Chapter 7

It was as if it had never happened. It had all been a dream, a wonderful, yet strange, mystifying dream. That Sunday dragged on and on and surprisingly neither ran in to the other. Andrea had half expected Miranda to be on the plane with her back to New York, but it appeared that the older woman had a later flight due to some kind of convention. Andrea could hardly believe it, she felt devastated, almost as if Miranda had betrayed her.

What had the previous night meant? Had it even happened? Or had Andrea been drunker than she thought and conjured up some strange twist of events that, in reality, had never occurred.

But that couldn't be it. She hadn't had anything to drink but water. It had been Miranda who had downed several glasses of cheap champagne during the award ceremony. She'd been so distraught.

Maybe Miranda wanted to forget what had happened?

Andrea couldn't quite figure it out. She was still aboard the plane to New York, her laptop open before her, but no words were being written. Her article, which was due by the next morning no later than eight, was half-written. Poorly written at that. And everything she had learned at the convention that weekend seemed to have escaped her mind, for all she could think of to write was;

Why didn't you find me before I left, Miranda?

Was this some kind of sick joke; a retaliation of sorts for leaving Miranda in Paris?

But the look on Miranda's face the night before, when their lips had seemingly been stuck together, was so caring, so loving. It reminded Andrea of that same expression Miranda had given her then husband Stephen at a party. Andrea had observed the way she so happily stared deep into his eyes, like a love sick puppy. Clearly she had been in some kind of love with the man, though Andrea could hardly see why. He was horrible to her.

But that look, those caring blue eyes, had to have meant something. Miranda didn't seem like the type to just ignore a one night…well one night…what was it? A one night make-out session? She seemed like the kind who would at least follow-up the next day. Or so Andrea had thought.

But now she was far away from the silver-haired temptress and she hadn't so much as received a phone call or text.

Andrea let her head subtly bang against the airplane window. Why had she sought out Miranda the night before? Why did she have to kiss her? Why had she stayed? Why did she have to care about her? The devil herself.

And then it suddenly dawned on her.

Andrea was head over Prada heels in love with Miranda and she had no idea why.

And this whole ignore after kissing deal was not working for her. She was going to have to handle this as soon as she was not 23,000 feet above the world.

But true to form Miranda had already handled it.

The instant Andrea stepped off her flight and turned on her phone, she was surprised to find she had three missed calls and one text message. Two calls were from Lily, clearly wondering where she had disappeared to that weekend, and the third number looked vaguely familiar.

Only Lily had left a message on Andrea's phone, the mystery number had not.

It wasn't until Andrea checked the text message that the number registered in her head.

'Sorry that I missed you before you left. Too many meetings, people. Will dinner on Tuesday at 8 be all right for you? MP'

Andrea's breath caught in her throat. She was only pulled out of her surprised state when a man accidentally bumped into her and yelled some horrendous obscenities in her direction, which fell on deaf ears, for all Andrea could think of was the text she had just received.

She frantically began typing out a response, realizing, however, that Miranda would be aboard a plane by now. Her phone was most likely turned off. But no matter, she typed her reply anyway.

'Yes. I'm free. Where were you thinking?'

And before she could proofread or think about sounding polite, prim and proper, or correct, she sent the text. She nuzzled the phone in her hand as she stepped out into the busy New York street, praying that a cab would quickly get her home. She wanted to toss off her shoes and crawl into her own bed and sleep. Her restless night with Miranda the night before had left her tired.

And yet…and yet she wished it would happen again that night. She wanted to crawl into bed, her bed, but with Miranda. Miranda, whose lips were so soft, so gentle. The complete opposite of Miranda, the woman.

Andrea slid in to a cab that a worker flagged down for her. She stepped in and pulled her one duffel bag close to her. She glanced, anxiously, down at her cell phone. There was still not a reply. Though she hadn't expected one. Not so quickly anyway. She had to have left Chicago several hours later than Andrea.

A couple of minute later and Andrea found herself in front of her apartment building. She stepped out of the cab, handing him a waded up twenty, and moved to enter her apartment. It felt nice to be home. And with the hope that Miranda would definitely text her back, Andrea stepped in to her apartment. She locked the door behind her and tossed her bag to the side. Stumbling out of her shoes and pants, she made her way to the bed. She collapsed on top of it, holding firmly on to her cell phone. But before she could feel that familiar vibration and chiming of her ringtone, she fell into a deep, deep sleep.

Miranda Priestly was exhausted. She had not stayed up so late in a long, long while. She had especially not stayed up so late due to making out in a long, long while.

But she was glad to be home, she realized, as she let herself in to her apartment. Taking a deep breath she exhaled, setting her bag down beside her in the hallway. It would be moved by tomorrow, someone would move it, she was sure. And if not, then she would move it, but for now she was going to go upstairs. She was going to go upstairs to her room and she was going to go to sleep. Runway would be waiting for her in the morning.

She was glad that her girls were not home, but off with their dad. He had agreed to take him for the weekend, but it had been like pulling teeth to get him to do so. They needed time with him, or so Miranda thought. They needed to be with their father. Didn't they?

Though Caroline had called earlier that day, begging for Miranda to pick them up that evening; Miranda had been forced to tell her that she would not be home at an early enough hour to retrieve them. They needed their sleep for school the following day. She promised they would see her the next night. She had left it completely open, after work, of course, just for her girls.

But now, now Miranda had a chance to figure out what had just transpired in the last twenty-four hours. As she made her way up the torturous staircase, toward the bedroom she had once shared with two of her husbands, she felt something forming in her eyes. Heavy wetness.

