been in my office—was it only that morning? It seemed like a lifetime ago.
I glanced at my illicit treasures, spread on the carpet at my feet. Had Ryan sent any of them? Had he tried to bribe me as soon as news of the Mercer’s dilemma hit ShowTalk?
“Hi,” I said, because the silence had stretched so long that even I was uncomfortable. My conversational skills were apparently as much on the blink as my key-turning abilities.
“Rebecca Morris?” He looked as startled as I felt. If possible, his hair was more rumpled than it had been that morning. His coat hung open, barely held in place across his shoulders by a messenger bag that was slung across his chest like a bandolier. The bag’s flap gaped open too, revealing a laptop computer.
“What are you doing here?” I managed to say.
“I live here. With my mother.” He nodded toward Dani’s door, looking down at his shoes like a bashful schoolboy. His eyelashes were long enough—or I was drunk enough—that his admission seemed endearing, not creepy at all. “Just until I get my act together, get settled back here in the States.”
He waited for me to say something, but my mind was as sticky as the Amaretto I’d been downing all night. Ryan Thompson was my neighbor. The guy I’d just met that morning, through a miniature cascade of coincidences—his getting on the stalking list, delivering a play to the office, getting past Jenn’s usually ferocious barriers.
I believed in coincidence as much as the next superstitious theater professional, but this one was a little difficult to accept. Apparently Ryan thought so too. He sounded incredulous as he prompted, “Mom said someone had moved in, but she didn’t tell me your name.”
“It didn’t mean anything to her, I’m sure,” I said.
But what did all this mean to me? What did it mean that my world was spinning in tighter and tighter circles? Or was that just the alcohol making the hallway seem like it tilted on an unreliable axis?
Ryan nodded toward my keys. “Is that lock sticking again? Mr. Greenbaum used to complain to the super about it all the time. Want me to try?”
I shrugged and stepped back, fighting to smother a sudden Godmother-induced yawn. As Ryan leaned over my keys, I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted by the accumulated weight of my day. I could picture my computer at work, Elaine Harcourt’s e-mail flashing on the screen. I could see the giant stack of scripts on my desk, still waiting for my attention. I could imagine Teel’s lamp, glinting where I’d first dropped it amid the rubble.
Teel. Teel had stood in that same office. She had looked at the same desk. She had seen Ryan’s script, right on top of the stack, where I’d dropped it after the disaster in the conference room.
She must have read Ryan’s address label—the neat, perfectly-centered label that had impressed me that morning. Teel must have somehow used the address label to trigger her magic, to provide a concrete place for me to live. I thought about the genie’s sly smile as she’d left my office. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” she’d said. Had she known that Ryan lived across the hall? Had she planned our meeting, all along? And what if she had? Why should it make any difference who my neighbors were?
As I speculated furiously, Ryan managed to spring the bottom lock. He extricated my key and handed it over. “There you go,” he said. And then he eyed the ill-gotten booty spread around my feet. “Um, do you need help with that?”
I blushed, guilt speeding blood into my cheeks. “They’re just, um, gifts. From a couple of playwrights.” I said it as a sort of test, to see if he admitted to having sent anything. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, though, I knew I’d made a mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned the theater at all, shouldn’t have planted even a seed of doubt about bribes. I could have said that they were all birthday presents—he had no way of knowing that my
I glanced at my illicit treasures, spread on the carpet at my feet. Had Ryan sent any of them? Had he tried to bribe me as soon as news of the Mercer’s dilemma hit ShowTalk?
“Hi,” I said, because the silence had stretched so long that even I was uncomfortable. My conversational skills were apparently as much on the blink as my key-turning abilities.
“Rebecca Morris?” He looked as startled as I felt. If possible, his hair was more rumpled than it had been that morning. His coat hung open, barely held in place across his shoulders by a messenger bag that was slung across his chest like a bandolier. The bag’s flap gaped open too, revealing a laptop computer.
“What are you doing here?” I managed to say.
“I live here. With my mother.” He nodded toward Dani’s door, looking down at his shoes like a bashful schoolboy. His eyelashes were long enough—or I was drunk enough—that his admission seemed endearing, not creepy at all. “Just until I get my act together, get settled back here in the States.”
He waited for me to say something, but my mind was as sticky as the Amaretto I’d been downing all night. Ryan Thompson was my neighbor. The guy I’d just met that morning, through a miniature cascade of coincidences—his getting on the stalking list, delivering a play to the office, getting past Jenn’s usually ferocious barriers.
I believed in coincidence as much as the next superstitious theater professional, but this one was a little difficult to accept. Apparently Ryan thought so too. He sounded incredulous as he prompted, “Mom said someone had moved in, but she didn’t tell me your name.”
“It didn’t mean anything to her, I’m sure,” I said.
But what did all this mean to me? What did it mean that my world was spinning in tighter and tighter circles? Or was that just the alcohol making the hallway seem like it tilted on an unreliable axis?
Ryan nodded toward my keys. “Is that lock sticking again? Mr. Greenbaum used to complain to the super about it all the time. Want me to try?”
I shrugged and stepped back, fighting to smother a sudden Godmother-induced yawn. As Ryan leaned over my keys, I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted by the accumulated weight of my day. I could picture my computer at work, Elaine Harcourt’s e-mail flashing on the screen. I could see the giant stack of scripts on my desk, still waiting for my attention. I could imagine Teel’s lamp, glinting where I’d first dropped it amid the rubble.
Teel. Teel had stood in that same office. She had looked at the same desk. She had seen Ryan’s script, right on top of the stack, where I’d dropped it after the disaster in the conference room.
She must have read Ryan’s address label—the neat, perfectly-centered label that had impressed me that morning. Teel must have somehow used the address label to trigger her magic, to provide a concrete place for me to live. I thought about the genie’s sly smile as she’d left my office. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” she’d said. Had she known that Ryan lived across the hall? Had she planned our meeting, all along? And what if she had? Why should it make any difference who my neighbors were?
As I speculated furiously, Ryan managed to spring the bottom lock. He extricated my key and handed it over. “There you go,” he said. And then he eyed the ill-gotten booty spread around my feet. “Um, do you need help with that?”
I blushed, guilt speeding blood into my cheeks. “They’re just, um, gifts. From a couple of playwrights.” I said it as a sort of test, to see if he admitted to having sent anything. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, though, I knew I’d made a mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned the theater at all, shouldn’t have planted even a seed of doubt about bribes. I could have said that they were all birthday presents—he had no way of knowing that my
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