“So. We know we came here. Where did we go next?” he says to me, studiously avoiding my gaze. Fine. I cross my arms.
“Before we go any further, I need one thing. Can you go inside and see if my, uh, purse is in there? I still can’t find it.” Or my laptop, but let’s tackle one problem at a time. “It’s got my ID, so I’m freaking out a little.” I’m also blushing to the roots of my hair, remembering the taste of his mouth, the way he thrust into me so deep I could have passed out from pleasure. Purse, Julia. Remember the purse. “Also I, uh, have a lunch meeting I need to get to. Like right now. Lunching. Pronto.”
“I’ll try to find your purse. Then I will be right back,” he says stiffly, like a robot man.
Great. Of course he feels awkward. He’s embarrassed about what happened last night, probably. I mean, so am I, of course. But at least I’m not making him feel gross and weird about himself.
Well, fuck him. I mean, I’ve already done that, but still. Again. Let’s do that. No, no let’s not do that, Julia. What is happening to you?
My David Tennant Tenth Doctor subconscious is still spinning around, flipping brain dials and acting like a freak. Don’t let him continue like that.
“Are you all right?” Nate asks, looking concerned. “Your eyes started darting back and forth.”
“It’s what happens when my id goes crazy,” I say with a shrug. “I like to imagine my id’s the Tenth Doctor. You know?”
“Excuse me?” Now he looks really scared. Great job.
“Doctor Who? David Tennant? BBC television show?” Okay, this really isn’t helping my I’m not crazy thing. “It’s on Netflix. Check it out sometime. Okay. Lunch away.” I give a little swing of my arms as I say it and hop right back into the car to tell him to take me to the Bellagio ASAP, TYSM, WTF.
Thank God for my Uber account, or I’d have no money for the service.
“How am I getting back?” Nate says, standing there in the hot sun, the dust swirling around his feet, his shirt picking out the definition of his chest and abs, which I now remember running my hands along and boy howdy was that good . . . .
If David Tennant is my wild side, then the Ninth Doctor, played by Christopher Eccleston, is the calm and rational part of me. And right now, he has shown up out of the depths of time and space to tell me to stop drooling and get to my appointment.
“I’ll send it back. Or call someone to come get you. Bye!” I wave and roll the window up as we drive away, listening to the competing British Time Lords duking it out in my head, fighting for supremacy. I actually imagine them, running around the consoles of my mind, pulling levers and arguing with each other.
“You should have told him to find you later at the hotel,” David Tennant says, jumping up and down and dodging around, looking adorable in his high tops and brown striped suit. “Then you could force him into your car and drive around having hot sex! That’s what I do with all my companions. Well, except for Martha. And Donna.”
“No!” sensible Christopher Eccleston says, stepping in. “You have to keep your distance. Suppose the Daleks invade, and you’re emotionally compromised? And just think! Who knows if he’s had his shots? What were you doing, having sex with a glowing condom?”
Shut up, Doctor. You’re not a doctor, for God’s sake.
“You okay?” the cabbie asks, looking into the rearview mirror. A pair of fuzzy red dice hang from it, and a little Elvis bobblehead boogies on the dashboard. “Sounds like you’re muttering to yourself in a bad British accent.”
“Just a headache,” I say, and stare out the window wondering how hard I’m losing my sanity.
“There she is, my New York Times bestseller,” Meredith crows, standing up and giving me a hug. “How are you, kid? Still hungover? Walking bowlegged?” She winks at me as I slide into the booth at the hotel restaurant.
God, I start blushing again, and just when I’d managed to stop. Just thinking about Nate’s mouth on mine, his hands playing over my breasts while he had me pinned up against the wall . . . . Who knew cold fish lawyers were so passionate? This spurs another inner debate.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “David Tennant and Chris Eccleston are arguing again.”
“When aren’t they?” Meredith says with a shrug. That’s what I love about her. There is nothing too crazy for her to go along with. “Now Angela should be here in ten minutes or so—fucking editors, they’re always running late at these things. We’re pitching the Starwood Resort series. I’m thinking based on the success of Forbidden Desire, we’ll have her salivating. She goes back to Ballantine, they throw some numbers around, and bam. I’m thinking we’ll end up with a major deal.”