His Executive Sweetheart. Christine Rimmer

Jane folded her legs lotus-style and adjusted her long, soft skirt over them. “So. All right. Talk to us. Tell us everything.”

      Celia explained about V-day.

      “Wait a minute,” Jillian said. “So you’re saying, all this time you’ve been working for him and you were—what—fond of him and nothing more?”

      “Oh, I don’t know. Fond? Is that the word that comes to mind when I think of Aaron Bravo?”

      Jillian made a low, impatient sound. “What I’m getting at is, this is way too sudden, don’t you think? Out of nowhere, you’re in love with him? On Valentine’s Day?”

      Celia nodded. “Yes.” Then she shook her head. “No.” And then she looked at the ceiling. “Oh, I don’t know.”

      “Well, that clarifies it for me.”

      “Jilly, I can’t be sure if it started on Valentine’s Day. Maybe…I’ve loved him for months. Maybe years. But if I did, I didn’t know it until a week ago.”

      Jillian started to say something. But Jane shot her a look. Jillian blew out a breath.

      Jane said, “Go on.”

      Celia poured out her woes. “He doesn’t notice me. Not as a whole person. And certainly not as a woman. I’m…a function to him. And it hurts. Bad. Which I know is totally unreasonable. My falling for him wasn’t in the job description. He hired a secretary/assistant. Not a girlfriend. He doesn’t need a girlfriend. He’s got his pick of those.”

      Jane was nodding grimly. “Showgirls?”

      “That’s right. Nice showgirls, too. I hate that. It makes it even worse, somehow. I can’t even despise the competition—not that there is any competition.”

      “Does he seem—” Jillian sought the right words “—as if he could be interested, if you told him?”

      Slowly, pressing her lips together and swallowing down more tears, Celia shook her head.

      “You’re sure of that?”

      Jane jumped in. “Oh, how can she know for sure? She’s not objective about this. Look at her. She’s gone around the bend over the guy.”

      “That’s right,” Jillian said. “Of course, she can’t be objective.”

      “I can be objective.” Celia protested. “I am objective. I’m sure he’s not interested in me as a woman.”

      Jane scooted over and took her by the shoulders. “Look at me, Ceil.”

      “Fine. Okay.” Celia met her friend’s eyes.

      “Are you sure this is the real thing? Are you sure it’s really love? Are you sure it’s not—”

      “Stop,” said Celia. “Yes. I’m sure. It’s all I’m sure of lately. This is love, I know it. I’ve known it since V-day. I can’t explain it. I can’t convince you if you won’t believe. But it is the truth. I’m in love with Aaron Bravo.”

      Jane stared at her for a several long seconds more, her eyes narrowed, probing. Then she whispered, softly, “I see.” She let go of Celia’s shoulders and went back to her pillows.

      Jillian grabbed the bottle and refilled her own glass. “I’m going to ask you again, because I don’t think you really gave this question a chance before. Could he be interested, if he only knew how you felt?”

      “No.” Celia sank back against the wall again. “I don’t think so. I really don’t.”

      “But you don’t know, not for certain. You’ll never know for certain, not if he never knows how you feel.”

      “I’m certain enough.” Celia traced the rim of her glass with her index finger. “I just have to decide whether I can stand this anymore. Or whether I should just…spruce up my résumé and find another place to work.”

      Jane and Jillian exchanged looks. Then Jillian said, “But you love that job. You’re making lots of money. You have points in the company. And it’s only going to get better. Aaron Bravo hasn’t gotten where he’s going yet. And until now, you’ve been looking forward to being there when he does.”

      “You think I don’t know that?”

      “And it’s only been—what—a week since you realized how you feel about him? You don’t need to go rushing into anything too drastic.”

      “Jilly, you’re not telling me anything I haven’t told myself at least a hundred times.”

      Jane said, “Well, here’s my opinion. Honesty is the best policy.”

      Jillian groaned.

      Jane looked vaguely injured. “All right, so it’s a cliché. That doesn’t make it any less true.” She pointed a finger at Celia. “Tell him how you feel.”

      Jillian slapped the edge of coffee table to get their attention. “No. Hold it. Bad idea.”

      “Why?” demanded Jane. “Why is telling the truth a bad idea?”

      “Because when it comes to love, you should…never ask a question you don’t know the answer to.”

      Jane winced. “And you get paid to give people advice?”

      “Well,” Celia reminded Jane, “she mostly gives advice on things like which fork to use and how to get peach-juice stains out of silk blouses.”

      “I beg your pardon,” Jillian huffed. “I give advice to the lovelorn, if they write in. I’ll advise on any subject. That’s my job.”

      “Scary, very scary,” muttered Jane.

      “I heard that,” snapped Jillian.

      “Sorry.” Jane adjusted her skirt over her knees.

      Jillian said, “I mean it. There’s another way. A better way.”

      Celia sat forward eagerly. “All right. What way?”

      Jillian cleared her throat. “Absolutely first of all, you have to make him notice you as a woman.”

      “Oh,” said Celia, sinking back, disappointed and letting it show. “And how do you expect me to do that?”

      Jane stopped fiddling with her skirt. “Oh, my God. I think she’s talking makeover.”

      It was an old joke between them. Jillian gave her first makeover when the three of them were twelve years old. Jane was her subject. She cut Jane’s hair and dyed it—green. Jane wore a hat for months.

      Jillian sniffed. “Oh, come on. In case you’ve forgotten, I now get paid and paid well to do what you’re groaning about. And I act as an adviser now—an extremely knowledgeable adviser. I let the experts do the actual cutting and coloring. I’ve come a long way from that first haircut I gave you.”

      “And a good thing, too,” Jane said.

      Jillian pulled a face at Jane, then turned to Celia. “Brighter colors,” she instructed. “Softer, more touchable fabrics. We aren’t talking beating him over the head with you. We are talking subtle, sexy little changes—and I think you ought to bring out the red in your hair. With that gorgeous pale skin, you’d be a knockout. And you’ve got those darling rosebud lips—what are those called, those cute, fat old-time dolls with those darling rosebud mouths?”

      “Kewpie dolls,” Jane supplied. “And you’re right—about her lips, anyway. She’s got Kewpie-doll lips.”

      “Lips that she never makes anything of.” Jillian sent Celia an I-mean-business scowl. “A deeper, riper shade of lipstick. Are you with me?”

      “She’s right,” Jane conceded. “You’d look great in brighter colors. Red hair would be good on you—so would darker lipstick.