"Don't give me any of that piffletwat!" I stormed. "You were laughing at me, you jerq!"

We didn't go back up to the apartment via the stairs; Jack would have had to carry me. After stumbling down the hall to the elevators leaning on him, I had barely begun to warm up. I was leaving puddles or would have been if not for the indoor/outdoor carpeting.

"I'm cold and wet," I whimpered. On further thought, I added. "I'm hungry, too." I pushed aside wet hair hanging in my face.

"We'll get you fixed up," Jack promised, tilting me a little to lean me against the wall.

The glass side of the elevator seemed to radiate cold, and the pool and greenery on the ground floor of the courtyard looked hostile and uninviting. I shivered.

Jack punched buttons for the third floor and to close the door.

"Jack," I whined. "I'm cold and wet and hungry." I flapped my arms inside the rain poncho I was still wearing.

He turned toward me, smiling. "I'd give you a hug, but then I'd be cold and wet."

"Not funny," I pouted.

He disagreed. "No, it's hilarious. You come in looking like a drowned kitten. An orange tabby." His smile widened to a grin.

He meant the safety-orange rain gear Pooch had loaned me. I was grateful for it but aware that it made me look like a six-foot-tall traffic cone cause I was still wearing my heels.

"Jack," I whined. "Don't be mean to me." I could feel my chin quivering. Was I going to cry?

Still barefoot, wearing only a tee and some jeans, Jack dipped a toe in the wet spot I was leaving on the carpet. "You must have had some first day at work, baby girl," he commented.

The elevator squawked to a halt with a sound like a CGI beast from Jurassic World. I staggered without moving my feet, almost landing on my ass. I would have fallen, but Jack caught me, laughing. "Well, I was already wet!" he exclaimed.

"What did you call me?" I asked, frowning.

But Jack just steered me down the hall to where he had left the door to our apartment partly open. "Let's get you into a nice hot shower," he said as we navigated through the door and around the furniture. "And I'll make us some sandwiches while you wash and get warmed up."

He directed me through the bathroom door. "I'll fetch you a change of clothes," he promised. "Don't take off that poncho until you're in the stall."

"Jack," I protested.

He closed the door after I got in, but I could hear him talking. "I had a meal catered for eight o'clock to celebrate, you know? Don't worry. It's stuff that stayed cold or can be reheated."

He was banging around in the kitchen, still talking while I got myself into the over-large shower stall. "But you didn't show. I went down to the studio to look for you, but even the gate was closed; it was all dark in there."

I had a fight with the poncho getting it off and shedding a couple liters of rainwater doing so. Then I stepped out of the stall, intending to get my heels off, when I remembered something.

Jack was still talking. "You're gonna love this meal. Sliced beef from a rib roast, potatoes in gruyere sauce, raw veggies with yogurt for dipping, caramel custard dessert, and a glass of that zinfandel you liked."

I could see myself in the full-length mirror in the bathroom, reminding me of my predicament. There I stood, a nearly naked girl wearing high heels, and a skimpy costume, with wet hair hanging in my face. ”Jack!" I squealed.

The bathroom door opened almost instantly. "Did you fall? Are you okay?" he asked. Then he blinked, taking in what I was wearing. "Is that your costume for the movie? Nice boob window, babygirl."

I moaned. "It's glued on!" I tugged at the bodice and the sleeves. "I'm glued into this thing cause..." —I knew I was going to cry!— "…because I kept f-falling out!"

Jack gathered me into a hug, and I let him. I was still cold, though the apartment was pleasantly warm, but somehow, Jack was even warmer.

"It's okay, it's okay," he murmured into my hair. "No, it's not," I whimpered. "I kept falling out, so they had to use theatrical glue to keep my costume on, and, and it wouldn't stick to my skin, so they used prosthetic glue that only comes off with a solvent and then everything got locked up, and everyone left…

"…but I was wondering around, and I found this bunch of college students filming, but that turned out to be a dream, but this…!" I tried to spread my arms to show the costume, but jack was holding me tight. It felt good, and besides, I wasn't sure that the costume I had on now was the one from the dream, which was what I was going to tell him.

And that didn't make any sense at all!

Jack was laughing! I could feel it more than hear it 'cause he had me tight in a hug. "You're laughing at me!" I squealed and pushed at him.

He gave me one last squeeze and let me go, stepping back with his hands spread like he was begging me. "I wasn't laughing at you, babygirl, I was laughing at…at your performance. You're a great comedienne!" He backed out of the bathroom, glancing over his shoulder, so he didn't run into the bookcase divider.

I followed him out, gesturing like a Neapolitan grocer. "Don't give me any of that piffletwat!" I stormed. "You were laughing at me, you jerq!" The storm turned to tears, and I stood there sobbing. "I've had a terrible day, Jack!" I squeaked in my tiniest, cutest voice. Well, not intentionally; it just came out that way.

Jack approached me carefully and took my arm, leading me toward the dining table. "Sit, sit," he said. "Eat! Mangi! You'll feel better with some food in you, babygirl."

I sat, trying to glare at him, which didn't work so well 'cause I was sucking on my bottom lip to keep from crying. "St-top calling me that!" I managed to say around my lip. "Do you know how demeaning that is! I'm a grown…" I glanced down at my chest. "…p-person! I’m n-not a babygirl!”

Jack was dying. He twisted around on one foot to keep from looking at me, His face turned red, and that little Superman curl in his dark brown hair fell in his eyes. He gasped, choked, and managed to chortle instead of guffaw.

"Oh, God!" he panted. "Lucy, look to your laurels!"

"Who?" I went cross-eyed as he suddenly grabbed a fork and scooped something from one of the serving dishes on the table.

He pushed it toward my face. "Open!" he demanded.

I opened my mouth by reflex, and he filled it with a warm, delicious mix of potatoes, butter, garlic and cheese. I felt all my angst and care melt as the flavor became a balm for my soul. I chewed, swallowed and moaned. "This is so-o good!"

I thought he said, "Petty kwondy parody," but it was actually French for "Little Piece of Heaven," the name of the catering restaurant, which he explained while I gobbled down food, including the potato dish, sliced beef with a sweet mustard sauce, raw carrots, radishes, cucumbers, and celery dipped in spiced yogurt, and crusty French bread.

He explained all this while I ate, and he poured wine.

"When you finish dessert," he said. "I've got a couple surprises for you."

"Give them to me now, Jack," I said. "I may die if I eat dessert!"

"Well," he paused theatrically. "I've got you a job tomorrow, modeling at a car show."

"Huh, that's good," I said around a crunchy radish. "What's the other thing?" I pushed some of the wet hair hanging in my face aside, so I could see him better.

He paused again, then hit me with it. "You may not be able to take the job 'cause I think I found your magic camera."