December 2012 (18 months earlier)

"I need you," the voice said on the other end of the phone.

"What? Now?"

"I need you," he repeated.

Penny almost wouldn't have recognized his voice, calling her in the middle of the night, if not for the name on her caller ID. He sounded different. Raspy. Like he was breathing the words instead of saying them out loud. I need you. I need you.

Did he mean.... She'd been fast asleep when the phone rang, but the sight of his name had pulled her to instant alertness. And then his voice.... She felt heat flare in the pit of her stomach as the meaning of his words registered. David. Calling in the middle of the night. Not an email. Not drunk. He wanted her. Now. How long had she been waiting for this call?

She'd been disappointed earlier tonight. She'd logged into her work email before she went to bed to see if [email protected] might have had anything new to tell her. She could've sworn she would get something from him tonight. He'd been sneaking glances at her all day long at work today in her new red sweater. He thought he was being discreet about it, but she'd noticed. She'd known when she tried the sweater on in the store that it was perfect - totally appropriate for the office, but suggestive somehow, the way the fine gauge cable-knit ribbing hugged her body.

She could have sworn he'd let his hand linger over hers on the elevator ride after the meeting with Hancock Interactive. He'd been pointing at something in the meeting minutes - the ones she'd botched on purpose, too annoyed to take good notes. She'd been so irritated with him. He'd brought her along to the meeting, and when she tried to take the seat next to him at the conference table, he'd ordered her to go sit in the corner instead. Shunted her away, out of sight. Put her in her place. Just Penny, the lowly office temp. No one who deserved a seat at the table.

Only during the elevator ride afterward did it occur to her that he might have wanted her out of his line of sight for a different reason. His hand had grazed over hers, and she'd held her breath for what felt like hours before he moved it away. And she could've sworn she saw a flush creep up his neck, just above the collar of his crisp white oxford shirt.

She'd been so sure she'd get an email from him tonight. Friday night, after all - and he'd had some stuffy Christmas party to go to, where he would undoubtedly drink too much scotch. She'd waited up past midnight. Even checked her internet connection when she loaded up her inbox and didn't see his Gmail address at the top.

But there was nothing. No new messages.

She'd been irritated again after that - but with herself this time, not him. No new messages. He wasn't thinking about her. Probably met some high-powered female version of himself at the party  tonight. Probably with her right now.

And here she was, blowing her budget on cashmere sweaters she couldn't afford - not to mention anonymous secret-admirer Christmas gifts that she really couldn't afford. And for what? She was just kidding herself, if she thought he actually cared about her office wardrobe.

Honestly, she needed to cut it out. It was all in her head. Ever since he'd given her his Christmas present a few days ago, she'd been entertaining all sorts of wild fantasies.

"Study up!" he'd written on the inside cover of the book. "Maybe I'll take you to Hawaii next year."

She'd only had the book since Monday, and she must have re-read the words at least a hundred times already. He was joking, she kept trying to tell herself. Obviously he was joking. But was there a kernel of truth? Was there something?

"We joke around," he'd written next, "but I hope you know I'm serious when I say how much you mean to me. I consider you much more than just an assistant...."

But how much more? That was the question. She thought she had her answer tonight, when she'd logged on and didn't find an email. She'd still been wearing the sweater at the time, but she'd torn it off and thrown it in a ball on her bedroom floor, chastising herself all the while for her foolishness. She'd marched herself to the bathroom. Scrubbed her face clean of makeup. Changed into her dowdiest, most comfortable flannel pajamas. Went to bed. Fell asleep.

And then he called. I need you. I need you.

Maybe it wasn't all in her head after all.

Penny swallowed hard and forced her voice to remain calm before she replied. This was it. "I consider you much more than just an assistant..." This was the message she'd been waiting for.

"I'm on my way," she said into to the phone.

He ended the call before she could say anything further, and she didn't stop to think. Her heart was beating far too wildly to allow for anything like thinking. Or putting on makeup. Or putting on clothes.

She just threw her down puffy coat over her pajamas and ran for the nearest subway.

