III. Stan

Peggy was late for the meeting. She considered skipping altogether; locking her office door and hiding, or slipping out to the elevators and pretending like she'd never shown up in the first place. She could smell Stan and his soap all over her skin, and Peggy was convinced everyone else would be able to as well.

The memory was so fresh – only a few hours old – that she felt every moment as it replayed over and over in her head. His beard scratching the inside of her thigh. Fingers digging into her hips. Warm, soapy water sliding down her back. Peggy touched along the side of her neck, certain she would feel teeth marks.

Phyllis' voice crackled on the intercom. "They're asking for you."

Peggy sucked in a deep breath, holding it until her lungs stretched and burned. She grabbed her files and dashed out into the hall, not letting Phyllis get a very long look at her.

x

The conference room was different since the merger. There were always trays of food on the middle of the table and Stan wasn't even sure where they came from. He'd been offered a sandwich, toasted bread with ham and bright yellow cheese, three times since he sat down. His stomach grumbled but he refused; he could still taste her.

"Sorry, everyone," Peggy said, bursting through the door and then calmly taking an empty seat across the table from Stan.

The meeting was nothing more than din mumbling as far as Stan was concerned. He did his best to appear focused. When someone mentioned an upcoming meeting with Topaz he flashed to Peggy on his bed and how he'd ripped her nylons.

"Stan, can you find time this week for that?" Ted asked.

Stan shifted in his seat. "Yes?" He leaned forward. "Yes. I can." He caught Peggy's eye and how quickly she looked away.

The conversation went on around him. At some point he forgot to be less obvious. Stan stared at Peggy. She tilted her head to the side – stretching, exposing her neck – and he ran his tongue along the front of his teeth. He'd known for a long time what she looked like underneath her clothes, and he'd spent a lot of time in and out of meetings imagining what she felt like. Knowing for sure didn't change anything; he noticed the way the pink cloth of Peggy's dress was tight across her chest whenever she leaned back in her chair. Stan remembered what it was like to press his face between her breasts and he covered a smile with his hand.

x

Peggy had to call for Ginsberg and Stan and she was grateful the two of them came in together. She pitched a few new ideas for Chevy and Ginsberg was able to pinpoint the best and expand. She sent them out with new assignments and an encouraging smile but Stan lingered in the hallway. He ducked back in, closing the door quietly.

"You don't like it?" Peggy asked.

"I think it's great."

Peggy remained seated. She heard the lock on her door click and said, "Stan. Don't."

He walked around her desk. He turned her chair to face him and bent forward, kissing her neck.

Peggy's entire body reacted. She hooked her ankles around the legs of her chair. Her hands gripped Stan's belt buckle. Waves of heat coursed through her body, centered in her belly. Her lips parted to accept his kiss but she grunted and shoved him away.

Stan breathed heavily. He held his hands up.

"You need to leave," she said, rising from her chair and smoothing a hand down the front of her dress. "I have deadlines. And so do you."

x

It was midnight and Stan didn't have the gumption to cook anything. He grabbed a fork and sat at his table. He uncovered what was left of Aunt Stella's pie and started eating around the edge first, crumbs of the flaky crust dusting his shirt. He bit into a large chunk of peach and almost winced at the sweetness. Stan stabbed the center with the fork, leaving it there.

He mind wandered to Peggy – as if it had ever been anywhere else. She was infuriating. He tried to muster up some hatred for her so he could either fall asleep or accomplish something, but all Stan could do was think about the curve his hand made while resting over her hip.

He stood and hiked his shirt up and over his head. Stan headed for the bathroom, dropping the shirt in the hamper on his way. He stopped when he thought he heard a light tapping on his door. Sometimes Mrs. Prather got confused about whether it was morning or night so he hurried to the door.

Stan opened it a bit, peering out into the hall. "Peggy," he sighed.

She smiled. "Did I wake you?"

He shook his head. "No."

She waited. When he said nothing, Peggy asked, "Are you busy?"

Stan opened the door all the way, inviting her in. He took note of the way her eyes appraised his bare chest and he crossed his arms. He eyed the suitcase in her hand. "On your way home?" he asked.

Peggy set the suitcase down. She shrugged.

Her dress had a row of small pearl buttons down the front and Stan's fingers itched to pop each one. He moved into the kitchen and heard her follow behind. He busied himself at the counter, opening the cabinet where he kept the liquor. When he turned around Peggy was taking a bite of pie. She smiled – caught – and wiped a smear of peach filling from the corner of her mouth. He leaned against the edge of the counter and Peggy approached him.

