked to Audrey the Receptionist while we were waiting for her girlfriend to pick her up the other night, and she said you were totally fine, and that you’re kind of a nut about your privacy, which I totally respect—”

“He said, butting into her privacy.” But she was smiling, so he plunged ahead.

He tried again. “I know we haven’t known each other very long—”

“Only a week! Isn’t that amazing?” She looked so happy when she said that, every thought went out of his head except for,
Must kiss pretty girl more now, yes, yes
. “It feels like longer.”

“Huh?”
Must kiss pretty
 . . . Linus shook himself. “Right. But you’re in trouble, Hailey. Aren’t you? Tell me. Let me help.” He took a breath. Waited. Thought,
Yep, I’m really gonna ask her this.
Said: “Don’t get mad, but you’re It Girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

CHAPTER

NINE

“Okay. I know it sounded crazy, but I just had to—wait. You
said yes. You admitted it.”

“Yes. Also, I hate that name. Rhymes with Zit Girl and Pit Girl and Hit Girl—people all over the Web think I’m plagiarizing Mark Millar.” She’d finished adjusting her clothing and now stood on one foot, rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, then slipped her other shoe back on. “Now then. Since you didn’t hack my digits, that means—”

“Hailey, come on. If you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong, you’ve at least got to agree to call a cop!”

“I’m It Girl.” She actually shuddered as she said it. “That’s what’s going on. My God, I actually said it out loud and everything . . .”

“No, come on. Okay, I admit, it was a silly idea, okay?”

“Why?” She’d slipped her other shoe on, and was now unbuttoning his shirt (hooray!) and then rebuttoning it (boo!), this time with the appropriate buttons going into the appropriate holes. His head was still so full of her scent and her smile he was amazed he’d gotten any buttons into any holes. “What’s so silly? Other than the absurdity of a grown woman finding out she’s living the life of an escapee from a graphic novel.”

He’d been almost sure, but her quick response threw him. “Look, I know you’re in trouble. Please,
please
let me help. Okay, so you’re not It Girl . . . It was a dumb idea. I mean, you work hard for us—when you’re here—but you’re kind of, um, disorganized . . .” He gestured; files were everywhere. “And you’re always late or leaving early; and even when you’re not at work, you’re always rushing off somewhere. You’re never around when . . . um . . . when . . .” Just like that, he’d talked himself back into the silly idea that Hailey Derry was It Girl.

“All those things you said, they’re true.”

This was not how it went in the movies. The cornered superhero would have all sorts of reasons why they weren’t Superman or Vomit Girl or Hernia Boy or whomever, and they’d be able to back it up with airtight alibis by faithful butlers, statements that were typed and notarized. They didn’t say, “Yep, you got me. You have found out my deep, dark secret. Woe, now the truth is out! Anyway, try not to blab it all over town.”

“Look, I’ll prove it.”

They didn’t say
that
, either.

Then Hailey rummaged through a desk drawer, pulled out a jumbo box of staples, and gulped down not only all the staples, but the box they were in, and then the stapler they’d been intended for.

Which, once he got over his shock, was the coolest—

“Linus?”

—thing—

“Are you all right?”

—ever.

“I’ve got you.”

CHAPTER