It occurred to Penny half an hour later, as she stood outside his apartment door, that she wasn't exactly attired for a booty call. She looked down at her thick cotton flannel pajama bottoms and cringed. What underwear did she even have on underneath? She couldn't remember. Why hadn't she put on some mascara at least? He'd never seen her without her mascara. She hated the way she looked without it. Her lashes were so pale. Almost white. They made her look like an alien, she always thought. Or maybe a ghost. Like a startled ghost-alien.

Too late now. She could only hope he wouldn't notice.

She knocked at the door and it swung open. For a moment, she thought maybe a ghost-alien had opened it. There was no one standing behind the door. The living room appeared to be empty. She paused at the threshold, confused. And then she looked down and saw him.

He was sitting on the floor next to the door with his back against the wall. His face looked as pale as if he really had just seen a ghost-alien - but not because of her mascara. He hadn't seen her face. His eyes were closed, squeezed shut, with a crease of pain furrowing the skin between his eyebrows.

"David!" She crouched down next to him. "Are you OK? Are you hurt?"

He didn't open his eyes - only shook his head. She could hear his breathing coming in shallow gasps. He had one arm raised above his head. It rested on the doorknob that he had just opened from his position on the floor. He had his other arm wrapped tightly around his chest.

The moment she saw his face, she knew she had misinterpreted. "I need you," his voice had said - low and breathy - but not with the kind of need that she'd imagined.

"Heart attack," he panted.

"And you called me?!"

She put her hand on his neck and felt for a pulse. Her own heart was racing now with a sudden burst adrenaline. "Are you crazy? Why didn't you call an ambulance?"

He pulled his arm away from his chest and she saw that he was holding something in his clenched fist. She recognized it: the pink notecard she'd given him a few weeks ago, with her phone number scrawled at the top.

"David! I didn't mean if you're actually dying!"

"Shit," he panted.

"Are you having a lot of pain?" she asked.

"My chest," he said. "Here." He indicated the right side of his chest, just below the site where the bullet had entered.

"What about the left side?" she asked. She ran a hand down his left arm. "What about here, David. Does it hurt?"

He shook his head. "Not really."

"Wait." She felt the pulse in his neck. Fast. Probably about 100 beats per minute. But strong and steady. Pounding. She'd seen her share of heart attack victims before. She'd seen them hooked up to EKG machines. She knew what the sinus rhythm looked like, and this was nothing like it.

Not a heart attack. No need to call an ambulance. She knew exactly what it was.

Penny stood and walked briskly toward the kitchen of his apartment, hunting through his cabinets until she found what she was seeking. She was back at his side a moment later with a brown paper bag. She placed it over his mouth and nose.

"Breathe into this," she ordered. "You're hyperventilating. You'll feel better in a minute."

He did as she said, holding the bag to his face. She smoothed her hands along his shoulders and down his arms. She'd been so caught up in concern, she hadn't even noticed until now what he was wearing. Or not wearing, to be more specific. He was naked to the waist, with only a limp pair of blue-checked boxers to cover him below.

The butterflies in her stomach had vanished the moment she'd spotted him sitting on the floor, but they started in again now. She felt the familiar heat wash over her, and she knew she must be blushing.  She stood again and turned away from him, hoping he hadn't noticed. She moved across the living room to the couch and brought back a throw blanket to drape around his shoulders.

He still had his eyes closed, but she saw his rapid breathing start to slow. The crease between his eyebrows had begun to ease. "That's it," she said. "Just breathe."

She put her hand back to his neck to check his pulse again. Slowing down now. "That's good," she said. "Does that feel a little better?"

He nodded and opened his eyes. Frightened eyes. Trusting her to know what to do. "Just breathe," she said again. "It's OK. You're OK. It's not a heart attack."

He took the bag away from his mouth to speak. "Are you sure?"

"It's a panic attack. David, what happened? Did you have a flashback?"

He shook his head. "Bad dream," he said.

"It's OK." She kept her voice calm and soothing. "It's totally common with trauma victims. Your doctor said so. Remember? He gave you a prescription for valium just in case?"

He pulled the bag away from his face again and slumped backward against the wall behind him. "Medicine cabinet," he said. He turned his head wearily in the direction of the bathroom.

"I'll get it." She took his arm and pulled on it. "Come on. You go get back in bed, and I'll bring it to you."

She came into his bedroom a few moments later with a small pink pill and a glass of water. He'd managed to get himself on top of the bed, but the covers lay in a rumpled mess on the floor. She pulled them up and smoothed them over his chest.

