Sparks--WW, J/D
Summary: Mr. Cautious Politician is never going to make some sweeping romantic gesture and declare his feelings for me.
J/D. Also some very brief Donna/Jack, just for general plot contrivance purposes.
Spoilers: Everything up through "Holy Night."
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Aaron's.
Notes: Written for carmen_sandiego for the bubbleficathon. Prompts were "a nice terrycloth bathrobe" with the optional prompt that it should be "sexy as hell." The terrycloth bathrobe made it in; as for the sexy-as-hell part, well, I tried. However, it seems that when I moved last summer, I forgot to send my muse my forwarding address.
I don't know what I'm so upset about. It's not like this is the first time I've been dumped.
No, the first time was back in junior high-Feb. 13, 1987, to be precise. Stu Jennings, ninth grader and River Phoenix lookalike, kicked me to the curb because he didn't want to spend money on a Valentine's Day present. Turns out he was saving up to buy a motorcycle as soon as he got his learner's permit.
And in the Donnatella Moss Hall of Shame, we have to leave a place of honor for Alan Davis, M.D., who convinced me to drop out of college and help him pay his way through med school. That scene is burned into my brain: Me, getting dressed for the New Year's Eve party I hadn't wanted to attend anyway; him, announcing that he had outgrown me. He was a doctor now, he explained (using words of one syllable so as not to tax my high-school-educated self); he needed someone who was his intellectual equal.
So really, tonight's events are not that big a deal. Jack Reese, at least, did not choose a Harley over me. Nor did he drain my bank account and max out my credit cards before dumping me.
If nothing else, I'm getting dumped by a better class of man these days.
Although I'm still having unbelievably bad luck where men and holidays are concerned.
No, the thing that stings here isn't losing Jack; I actually agree with everything he said tonight. We gave it our best shot, but things just didn't work out. There was, as Jack said, "no spark."
But the holiday part, that's what gets me. I mean, he waits until 12:30 to spring this on me. It's no longer Dec. 23. Did he have to break up with me on Christmas Eve? Couldn't he have waited until...I don't know...Groundhog Day?
Or yesterday. Yesterday would have been the perfect time to break up. If I'd broken up with Jack yesterday, I could be getting drunk at the Hawk and Dove right now.
Instead, I had to travel via news helicopter to the Washington Inn for what was supposed to be a romantic holiday getaway.
And the thing is, the romantic getaway started out fine. Jack, ever the gentleman, had made sure the champagne was chilled and the fire was cozy. Now that I didn't have to worry about driving in the snow, I could appreciate the whole Currier-and-Ives quality to the winter setting from our window. Great setting, nice man--I was determined to enjoy the holiday and forget the alternate plan of getting drunk with Josh.
But then Jack and I opened our gifts.
Jack had given me a white terrycloth bathrobe. Don't get me wrong: it wasn't one of those cheap robes you'd find at Walmart. This one was plush and warm and obviously well made. I tried my best to look happy, but I ask you:
A white terrycloth bathrobe? Is it me, or does this gift not exactly put a woman in a romantic mood?
Not that my gift to Jack was much better.
I got him a watch.
Yeah, I know. It's the standard default present. When you can't think of anything else, buy your man a new watch.
So there we were, staring at our gifts in mutual disappointment, when Jack asked, "Just out of curiosity, Donna, what did you get Josh for Christmas?"
The question took me by surprise, so I stammered a bit before stating the obvious. "Josh is Jewish. I don't get him anything for Christmas."
"But you got him some kind of holiday gift, right?"
It just happens that I got Josh a terrific gift this year, and I thought that Jack might enjoy hearing the story.
Yes, I can be ridiculously dense sometimes; I know this now.
"I got him baseball cards," I said. "Boston Red Sox baseball cards. Eight of them, so he gets a different one for each day of Hanukkah." Jack was giving me kind of a blank stare, so I elaborated. "Josh is kind of fanatic about the Red Sox; it's a New England thing."
Jack shook his head. I figured that meant he was a Yankees fan.
"And what did Josh get you?" he asked.
Looking back on it, I realize that this is where the wheels came off the wagon. Because I didn't just smile, I beamed. I mean, I never thought that a gift could top "The Art and Artistry of Alpine Skiing," but this year Josh really outdid himself.
