The Nameplate
By Dream Descends
"Hello, Sam."
She was tipped slightly to the side, her fingers splayed across the surface of his desk—not relaxed enough to be really leaning, just presenting the idea of it: that she was casually waiting for him to return to his office. Why not?
He shrugged to himself. Why not?
He had spent the morning frustrated and slightly dizzy. He was prepared for the White House of McGarrys and Creggs and Bartlets, and instead found himself in a new world without a map. But here she was, a delicious taste of something lost, decorating his new office like an old photograph—leaning and leggy and blonde.
"Ainsley." He was probably staring.
"Why, Sam," she gasped, smiling. She pressed a slim hand to her heart in mock-surprise. "You've remembered my name." She turned and gestured expansively. "A nice new office, with books, and chairs…" She glanced down and touched the nameplate he had tucked facedown underneath a stack of papers. "Are you trying to be mysterious?"
Recalling what he could of the English language, he replied, "I thought it would be fun. People could find me with body heat sensors, or bloodhounds—"
"Following that naturally masculine scent you exude," she supplied.
He grinned appreciatively. With one long step he was beside her and snatched the nameplate off the desk. "It's good to see you," he told her, moving around to the other side and slipping the object into a drawer. "What are you doing here?"
She tilted her head to the side, eyeing him speculatively. "Didn't Josh tell you?"
"Josh is on vacation."
"Exactly. And since he's on vacation, I report to you. If you were really curious, Sam, you would come to my office—which, coincidentally, is nowhere near the sub-basement level—and read my nameplate: 'Ainsley Hayes, White House Counsel'."
He dropped the books he'd been carrying. They landed on his desk with a load thunk. "You work here?"
She smiled sweetly.
"Again?"
The smile widened and she giggled at him.
"I can't believe they hired a White House Counsel that giggles."
"It was a prerequisite, in fact."
"I'm sure."
She started flipping with only mild disinterest through the tomes he had deposited. "Along with nice hair, good posture, impeccable taste—"
"I think 'Modesty for Dummies' is near the bottom of the pile," he interrupted. "And I'm not curious."
She pouted briefly, feigning disappointment, and Sam found himself staring again. Then she smiled at him, showing all her teeth in a way she must have known was particularly dazzling, and before he could recover she chirped, "I am!"
Her nimble fingers flung open the drawer and snatched the nameplate in one alarmingly fluid motion. She was lunging for the safety of the doorway when Sam finally reacted, grabbing the wrist of her empty hand with both of his and tugging hard enough that she stumbled back against him. He immediately locked his arms around her torso, resulting in a few blows to his chin from the top of her head as she struggled for freedom.
"Ainsley, no!"
"You're no fun, Sam, no fun no fun no fun," she accented each fun with a twist of her body that made him decide to release her immediately. He took a step back and cleared his throat as she straightened her skirt, giving him a look of such deep hurt that a man who didn't know her might've been sent to his knees.
"I'm sorry, but I can't allow that to leave this office." He tried to use his best authoritative voice and made a point of looking down his noise at her—which wasn't particularly difficult.
She met his eyes with the air of a righteous rebel addressing a tyrant. "Fine." The nameplate was slammed down on his desk. "There." She turned on her heel and marched to the door as he collapsed into his chair.
"Good day, Mr. Seabarn."
His head jerked up, but she was gone. He slid the misspelled nameplate back into his drawer, rested his forehead against his desk, and groaned.
End