He propped himself on his elbows to swallow the pill, and then he looked at her again. "I don't know, Penny," he said. His face had grown pale. The crease was reappearing. "I really don't feel good."

She pulled up her old familiar armchair to the side of the bed and sat down. "I'll be right here," she said.

"Maybe I should go to the hospital."

"You're not having a heart attack, David. I promise."

"How do you know? Are you a doctor now?"

"No, but I spent two summers volunteering in an emergency room. I know the difference between a heart attack and a panic attack."

"You did?"

"What?"

"Volunteered in an ER?"

"Yes."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I didn't know that."

"Well, you've never exactly asked to see my resume."

"What did you do there?"

"Just clerical stuff. I input the doctors' notes into the medical record system. That kind of thing."

"They let you type?"

"Yes, David. They let me type."

"Interesting."

"Why is that interesting?"

One corner of his mouth quirked upward. "I'm just wondering how many innocent lives were lost in the time it took you to type up one chart."

She grinned at him. "You're feeling better."

"No, still pretty bad."

She ruffled her fingers through his hair and spoke soothingly again. "Just relax. The valium will hit you in a moment. Just close your eyes. I'll be right here."

"Just a panic attack? You're sure?"

"Positive."

"I shouldn't have called you," he said. "Middle of the night. Jesus, Penny."

"Don't be silly. I wrote that on the card because I meant it. Any time. Day or night."

He lay flat on his back and shut his eyes, but he popped them open again a moment later. "What if I actually have a heart attack though?"

"You're not going to," she said calmly. "But if you do, I'm CPR-certified."

"That too?"

"Why yes, Mr. Powers. I've got all sorts of skills you know nothing about."

"I'll bet you do." He tried for a smirk, but it looked more like a grimace. She reached down and took his hand.

"Everything's OK," she said.

He nodded silently. He didn't look like he believed her.

"Here, roll over." She got up from her chair and sat on the edge of the bed. She pulled up on his shoulder, helping him roll onto his side so that his bare back faced her. There was the scar below his right shoulder blade - the exit wound where the bullet had passed through. She traced it with her thumb for a moment. Then she pressed her palms firmly against the muscles on either side of his spine and started to knead.

"What are you doing?" His voice was muffled by his pillow now.

"Close your eyes," she said. "No more talking. Just relax. Breathe."

Penny ran her hands downward with firm movements. Smooth skin, with just the slightest sheen of sweat. Broad shoulders, tapering to a waist in a perfectly proportioned V. David's shoulders. David's waist. The feeling in the pit of her stomach was starting up again. She began reciting the names of the major muscle groups inside her head.

Trapezius....

Rhomboid....

Deltoid....

Latissimus dorsi....

It could've been an illustration straight out of an anatomy textbook, this back - each muscle group standing out, clearly delineated beneath the skin. Just a back. Just skin and muscle fibers. Just helping him relax. Assisting him. That was her job. Just being a good assistant.

Penny felt him take a long, deep breath and let it out in a sigh. His shoulders rose and fell gently. Slowly and evenly. She kept up the massage for a few more minutes, and then she stopped to sneak a glance at his face. Fast asleep.

She knew she should stop touching him now, but her hands started moving again. Rubbing and kneading. She shouldn't be massaging him. She shouldn't be sitting on his mattress. She'd never done it before, in all the nights she'd spent here. She'd never crossed that six inches of space between her chair and the edge of his bed. That unspoken boundary. She knew she should stop now. Retreat. Go back to her arm chair. She felt a wave of sadness at the thought.

"I need you," his voice had said. She'd thought he meant something else. But no. She should have known it wasn't that. It was never going to be that.

"Maybe I'll take you to Hawaii next year," he'd written in the book. He'd been joking. It was a joke. And she was an idiot for thinking it might be anything else. She wasn't the type of woman that David Powers took with him on holiday. She wasn't David Powers' type.

She didn't want to go back to the chair. He was out cold now anyway. Just for a moment, she thought. He would never know the difference. When would she ever get another chance?

She gingerly eased back the covers next to him. Just for one little moment, she promised to herself. Then she slipped her legs beneath the sheets and wrapped her arms around his waist.

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