Crying was pointless, unnecessary, but she was helpless to stop it. Droplets spilled over her eyelids; they slid, like a lover's finger, down her cheek, and then down her neck. She didn't know why this was happening. What was she crying about? Tears had already happened months ago when the separation had occurred. When Stephen had attempted to call her out on her poor mothering, attempting to gain partial custody over her girls, not because he wanted them, but because he knew that would get to her. And it had. She had broken down and cried like she hadn't for years.

But these tears had nothing to do with that. The tears, for some reason, had to do with Andrea. Something about not seeing her, not being with her that day. The previous night Miranda had felt so warm, comfortable. It had been easy to be with Andrea, even if their conversations had been horrible. Miranda hadn't been able to completely open up, to set her pride aside long enough to actually allow real conversation.

She almost hated herself.

And she had completely ignored Andrea until she had already left. Not entirely by choice, she had been busy. Very busy. That was the trouble with her and relationships. She was always busy.

Too busy for these ridiculous relationships, marriages. What was she thinking marrying Stephen, or Henry for that matter. She could have survived after divorcing her first husband. All by herself, with her girls. She didn't need these huge, public relationships smeared across the tabloids to keep herself whole in the public eye. The only real relationship that she had really felt anything in had happened years ago, before all her huge publicity and notoriety began. It had been with a beautiful artist named Clarissa. She had been absolutely gorgeous and the sex…well it had been fabulous.

Jesus, Miranda hadn't thought about her in ages. The very thought drove her to deeper tears. She hadn't allowed that devastating loss to cross her mind in a long, long, long time.

No, she couldn't go there. She tried to shake herself out of it, unbuttoning her shirt, undoing her skirt. She slipped out of her clothes and tried to wipe at her tears. She resolved that it was late and she was sleep deprived.

But as she fell in to her bed, thoughts of the previous night's activities flooded through her mind and she couldn't help but let a small smile creep across her tear-stained face. She had wanted so much from that night, and she had received almost everything she could have wanted. But what had Andrea thought about it? The girl had eagerly kissed her, but had she felt obliged to do so?

Miranda didn't know what to think. She was exhausted, turned on, confused, and frustrated.

Rolling over she allowed her hand to snake its way down to her wet core. She pleasured herself, in an unfulfilling, depressing way, not even gaining an orgasm. She debated doing it again, but realized she wasn't going to get to her edge. Not tonight.

Rolling onto her back, she stared up at her ceiling.

She willed herself to go to sleep. She would be overly snappy the following day if she didn't sleep. Not that anyone would really notice a difference.

She tried snuggling into her very expensive sheets, but not even they provided comfort for her. They just felt cold and empty compared to Andrea's warm body beside her.

And then she remembered the text message. Had Andrea responded? Or had she been pissed that Miranda had unintentionally ignored her all day?

With a surprising burst of energy and agility, she slipped out of the bed and down the stairs, to her purse which she had dropped on the second floor. She flipped open her phone and powered it on. As it lit up and flashed in her hand, she suddenly felt a nervous feeling flutter through her body. What if she hadn't texted back? Miranda would be completely embarrassed for having called and texted her.

But as the phone finally came to its on position and registered the several phone calls she had missed, mostly from work, Miranda noticed she had several texts. She took a deep breath and clicked in to her text message inbox and flipped through until she saw what she had wanted to see. She sighed and rolled her eyes in relief.

Andrea had responded.

'Yes. I'm free. Where were you thinking?'

Miranda breathed an audible sigh of relief and hit the 'reply' button.

'Torre di Pisa.'

She simply typed, knowing that restaurant was always a good place for a romantic dinner. Romantic? Would it be romantic?

Well…the text was sent. And all Miranda could do now was wait. Wait for dinner.

Now she needed sleep.

She dragged herself back upstairs, to her bed, and lay down. It was then that a slight shuffle could be heard outside her door. A paw pushed the door open and in came Patricia, her dog. "Come here, baby." Miranda sighed, patting the spot beside her. The dog complied and hopped its way into the bed. Miranda tangled her fingers in the dog's long fur. There was something about petting Patricia that made her calm.

And despite her best attempt to fall asleep, she just couldn't.

She was in and out of a sleep-like state until her alarm blasted in her ear the following morning.

Another day of work.

She would act as if nothing had happened.

'Torre di Pisa.'

Andrea had heard of it. She knew it was expensive and well known for its delicious looking and tasting dishes. She was excited, elated. But she hardly had time to think about it. Her article was still not finished, and it was nearing the eight am deadline.

She willed her mind to think faster, her words to flow. But she felt an added pressure, for she knew that Miranda might read this article. She knew she would catch all the errors, weak words Andrea would chose. Though it would run through The Mirrors editor, not all of her poor choices would get deleted.

She quickly typed her way to a conclusion, and then allowed her eyes to race over the document. Several grammatical errors, which she corrected, later and she sent the document to her boss, beginning her hectic Monday with a quick shower, followed by choosing an outfit for the frigid New York day.

She hardly had time to think about her dinner date and text messaging conversation with Miranda until she was seated at her desk at The Mirror. Only then did she wonder if Miranda had wanted a response. Or would that be too needy? Would Miranda find it a turn off, or a sweet gesture?

Andrea decided it would be bad, and so as much as she wanted to text Miranda, to break in to her day in some way, she refrained from doing so.

Though her thoughts, throughout the day, hardly strayed from her silver-haired ex-boss turned…kissing buddy…she had to focus on her work. But one question bugged her.

What was this strange relationship they had gotten themselves into?

TBC...