"A movie poster," I said. "His Girl Friday-get it?"
Jack definitely was not beaming. "Believe me," he replied, "I get it."
I should have shut up then, I suppose, but I was still excited about that poster. "Autographed by Rosalind Russell herself," I added. "How great is that?"
"Pretty great," Jack said, although from the way he was scowling, I was beginning to get the idea that he wasn't happy about my brand-new poster at all. "I'll admit it's a lot better than a bathrobe."
So now, of course, I felt awful for going on and on about what a great gift someone else had given me. "It's a nice robe," I said. I picked it up and ran my hand over it. "It's nice and soft. And I needed a new robe. This will really come in handy."
"But it's not something that holds some kind of special meaning for you, is it?"
"Well, no, but-"
"I didn't know you liked old movies." Jack sat down on the edge of the huge four-poster bed and shook his head. "I did not know that," he said softly.
"Well, the subject's never come up." I hate myself when I sound defensive, but that was definitely how I sounded. "Besides, it wasn't just any movie. I'm Josh's assistant, so 'His Girl Friday'-"
"What's my favorite baseball team?" Jack suddenly asked. "Hell, do you even know if I like baseball?"
I had to admit I did not.
He continued this line of questioning. "What's my favorite kind of music? What movies do I like?"
I had no answers to those questions.
"We've been going out for more than a month, and we don't know much more about each other than we did the day we met," Jack concluded. He took a look around the room; I had the distinct feeling he was calculating how much money this holiday getaway was costing him. "What the hell are we doing here?"
I had no answer to that question either. To tell the truth, I was starting to wonder the same thing myself.
Some men I could name, in this kind of situation, would be pacing all around the room, like a whirling dervish. They'd be running their hands through their hair, they'd be gesturing madly, their words would come very fast and their voices would be very animated. Not Jack. Jack, with his perfect military posture, just stood up and spoke in a remarkably calm tone of voice.
I think that's what I found so insulting about it, if you want to know the truth-the lack of any emotion. Even Dr. Alan Davis had the courtesy to *act* as though he was sorry to have to dump me.
"Look, Donna," Jack said, "I like you. You're a great girl. You're funny, you're smart, you're gorgeous, but this just isn't working, is it? We haven't really connected. There's just, I don't know, there's no spark between us, and I don't think there's going to be. We should just end this thing now."
I, of course, have no military training. I also have no problem with letting a man know what I really think when he's dumping me. Just ask Stu Jennings. Or Alan Davis.
Jack Reese, I am sure, could give you an earful.
I made some salient points that evening. I pointed out how I could have gone home to spend Christmas with my family if he hadn't asked me to spend the holiday with him. I went on for several minutes about how the Chief of Staff to the President of the United States went out of his way to help me get here in a snowstorm, so it wasn't just my time he was wasting here, he had inconvenienced the entire federal government. (When I'm angry, I am prone to overstatement-not to mention run-on sentences.) I suggested that perhaps his problem was a lack of imagination, if the only Christmas gift he could think of was a terrycloth robe, however nice. (Yes, I chose to ignore my equally unimaginative gift. Give me a break: I was working up a nice sense of righteous indignation; it was no time to acknowledge my own faults.) And as for sparks, trust me, I said, I have plenty of sparks. I just need a man with feelings and a pulse to bring them out.
The whole time I was going through my tirade, what was Jack doing? He was still standing there, listening. His face had no expression that I could read. Hell, the man hardly even blinked through my entire speech.
And when I finished, he oh-so-calmly apologized for ruining my holiday and offered to drive me back to DC.
It was a tempting offer. Jack's car had four-wheel drive. If I left with him, I might make it back to DC before the Hawk and Dove closed.
On the other hand, the drive itself didn't sound like much fun. A long car ride over bad roads with the guy who just dumped me? Not my idea of a fun Christmas Eve.
I declined Jack's offer and announced my intentions to stay at the Inn. Jack, ever the gentleman, insisted on paying the bill.
After he left, I insisted on calling room service and ordering the most expensive items on the menu. I'm feeling vindictive, after all.
And here's what really annoys me: I know myself all too well. When Stu Jennings wrecked his beloved Harley and broke his arm, did I rejoice? Did I laugh in his face? No, I loaned him my chemistry notes. When I realized that Alan Davis had cleaned out our mutual checking account, did I sue? Not me. I just got in my car and headed for New Hampshire.