"You're being quiet," she said.

Stan nodded his head once. He wanted to ask her something, a lot of things – like why she'd been such a cold fish in her office, and did she show up with her suitcase to see him or just to have a place to sleep and shower? But Peggy flattened her palms to his chest and the delicate pressure of her small hands was enough to stop his breath. In one fluid motion Stan clutched her ass, lifted her, and spun until she was sitting on the counter.

He wanted to ask her so many things but when Peggy's legs latched around his waist he didn't care what her answers were.

x

She woke because Stan rolled onto his stomach and flung his arm across her chest. Peggy eased out from under the weight and tossed the sheet she had been hogging over his naked backside. She searched the floor for her clothes. She only found her bra and remembered everything else was in the kitchen.

Peggy stood at the side of the bed and watched Stan's shoulders rise and fall with every breath. Convinced he was sound asleep, she tiptoed to the other side of the room where his desk was set up. She peered into old coffee cans used to store pencils, paint and brushes. Peggy lifted a sketchbook and recognized early work from Heinz and Jaguar, but it was the pages inside the book that intrigued her the most.

She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Stan hadn't been roused. She carefully lifted the cover of the topmost book and paged through it, admiring charcoal and pencil drawings that were different than what he created for work. Several pages in a row were of places – maybe an old school building, a row of houses with laundry hanging from a line – drawn in such exquisite detail that Peggy was certain they were the places where Stan had grown-up. She remembered his concern once that he'd never be as good as a photograph and thought you're wrong.

Peggy got to a section of portraits when she was distracted by a noise coming from the hallway. She closed the book and quickly put everything back in its place. Stan's shirt was crumpled by her feet and she retrieved it, slipping it over her head as she walked to the front door.

There was clatter, like pots and pans were being dropped. Peggy put her ear toward the door and jolted back when someone knocked on the other side.

Stan appeared behind her, the sheet wrapped around his waist. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder, nudging Peggy out of the way. He opened the door.

Peggy craned her neck to see over his shoulder; an older woman stood with a cane in her hand and said, "Stanley. I didn't think you were home."

"I'm home, Mrs. Prather," he said. He made a hasty knot at his waist to hold the sheet in place. "Are you okay?"

"What time is it, Stanley?"

He looked back at Peggy and she made a face; I have no idea. "Early," he responded. "It's early in the morning, Mrs. Prather. Do you need some help?"

The woman shook her head. She looked directly at Peggy and said, "No, you're busy." She turned, her cane thumping down the hall to the next door.

Stan closed his door and looked at Peggy. "Sorry if she woke you. She gets confused."

Peggy smiled. "I was already awake."

"Sneaking out?"

Peggy shook her head. "No. But I do need to get going." She started to turn.

"Wait," Stan said.

"What?"

"I need to look at you a little longer," Stan said. His voice was gravelly from sleep.

Heat flared pink in Peggy's cheeks. She crossed one ankle over the other, touching her knees together. His polo shirt hit above her knee and rested lopsided on her shoulders; one side exposed her collarbone and the slope of her breast.

"Is that long enough?" Peggy asked.

He shook his head. "Not at all."

"I need to get ready for work."

"There's time," Stan said. He tugged on the loose knot at his hip and the sheet dropped, pooling around his feet.

The protest on Peggy's tongue was swallowed up by the pressure of Stan's mouth on hers. He backed her up against the nearest wall and reached under the shirt to grip her hips, lifting the garment as his hands traveled the curves of her body.

x

Stan left Cosgrove's office and headed for the stairs. It was about the time he usually retreated to his office to light up, but he wanted to see if he could convince Peggy to leave the office for a long lunch. He stopped halfway down the stairs when he saw the door to Chaough's office open.

The two of them were exchanging files before Peggy walked out. There was something about the way Chaough lingered and watched her go that put a sharp ache in Stan's chest. He bounded down the stairs and then took his time following Peggy to her office, resisting the urge to pounce.

"Hey," he said, sticking his head in her half-open door. "Lunch plans?"

Peggy held up a manila folder. "My lunch plans are in here," she said.

Stan nodded and backed out into the hall. He plodded to his office and went for the bottom desk drawer.

Ginsberg recognized the sound and turned from his spot at the window. "You have to do that now?" he barked.

Ignoring him, Stan found his lighter. He sat down and remembered his phone calls with Peggy and the few times Chaough had walked into the room. He likes you had been his under-the-influence, half-serious observation one time. It was something Stan had forgotten until the merger, until a look here and there had rekindled his memory and made him think he had been onto something.