Page 48 of Somewhere Along The Line
“I know I don’t,” I reply. “I want to.”
We find a rhythm as we work for the next forty-five minutes. I untie bags and break down boxes, she places the items and sets up the detail cards, I lay out the bid sheets and she distributes the pens.
We don’t talk much, but it's familiar nonetheless, like our bodies have a sense of what the other will do and accommodate for it without thinking. When the set-up is complete, Piper steps back to take it in, cocking her head and narrowing her eyes to appraise our handiwork.
“It looks good!” My palm extends toward her for a high five, which seems like the lowest-stakes suggestion that I’m dying for her to touch me.
“It looks good,” she agrees, weaving her fingers through mine and giving a brief squeeze. She leans her weight into my side with a sigh, the rhythm of her breath slowing. It feels indulgent, this fleeting bit of contact, like she’s giving herself a single moment of rest before the madness of the gala starts in full.
I want to linger like this, to continue to have the weight of her body pressed to the side of my stomach, but Piper straightens quickly, pulling her hand away to smooth it down her thigh.
“Sorry, I… I need to change before people arrive in thirty,” she says, her lips pulling to the left to blow a piece of stray hair out of her eyes. “Thanks again for being here and for helping out.” Her body twists away from me as she scurries toward a corner door, throwing up a wave on the way.
This is my cue to leave. I know I should leave. Leaving is the smart thing to do.
I don’t leave.
Instead, I scan the room for another task. Chairs bang and clank as they are pulled from a stack, their metal legs dragging across the floor behind two women who place them around tables. No one asks who I am or why I’m here when I grab three chairs from the top and slide them into place, nor when I repeat the motion until every table is full.
I fill the time by filling needs, joining Hope First employees as they scamper to get everything finished. By 5:20 p.m. the place is shimmering, reshaped from a warehouse into a ballroom, lights glinting off cutlery and centerpieces with easy jazz wafting through the air.
It’s incredible.
Piper tears into the room five minutes later, and her transformation rips the breath out of my lungs. A short black dress has replaced her tee and jeans, and it hugs her curves effortlessly, highlighting the spot at her waist where my palm, now damp at the sight of her, fits just right.
Her hair drapes loosely over one shoulder and my heart bumps against my sternum every time it brushes over the jut of her collarbone. She moves with an authority I have never seen from her; she’s confident, almost aggressively so, as she directs folks to their places, her red heels showing off the cut of her calves with each step.
I’m trying not to stare, but it’s difficult. This dress makes me want to corner her—to wrap my hands around her wrists and pin her to the wall to steal the lipstick from her mouth.
She catches me out of the corner of her eye and stops mid-stride. I never made it clear that I planned to stay, though she never explicitly asked me to leave. My arm lifts my sweaty hand for a wave since that’s what we do, and she rushes over to me in ten seconds flat.
“James, I…” Her brown eyes are wild, as though she has one hundred open tabs in her brain and seeing me has caused the machine to freeze.
My fingers find her shoulders and give them a gentle squeeze.
“P, this dress… you look incredible.”
She blinks and comes to life again, giving me a grin. “Of course I do.” Her eyes dart around the room to make sure everyone is still playing their parts before returning to my gaze. “I didn’t expect you to still be here.”
“Like I said, I came prepared for a fancy evening.” I grab my lapels and tug. A chuckle slips between her lips before her expression changes, her eyebrows furrowing as catches sight of the empty bar behind me.
“Hey, actually, could you do something for me?” Her face transforms from concerned to pleading as she gives me the expression I recognize from each prior request—puppy dog eyes with an earnest glint and a soft smile.
It works on me now just like it always has. I nod and shoot her a curious glance.
“The bartender we hired isn’t here yet, and I don’t want to panic. Can you hang by the bar and pour some wine until he arrives? It shouldn’t be long.”
“Pipes, of all of the requests you’ve ever made, this is…almostmy favorite one.” A grin stretches across my cheeks, heat lapping up my neck as the memory of Monday night—the way she asked me to touch her—floods my brain. She whacks me lightly on the arm before pointing me to the bar.
By 5:30 the room is buzzing with chatter and I’m the most popular person here as a line forms for drinks. Even better, my view of Piper is unobstructed as she navigates the crowd, schmoozing with donors, talking about auction items, and intermittently lifting a radio to her red lips to message her teammates.
She is effortless in this environment, floating between roles, and it’s remarkable to see. The nervous, unsure, stressed Piper I see on the train most mornings is gone.
This Piper is a handler and it’s sexy as hell.
An hour and a half goes by quickly as the meal is served and several clients share their stories from the stage, each one heartbreaking and galvanizing. Soon, Piper takes the mic, leading the crowd in a round of applause for the clients and sharing how the money raised will go toward bettering the lives of women and children in our city.
I’m biased, of course, but I would give this woman anything. By the look of the crowd, I’m not the only one. People are dropping checks in baskets at the center of their tables while others are pulling out their phones to scan QR codes to donate. The money is flowing as easily as the drinks.