I am, if anything, too nice. Even now, when I'm drinking the champagne Jack paid for and eating the meal that will show up on his next credit card statement, I know what's going to happen. I know that tomorrow I'll ask for an itemized bill and send Jack a check for every penny I spent after he left.
Well, maybe not. After all, he's ruining my holiday here. I'm alone on Christmas Eve, and it's all his fault.
I hope Visa charges him 18 percent. At least. I hope he's on a submarine somewhere when the bill's due. I hope he has to pay a late fee.
I ponder my revenge while I pour another glass of champagne and make my way to the bathroom. In my experience, there are few problems in life that can't be solved by taking a long bubblebath. Since I was expecting a romantic weekend, I came prepared-I've got about a dozen different varieties of bubblebath, bath salts, sugar scrub, body butter and body lotions in my luggage. They're all mocking me now, proving that Jack was right.
I brought them all, you see, because I had no idea which ones Jack would prefer.
Would he like the jasmine? Maybe he'd find the lavender relaxing. Didn't he make a comment about liking the vanilla sugar scent when I wore it on our second date? Then again, maybe he wouldn't want to step out of the bath smelling like vanilla. He might go for the cotton blossom, although it's possible that the cucumber melon would be more his style. I had absolutely no idea, so I brought a wide selection.
I'm in the mood for the cotton blossom myself. It occurs to me, as I'm easing myself into the tub, that I know exactly who would like this scent: Josh.
Josh, you see, doesn't like to seem vulnerable; vulnerability is not a desirable quality in a political operative. Lavender, vanilla sugar-these are the kinds of scents he'd avoid, even in private. God forbid he try anything that might be construed as less than macho. You could get him to compromise on the cotton blossom, though-clean, fresh, light. I can just imagine the conversation: He'd complain that he didn't want to use anything that had the word "blossom" as part of its title. I'd reply that the important word was "cotton" and assure him that he'd just end up smelling like a new shirt. This would convince him, especially if I were naked when I said it.
Closing my eyes as I let my body sink more deeply into the tub, I continue thinking about all this. It's much more pleasant than thinking about the debacle my latest relationship has turned out to be. So....Josh and me in a tub full of cotton-scented bubbles. That would be nice. All the hassles of the day-getting to the Inn, fighting with Jack-have left me so tense. It would be pleasant to have someone sitting behind me, massaging all the tension out of my shoulders. And Josh, after all, has great hands-long, sensuous fingers that would feel fabulous against my skin. I can imagine those fingers slowly kneading the pressure out of my muscles. He'd be so close to me, his breath against my ear, his chest pressed against my back. As for his legs, I've seen him in jogging shorts enough times to know how strong they are. The thought of those legs wrapped around mine...
Oh, hell. No wonder Jack was so fixated on the gifts Josh and I exchanged. It's really that obvious, isn't it?
Look, I'm not some naive little farm girl, despite what anyone thinks. I know that people talk; I've heard the rumors about us over the years. I've had to deal with the occasional unpleasant remark from someone who thought that "young blonde assistant" is code for "mistress."
I've also had to deal with the truth, which is even less pleasant than the rumors. Cause the truth is this: Josh and I have been attracted to each other from the beginning. It's one of those things we've never talked about. I suppose we're afraid that if we acknowledge our feelings, we'll have to deal with them. And that could lead to any number of complications and disasters. Better to just ignore the possibility that we could be something other than boss and assistant.
But it isn't working anymore, is it? Josh's relationships are disasters, and mine aren't much better. To tell you the truth, this is not the first time that his name has been mentioned when a guy was breaking up with me.
One of us needs to do something, and it's never going to be Josh, is it? Mr. Cautious Politician is never going to make some sweeping romantic gesture and declare his feelings for me.
The thought is laughable. In fact, I'm laughing (in a bitter kind of way) when I hear the knocking on the door.
I figure Bob-the-room-service-guy is back with that extra piece of cheesecake he promised to find. Bob likes me; when I charge things to the room, I tip big.
Putting my new bathrobe back on, I notice that Bob's knocking has a particularly insistent tone to it. By the time I hear, "Donnatella Moss, open the damn door!" I realize that it's not Bob.
