“Huh? God, no!” Madeleine started. A blush spread up her cheeks. “Is that what you think? That I don’t like it?”
“I know you don’t. I recall your verdict well. I heard you dismiss it as ‘yesterday’s steampunk’.” Her lip curled in disdain.
Madeleine shook her head. “Hey, you got it all wrong. I think retro steampunk is the hottest look ever created. Hell, I’ve got all the Warehouse 13 episodes H.G. Wells was in to prove it.”
Elena blinked at her. “You feel I dress like some old, dead, male writer?” This was mystifying. Had she offended Madeleine so much that she was now openly insulting her again?
“Oh wow. No! Far from it. Okay.” Madeleine scribbled a note to herself. “Tomorrow. Wait till tomorrow, then you’ll see.”
Elena sighed and kept walking. Possibly, flying Ukranian cows doing mist dances were in her future.
* * *
Tomorrow brought with it Felicity in a snit over the new PA, a widening, budget black hole in Sydney, and a disc sitting on her desk. She squinted at the image on it. The TV show, Warehouse 13, appeared to be science fiction. Definitely not for her. And she definitely didn’t have time for this. Not after those Sydney numbers.
She ignored the disc for most of the night. She also ignored the furtive looks Madeleine kept shooting her way, assessing whether the disc had moved position on her desk, no doubt. It made her more adamant not to watch the damned thing at all. She didn’t have time for distracting nonsense.
At ten, she called Amir to bring the car around to take her home. She picked up the disc, intending to drop it on Madeleine’s desk with a stern warning of “no more”.
Instead, she saw the hopefulness in the woman’s green eyes, her gaze fixed on Elena’s fingers clutching the disc. Pressing her lips together, she bit back her first response, slid the disc in her handbag, and said nothing as she left for the evening.
And if there was a small, relieved sigh behind her, she chose not to notice it.
* * *
The next day, an eager gaze met hers. Elena ignored it, went into her office, and dropped her handbag on the desk. She didn’t want to start a long conversation about the magnificence of a smart, entrancing, nineteenth-century woman in gorgeous steampunk vests. She particularly didn’t want to hear an I-told-you-so. It was bad enough having to admit that Madeleine’s enraging fashion insult the day they’d met had actually been a compliment.
She reached into her bag, pulled out the disc, and headed over to Madeleine’s desk, where she slapped it down. “Acceptable,” she said, in a tone that brooked no further discussion. After pivoting swiftly on heel, Elena returned to her office, relieved at putting an end to the conversation before it even started. She really was much too busy. As she settled into her seat, she glanced back at Madeleine and paused in her tracks.
The young woman’s expression was pure delight.
Elena’s heart did an embarrassing, pleased little flip at having put that look on Madeleine’s face. She clenched her jaw. This was absurd. She shouldn’t care what Madeleine Grey thought of anything. She was just an occasionally interesting employee.
Her brain blew her a raspberry.
* * *
Several nights later, Madeleine slid a plate of crisp, golden pastries on her desk. “Try them,” she said, sounding cheerful. “They’re my homemade apple tarts. You’ll thank me.”
Did her persistence know no bounds?
“I don’t think I’d thank the extra three-hour workout required if I do,” Elena replied, although in truth they smelled delicious.
“Workout, huh? Go on, just one. I’ll give the rest to Sofía. She deserves some perks cleaning up after the slobs in this office.”
“That is true.” Elena contemplated the tempting little bundles.
Madeleine reached over and snagged a pastry herself and took a large bite. Her eyes rolled back in her head. “Mmm.” Her eyes held a wicked gleam.
“You know, it’s customary not to eat one’s gifts for someone.”
“Just proving they aren’t poisoned. Come on. Just a bite.”
In spite of all her internal protestations, Elena succumbed. Oh. Her taste buds did an ecstatic tap dance at the divine sensations. Apple, raisins, and cinnamon flavours burst across her mouth, and she forced herself not to make the obscene sounds of appreciation she was dying to. This clinched it. Madeleine’s cooking was better than sex—which wasn’t saying much given how overrated she’d found the bedroom activity to be. These bundles of bliss were like embracing heaven. Or, as she finally told Madeleine when she could talk again, “they have a certain appeal”. If by appeal she meant kissed by the gods.
That unfortunate admission had proved a mistake. The woman clearly felt the need to gloat.
“Knew it.” Madeleine beamed at her. “You’re a hardcore, secret carbs fan. I make spicy cheese sticks you’d love. Tomorrow night?”
Elena almost quivered at the thought. However she offered her firmest head shake. “Absolutely not.”
Madeleine’s joy dipped a little.
“I won’t be here,” Elena said, baffled at her sudden need to explain. “I have meetings. It’s time to pull the Style International teams into line. They’re not sharing their copy as much as they should. It’s blowing out the costs. What’s the point of having sister publications if you don’t content share? I mean really.”
“Ah, I see. These are the things that keep you up at night?” Madeleine munched on her pastry.
“No. These are things easily fixed. What keeps me up at night…” She paused and realised she’d been seconds away from revealing something personal to a woman she barely knew. “What keeps me up is how to get the obits writer to actually write her obits instead of playing chef.”
A flicker of disappointment flared across Madeleine’s face, but she still nodded. “I hear you. Let me find Sofía and then get back to work.” She picked up the plate of treats and turned to go.
“Actually…” Elena reached forward and snagged another. “I’m sure Richard would appreciate one as well.”
Madeleine eyed her for a moment and then smiled. “Right. For Richard.” She winked.
Elena gave her a withering glare, sighed, and waved her away. Great, now she would have to give it to her husband in order to prove Madeleine wrong. Damn she was maddening.
Nonetheless, a part of her, the part that was sometimes tired of feeling so isolated, was charmed at the young woman’s attentions and attempts at conversation. With a sinking feeling, she realised it was getting more difficult to keep her at arm’s length.
