Jane Air

she is actually growling.
“-And you rarely tolerate bad behavior. Especially from privileged jerks.”
“I don’t think she said he was a privileged jerk,” Christine looks between Kate and me, rising to the defense of the man in question.
“Thank you, Christine.” I nod in her direction.
“What? No.” Kate shakes her head. “No. No. No. Don’t do that. Don’t redirect. Let’s stay on point.” She leans forward again, forearms on the table. Blocking Jessica’s attempts to fill the smallest of our taco bowls with salsa.
“We are on point,” I laugh. “You asked me how my week was and I told you I am tutoring David Jacobs. That is my point.”
Penelope’s chopping increases in speed and sound. We all turn to her and notice that she has effectively made juice from the tomatoes on the cutting board.
“Honey,” Dory reaches past her and slides the dripping board towards Christine who takes it with a sympathetic smile. “Why don’t you give me the knife?”
“One more time-”
“For Christ’s sake, Kate!” Jessica bursts out, slapping the bowl of sliced chicken on the counter. “David Jacobs has moved to Midnight. He is researching a role, because he is an actor. He asked Jane to help him with his research because Jane is a researcher. Why is this so hard for you to understand?”
Kate huffs. Rebuffed. I smile at Jessica. She salutes me with her chicken knife.
“The whole thing just seems a bit-”
“Unfair?” Penelope finally speaks, hand shaking as she jerks the cork out the freshly opened bottle of wine.
“Absurd?” She pours, stuffing the bottle so far into her glass we hear it clink on the bottom.
“Outrageous?”
The wine comes out in great gulps and we stand in silence, wondering if she’ll be able to fit the entire bottle in the glass.
It is a big glass.
“Honey, would you like me to-” Dory reaches over but Penelope jerks her arm away, setting the bottle and its remaining half inch of contents back on the countertop.
“MONSTROUSLY UNJUST?” She glares at me over the rim of the wine glass, practically shouting that last bit, and begins chugging her wine like she’s worried we’ll take it away from her.
Which we may, frankly, if she keeps this up.
“Well,” I look to the others, hoping for backup, “he wants to study classic romantic literature. That is my expertise.”
Penelope puts down the glass, taking a deep breath, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. She shakes her head, lips purple.
“I bet you don’t even know his star sign.”
I make eye contact with Kate and bite the inside of my mouth to stop myself from snorting.
“Uh…Aquarius?”
Kate covers her laugh with a cough and Jessica hides her grin as she unwraps the taco shells.
“Jane. Jane. Jane.” Penelope shakes her head, her eyes horrified and pitying at once.
She lets out a long-suffering sigh and looks towards the ceiling. “He’s a scorpio.”

7
David
I realize too late that I still don’t have any furniture. Well, not here anyways. Angelo left me a message this morning, telling me he had sent a script overnight. Of course, I had left him a message with my assistant, asking him to check with Angelo about the furniture movers, since he had promised he would arrange everything without the press catching wind of anything. Conveniently, in his voicemail, Angelo did not mention the press, the movers, my still-furnished house in L.A., or my decidedly unfurnished house in Maine.
I sigh.
It occurs to me that Angelo isn’t planning to let me stay here.
Or still thinks I’m going to change my mind.
I turn on the tap and fill my travel mug, one of the few items I had remembered to stuff in my carry-on when I got on the plane.
Angelo is probably thinking what everyone back on the West Coast is thinking.
He’ll be back.
I take a sip, marveling at the taste of drinking water straight from a faucet, unfiltered and unboiled but without that city, chlorine flavor.
It’s hard not to smile. I don’t think I’ve ever had strong thoughts on tap water before. I pause as I refill.
Is that because I can’t remember the last time I drank tap water?
The doorbell rings and I turn the faucet. Walking down the hallway, I can see the outline of my pretty new teacher through the panes of glass along the door.
I open the door, and have to force myself to make eye contact, when every instinct tells me to sweep south, to appreciate her soft curves and ample angles. Even her size is perfect, just tall enough to tuck under my chin, breasts firm against my belly.
Breasts sliding lower, across the button of my jeans.
Lower, across my-
“Can I come in?” Her voice is brisk and professional. Almost stern, like a librarian reprimanding a schoolboy for his overdue fees.
Librarian, huh?
Once the image is in my head, I can’t shake it. I back up, keeping my arm on the door so she has to slide sideways into the entrance to avoid touching me.
I know I’m staring but the thought of her, all prim and proper…
Hair tucked up in a bun.
Pencil skirt.
Heels and stockings and a button sweater.
Everything on the floor in a heap. Her bent over the desk, me behind her, about to-
“So where do you want to do this?”
Anywhere.
“What?” I cough slightly, hoping my ogling isn’t too obvious. She’s looking directly at me. No wandering glances. No feminine appreciation.
Damn.
“Where do you want to work?” She looks around. “Do you have a table, or…” she waves her hand slightly. “A desk?”
“No.” I smile, feeling simultaneously stupid and delighted.
No, I do not have a table.
No, I do not have a desk.
Yes, that will probably make literature studies a bit more difficult.
But I do have you.
Right here.
In my house.
I called her last week, only a day or two after I had left her office, the smell of her hair and her skin still in my nose. I enjoyed teasing her, standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off of her, could see the way her eyes responded to my voice, her