Josh is standing in front of my door, looking-well, he's not cutting what you'd call a dashing figure. His hair is plastered to his head, his clothes are even more crumpled than usual, and his pants are soaked up to his calves. Snowflakes are clinging to his coat.
And the first words out of his mouth? "You're being a complete idiot."
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Josh Lyman's idea of a sweeping romantic gesture.
"Excuse me?" I say.
He pushes his way past me and stands in the middle of the room. "I've been thinking about this all the way here, and it's completely your fault. It should have been obvious. You should have seen that I wanted you to stay. But, no, you had to run off with Commander Perfect and leave me high and dry."
I don't know whether to be amused or insulted. "I'd hardly call it running off," I reply. "I'm coming back on the 26th." I take a good long look at him, from the way ends of his hair are curling to his ruined wingtips. "And while I wouldn't be surprised if you're high, you're certainly not dry."
"Don't change the subject," he says. He's pacing around the room now, gesturing wildly. "You left me for him."
I have not had a good night. As much as I usually enjoy bantering with Josh, I'm getting a little tired of men accusing me of being less than attentive tonight. "This is why you came up here? To harangue?" The obvious thought occurs to me. "How did you get here anyway?"
"Leo's not the only one with connections," he tells me. "I can make these things happen." He obviously understands my skepticism when I raise my eyebrow. "Okay," he admits. "Danny Concannon was in CJ's office. He called some people at the Post, and he found a photographer who was headed this way."
"On snowshoes?" I ask, looking at his wet clothing.
"They let me off about a mile from here. I walked. I also fell. Several times."
The amusement, I must admit, is returning. I think it's the thought of Josh falling on his face in the snow that's doing it.
I shake my head. "The lengths you'll go to just to yell at me. I have a cell phone with me, you know; you could have called."
"No, I couldn't," he answers. "Because if I called, you'd just have stayed here with Jack. And I'm sorry, Jack, you're a perfectly nice guy, but you're not right for..." He stops and takes a long look around the room. His forehead sort of crinkles. "Where *is* Jack?"
"Jack left."
"Why?"
"I gave him a watch."
The crinkles in Josh's forehead get deeper. "He has something against keeping track of time?"
"I got him a watch for the same reason he got me this bathrobe," I explain. "No sparks."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
I could, I suppose, simply explain what Jack said to me. But if I did that, Josh would turn all sympathetic on me. He'd be the sympathetic friend helping me through yet another bad relationship; it's a familiar pattern. Safe. We could go back to things the way they were, conveniently ignoring why he felt it necessary to brave a snowstorm to get to me.
And really, if Josh is going to make this much of a romantic gesture, shouldn't I at least meet him half way?
I crook my finger and beckon to him. "Come here."
He looks at me for a second, as though he's afraid of taking those last few steps. If this goes wrong, after all, he'll be ruining more than just his clothes.
In the end, however, he comes.
I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him.
It's a deep, passionate kiss. It's the kiss of two people who have been trying to get the courage to do this for five years. Having started, we don't seem quite able to stop. It's not just lips and tongues; it's my hands caressing his neck, his cheek rubbing against mine.
Finally, I start long enough to smile at him. "See?" I explain. "When we do that, there are sparks."
He grins at me and sort of bounces on his heels. "Yes," he says. "That there are."
"And that's why Jack left."
"Poor guy," Josh says. But I don't think his mind is really on Jack. He's too busy trying to undo the belt on my robe.
I put my hand over his. "Later," I say. "I think that first we need to get you out of those wet clothes before you get sick."
"Can't it wait?"
"No," I insist. "Besides, I have bubblebath."
"Donna," he groans, "I am not using some girly-scented bath product just to amuse you."
"You can try the cotton blossom. It's not girly."
He grins. "Anything with the word 'blossom' in it is, by definition, girly."
"The important word here, Josh, is 'cotton.' You'll end up smelling like a clean shirt."
"Oh," he says. "Well, I guess that's okay then."
Do I know this man or what?
THE END
Author's note: Yes, I know that in "The Stackhouse Filibuster," Josh seems to be a Mets fan. However, I have to report to Ryo, and Ryo assures me that a guy from Connecticut must be a Boston Red Sox fan. I never argue with Ryo on anything baseball-related. If she says Josh is a Red Sox fan, dammit, Josh is a Red Sox fan.
J/D. Also some very brief Donna/Jack, just for general plot contrivance purposes.
Spoilers: Everything up through "Holy Night."
Rating: NC-17.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Aaron's.
Notes: Written for carmen_sandiego for the bubbleficathon. Prompts were "a nice terrycloth bathrobe" with the optional prompt that it should be "sexy as hell." The terrycloth bathrobe made it in; as for the sexy-as-hell part, well, I tried. However, it seems that when I moved last summer, I forgot to send my muse my forwarding address.
I don't know what I'm so upset about. It's not like this is the first time I've been dumped.
No, the first time was back in junior high-Feb. 13, 1987, to be precise. Stu Jennings, ninth grader and River Phoenix lookalike, kicked me to the curb because he didn't want to spend money on a Valentine's Day present. Turns out he was saving up to buy a motorcycle as soon as he got his learner's permit.
And in the Donnatella Moss Hall of Shame, we have to leave a place of honor for Alan Davis, M.D., who convinced me to drop out of college and help him pay his way through med school. That scene is burned into my brain: Me, getting dressed for the New Year's Eve party I hadn't wanted to attend anyway; him, announcing that he had outgrown me. He was a doctor now, he explained (using words of one syllable so as not to tax my high-school-educated self); he needed someone who was his intellectual equal.
So really, tonight's events are not that big a deal. Jack Reese, at least, did not choose a Harley over me. Nor did he drain my bank account and max out my credit cards before dumping me.
If nothing else, I'm getting dumped by a better class of man these days.
Although I'm still having unbelievably bad luck where men and holidays are concerned.
No, the thing that stings here isn't losing Jack; I actually agree with everything he said tonight. We gave it our best shot, but things just didn't work out. There was, as Jack said, "no spark."
But the holiday part, that's what gets me. I mean, he waits until 12:30 to spring this on me. It's no longer Dec. 23. Did he have to break up with me on Christmas Eve? Couldn't he have waited until...I don't know...Groundhog Day?
Or yesterday. Yesterday would have been the perfect time to break up. If I'd broken up with Jack yesterday, I could be getting drunk at the Hawk and Dove right now.
Instead, I had to travel via news helicopter to the Washington Inn for what was supposed to be a romantic holiday getaway.
And the thing is, the romantic getaway started out fine. Jack, ever the gentleman, had made sure the champagne was chilled and the fire was cozy. Now that I didn't have to worry about driving in the snow, I could appreciate the whole Currier-and-Ives quality to the winter setting from our window. Great setting, nice man--I was determined to enjoy the holiday and forget the alternate plan of getting drunk with Josh.
But then Jack and I opened our gifts.
Jack had given me a white terrycloth bathrobe. Don't get me wrong: it wasn't one of those cheap robes you'd find at Walmart. This one was plush and warm and obviously well made. I tried my best to look happy, but I ask you:
A white terrycloth bathrobe? Is it me, or does this gift not exactly put a woman in a romantic mood?
Not that my gift to Jack was much better.
I got him a watch.
Yeah, I know. It's the standard default present. When you can't think of anything else, buy your man a new watch.
So there we were, staring at our gifts in mutual disappointment, when Jack asked, "Just out of curiosity, Donna, what did you get Josh for Christmas?"
The question took me by surprise, so I stammered a bit before stating the obvious. "Josh is Jewish. I don't get him anything for Christmas."
"But you got him some kind of holiday gift, right?"
It just happens that I got Josh a terrific gift this year, and I thought that Jack might enjoy hearing the story.
Yes, I can be ridiculously dense sometimes; I know this now.
"I got him baseball cards," I said. "Boston Red Sox baseball cards. Eight of them, so he gets a different one for each day of Hanukkah." Jack was giving me kind of a blank stare, so I elaborated. "Josh is kind of fanatic about the Red Sox; it's a New England thing."
Jack shook his head. I figured that meant he was a Yankees fan.
"And what did Josh get you?" he asked.
Looking back on it, I realize that this is where the wheels came off the wagon. Because I didn't just smile, I beamed. I mean, I never thought that a gift could top "The Art and Artistry of Alpine Skiing," but this year Josh really outdid himself.
"A movie poster," I said. "His Girl Friday-get it?"
Jack definitely was not beaming. "Believe me," he replied, "I get it."
I should have shut up then, I suppose, but I was still excited about that poster. "Autographed by Rosalind Russell herself," I added. "How great is that?"
"Pretty great," Jack said, although from the way he was scowling, I was beginning to get the idea that he wasn't happy about my brand-new poster at all. "I'll admit it's a lot better than a bathrobe."
So now, of course, I felt awful for going on and on about what a great gift someone else had given me. "It's a nice robe," I said. I picked it up and ran my hand over it. "It's nice and soft. And I needed a new robe. This will really come in handy."
"But it's not something that holds some kind of special meaning for you, is it?"
"Well, no, but-"
"I didn't know you liked old movies." Jack sat down on the edge of the huge four-poster bed and shook his head. "I did not know that," he said softly.
"Well, the subject's never come up." I hate myself when I sound defensive, but that was definitely how I sounded. "Besides, it wasn't just any movie. I'm Josh's assistant, so 'His Girl Friday'-"
"What's my favorite baseball team?" Jack suddenly asked. "Hell, do you even know if I like baseball?"
I had to admit I did not.
He continued this line of questioning. "What's my favorite kind of music? What movies do I like?"
I had no answers to those questions.
"We've been going out for more than a month, and we don't know much more about each other than we did the day we met," Jack concluded. He took a look around the room; I had the distinct feeling he was calculating how much money this holiday getaway was costing him. "What the hell are we doing here?"
I had no answer to that question either. To tell the truth, I was starting to wonder the same thing myself.
Some men I could name, in this kind of situation, would be pacing all around the room, like a whirling dervish. They'd be running their hands through their hair, they'd be gesturing madly, their words would come very fast and their voices would be very animated. Not Jack. Jack, with his perfect military posture, just stood up and spoke in a remarkably calm tone of voice.
I think that's what I found so insulting about it, if you want to know the truth-the lack of any emotion. Even Dr. Alan Davis had the courtesy to *act* as though he was sorry to have to dump me.
"Look, Donna," Jack said, "I like you. You're a great girl. You're funny, you're smart, you're gorgeous, but this just isn't working, is it? We haven't really connected. There's just, I don't know, there's no spark between us, and I don't think there's going to be. We should just end this thing now."
I, of course, have no military training. I also have no problem with letting a man know what I really think when he's dumping me. Just ask Stu Jennings. Or Alan Davis.
Jack Reese, I am sure, could give you an earful.
I made some salient points that evening. I pointed out how I could have gone home to spend Christmas with my family if he hadn't asked me to spend the holiday with him. I went on for several minutes about how the Chief of Staff to the President of the United States went out of his way to help me get here in a snowstorm, so it wasn't just my time he was wasting here, he had inconvenienced the entire federal government. (When I'm angry, I am prone to overstatement-not to mention run-on sentences.) I suggested that perhaps his problem was a lack of imagination, if the only Christmas gift he could think of was a terrycloth robe, however nice. (Yes, I chose to ignore my equally unimaginative gift. Give me a break: I was working up a nice sense of righteous indignation; it was no time to acknowledge my own faults.) And as for sparks, trust me, I said, I have plenty of sparks. I just need a man with feelings and a pulse to bring them out.
The whole time I was going through my tirade, what was Jack doing? He was still standing there, listening. His face had no expression that I could read. Hell, the man hardly even blinked through my entire speech.
And when I finished, he oh-so-calmly apologized for ruining my holiday and offered to drive me back to DC.
It was a tempting offer. Jack's car had four-wheel drive. If I left with him, I might make it back to DC before the Hawk and Dove closed.
On the other hand, the drive itself didn't sound like much fun. A long car ride over bad roads with the guy who just dumped me? Not my idea of a fun Christmas Eve.
I declined Jack's offer and announced my intentions to stay at the Inn. Jack, ever the gentleman, insisted on paying the bill.
After he left, I insisted on calling room service and ordering the most expensive items on the menu. I'm feeling vindictive, after all.
And here's what really annoys me: I know myself all too well. When Stu Jennings wrecked his beloved Harley and broke his arm, did I rejoice? Did I laugh in his face? No, I loaned him my chemistry notes. When I realized that Alan Davis had cleaned out our mutual checking account, did I sue? Not me. I just got in my car and headed for New Hampshire.
I am, if anything, too nice. Even now, when I'm drinking the champagne Jack paid for and eating the meal that will show up on his next credit card statement, I know what's going to happen. I know that tomorrow I'll ask for an itemized bill and send Jack a check for every penny I spent after he left.
Well, maybe not. After all, he's ruining my holiday here. I'm alone on Christmas Eve, and it's all his fault.
I hope Visa charges him 18 percent. At least. I hope he's on a submarine somewhere when the bill's due. I hope he has to pay a late fee.
I ponder my revenge while I pour another glass of champagne and make my way to the bathroom. In my experience, there are few problems in life that can't be solved by taking a long bubblebath. Since I was expecting a romantic weekend, I came prepared-I've got about a dozen different varieties of bubblebath, bath salts, sugar scrub, body butter and body lotions in my luggage. They're all mocking me now, proving that Jack was right.
I brought them all, you see, because I had no idea which ones Jack would prefer.
Would he like the jasmine? Maybe he'd find the lavender relaxing. Didn't he make a comment about liking the vanilla sugar scent when I wore it on our second date? Then again, maybe he wouldn't want to step out of the bath smelling like vanilla. He might go for the cotton blossom, although it's possible that the cucumber melon would be more his style. I had absolutely no idea, so I brought a wide selection.
I'm in the mood for the cotton blossom myself. It occurs to me, as I'm easing myself into the tub, that I know exactly who would like this scent: Josh.
Josh, you see, doesn't like to seem vulnerable; vulnerability is not a desirable quality in a political operative. Lavender, vanilla sugar-these are the kinds of scents he'd avoid, even in private. God forbid he try anything that might be construed as less than macho. You could get him to compromise on the cotton blossom, though-clean, fresh, light. I can just imagine the conversation: He'd complain that he didn't want to use anything that had the word "blossom" as part of its title. I'd reply that the important word was "cotton" and assure him that he'd just end up smelling like a new shirt. This would convince him, especially if I were naked when I said it.
Closing my eyes as I let my body sink more deeply into the tub, I continue thinking about all this. It's much more pleasant than thinking about the debacle my latest relationship has turned out to be. So....Josh and me in a tub full of cotton-scented bubbles. That would be nice. All the hassles of the day-getting to the Inn, fighting with Jack-have left me so tense. It would be pleasant to have someone sitting behind me, massaging all the tension out of my shoulders. And Josh, after all, has great hands-long, sensuous fingers that would feel fabulous against my skin. I can imagine those fingers slowly kneading the pressure out of my muscles. He'd be so close to me, his breath against my ear, his chest pressed against my back. As for his legs, I've seen him in jogging shorts enough times to know how strong they are. The thought of those legs wrapped around mine...
Oh, hell. No wonder Jack was so fixated on the gifts Josh and I exchanged. It's really that obvious, isn't it?
Look, I'm not some naive little farm girl, despite what anyone thinks. I know that people talk; I've heard the rumors about us over the years. I've had to deal with the occasional unpleasant remark from someone who thought that "young blonde assistant" is code for "mistress."
I've also had to deal with the truth, which is even less pleasant than the rumors. Cause the truth is this: Josh and I have been attracted to each other from the beginning. It's one of those things we've never talked about. I suppose we're afraid that if we acknowledge our feelings, we'll have to deal with them. And that could lead to any number of complications and disasters. Better to just ignore the possibility that we could be something other than boss and assistant.
But it isn't working anymore, is it? Josh's relationships are disasters, and mine aren't much better. To tell you the truth, this is not the first time that his name has been mentioned when a guy was breaking up with me.
One of us needs to do something, and it's never going to be Josh, is it? Mr. Cautious Politician is never going to make some sweeping romantic gesture and declare his feelings for me.
The thought is laughable. In fact, I'm laughing (in a bitter kind of way) when I hear the knocking on the door.
I figure Bob-the-room-service-guy is back with that extra piece of cheesecake he promised to find. Bob likes me; when I charge things to the room, I tip big.
Putting my new bathrobe back on, I notice that Bob's knocking has a particularly insistent tone to it. By the time I hear, "Donnatella Moss, open the damn door!" I realize that it's not Bob.
Josh is standing in front of my door, looking-well, he's not cutting what you'd call a dashing figure. His hair is plastered to his head, his clothes are even more crumpled than usual, and his pants are soaked up to his calves. Snowflakes are clinging to his coat.
And the first words out of his mouth? "You're being a complete idiot."
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Josh Lyman's idea of a sweeping romantic gesture.
"Excuse me?" I say.
He pushes his way past me and stands in the middle of the room. "I've been thinking about this all the way here, and it's completely your fault. It should have been obvious. You should have seen that I wanted you to stay. But, no, you had to run off with Commander Perfect and leave me high and dry."
I don't know whether to be amused or insulted. "I'd hardly call it running off," I reply. "I'm coming back on the 26th." I take a good long look at him, from the way ends of his hair are curling to his ruined wingtips. "And while I wouldn't be surprised if you're high, you're certainly not dry."
"Don't change the subject," he says. He's pacing around the room now, gesturing wildly. "You left me for him."
I have not had a good night. As much as I usually enjoy bantering with Josh, I'm getting a little tired of men accusing me of being less than attentive tonight. "This is why you came up here? To harangue?" The obvious thought occurs to me. "How did you get here anyway?"
"Leo's not the only one with connections," he tells me. "I can make these things happen." He obviously understands my skepticism when I raise my eyebrow. "Okay," he admits. "Danny Concannon was in CJ's office. He called some people at the Post, and he found a photographer who was headed this way."
"On snowshoes?" I ask, looking at his wet clothing.
"They let me off about a mile from here. I walked. I also fell. Several times."
The amusement, I must admit, is returning. I think it's the thought of Josh falling on his face in the snow that's doing it.
I shake my head. "The lengths you'll go to just to yell at me. I have a cell phone with me, you know; you could have called."
"No, I couldn't," he answers. "Because if I called, you'd just have stayed here with Jack. And I'm sorry, Jack, you're a perfectly nice guy, but you're not right for..." He stops and takes a long look around the room. His forehead sort of crinkles. "Where *is* Jack?"
"Jack left."
"Why?"
"I gave him a watch."
The crinkles in Josh's forehead get deeper. "He has something against keeping track of time?"
"I got him a watch for the same reason he got me this bathrobe," I explain. "No sparks."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
I could, I suppose, simply explain what Jack said to me. But if I did that, Josh would turn all sympathetic on me. He'd be the sympathetic friend helping me through yet another bad relationship; it's a familiar pattern. Safe. We could go back to things the way they were, conveniently ignoring why he felt it necessary to brave a snowstorm to get to me.
And really, if Josh is going to make this much of a romantic gesture, shouldn't I at least meet him half way?
I crook my finger and beckon to him. "Come here."
He looks at me for a second, as though he's afraid of taking those last few steps. If this goes wrong, after all, he'll be ruining more than just his clothes.
In the end, however, he comes.
I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him.
It's a deep, passionate kiss. It's the kiss of two people who have been trying to get the courage to do this for five years. Having started, we don't seem quite able to stop. It's not just lips and tongues; it's my hands caressing his neck, his cheek rubbing against mine.
Finally, I start long enough to smile at him. "See?" I explain. "When we do that, there are sparks."
He grins at me and sort of bounces on his heels. "Yes," he says. "That there are."
"And that's why Jack left."
"Poor guy," Josh says. But I don't think his mind is really on Jack. He's too busy trying to undo the belt on my robe.
I put my hand over his. "Later," I say. "I think that first we need to get you out of those wet clothes before you get sick."
"Can't it wait?"
"No," I insist. "Besides, I have bubblebath."
"Donna," he groans, "I am not using some girly-scented bath product just to amuse you."
"You can try the cotton blossom. It's not girly."
He grins. "Anything with the word 'blossom' in it is, by definition, girly."
"The important word here, Josh, is 'cotton.' You'll end up smelling like a clean shirt."
"Oh," he says. "Well, I guess that's okay then."
Do I know this man or what?
THE END
Author's note: Yes, I know that in "The Stackhouse Filibuster," Josh seems to be a Mets fan. However, I have to report to Ryo, and Ryo assures me that a guy from Connecticut must be a Boston Red Sox fan. I never argue with Ryo on anything baseball-related. If she says Josh is a Red Sox fan, dammit, Josh is a Red Sox fan.