I waited for the sound of my delivery driver’s feet, heavy down the front steps, but there was only silence, followed by a strong knock against the wood. Jeez Louise. I dragged myself along the floor, untangling my damaged knee from the chair of death and struggled to my feet. Hobbling to the front door, I ignored Mr. Oinks’ frantic grunts and twisted the handle, pulling the door open.
It wasn’t my lovable delivery man, beaming and expecting a bottled water. It was Declan. He rested one hand on the doorjamb, had his phone out in the other, and looked up as I swung open the door. My hurt knee threatened to buckle, and it was completely due to the injury and not the fact that he was in a button-up and tie and delicious enough to eat with a spoon. I’d seen a suited Declan Moss before, but always from afar. Close up… I felt a little faint.
“Am… I… interrupting something?” He scanned me from head to toe and the corner of his mouth twitched into a grin.
“Actually, yes.” I pulled down on the front of my Hulk Hogan shirt, and cursed myself for not wearing a bra. I also could have thrown on something other than these baggy sweatpants, which had a fresh blackberry jam stain from my breakfast. “I’m working.”
His gaze lingered on my face, and I reached up to brush at the glitter spot in the middle of my forehead. “Any chance you’d like to get lunch? To discuss my safety, of course.” He added the last sentence in grave undertones, and I was too flustered to tell if he was making a joke or being serious.
“Ummm... lunch?” I stalled. “Right now?”
He glanced at his watch. “I could wait in the truck if you need some time. I just need to get back to the office by two.”
I drummed my fingers along the doorknob. Lunch sounded innocent enough. To discuss his safety. How could I refuse that? I glanced down at my t-shirt and sweats. “Sure. I just need five minutes.”
He smiled, and he must have shaved this morning. It was odd, to see him without the light facial hair. “Sure. I can wait out here.”
“Oh.” I stepped back and gestured him in. “No. Come on in. Just…” I looked around. “Make yourself comfortable. You remember Mr. Oinks.”
He bent down and gave him a scratch. “Hey bud.”
“I’ll go get dressed.” I stepped back, doing a quick scan of the living room for anything embarrassing. My search came up clean and I skirted around Mr. Oinks and headed down the hall. “Five minutes!” I called out.
Who knew where I got five minutes from, considering I took that long just to floss. I warred between taking longer to look nice, and the risks that leaving an unattended man in my living room presented. I hesitated in the doorway of my room, then stripped, pulling on a pair of worn jeans, bra and a Wonder Woman tee. Grabbing a pair of yellow Converse and socks, I worked them on and listened for noises from the living room. Was that a cabinet door opening? I yanked at the final knot of my laces and breezed into the bathroom, coming to a sudden stop when I saw my reflection in the mirror.
Bright purple marker ran a jagged line across the tip of my nose and down my chin. It must have happened during the chair fall. The glitter on my forehead was almost unnoticeable compared to the thick doodle that covered half my face. I rushed to the sink, turning on the water and dousing a washcloth. “No….no!” I injected four pumps of hand soap into the terrycloth and leaned close to the mirror, scrubbing furiously at the crooked line. I breathed a sigh of relief as it faded, and sent grateful praise up to the angels at Crayola, for favoring washability over longevity.
At least fifteen minutes had passed before I made it back to the living room, half of my face red and tender from scrubbing. Declan sat on the floor, Mr. Oinks’ head resting on his ankle, and held my fallen chair on his knees. A screwdriver and toolbox sat next to him. He looked up and smiled. “Looks like your chair quit on you.”
I struggled not to swoon at the image and crouched beside him, running a hand over the pig’s belly. “Did it break?”
“It was fixable.” He held a staple gun in one hand and fired off a shot into a joint. “Almost good as new.”
“You didn’t have to…” I stammered, getting to my feet and helping him up. I watched as he slid the chair back into its proper place, then tested it with his hands. “Thank you.”
“You might want to hide it if anyone with some heft to them comes over. I can’t vouch for its stability.” He dipped down to grab the screwdriver and staple box. “Here, I found these under the kitchen sink.”
Thank God he hadn’t opened the coat closet. Talk about risking death. I’d have found him under a pile of clutter, gasping for air. I took the items from him. “Again, thank you.”
It wasn’t fair. I couldn’t be expected to resist feelings for a man who looked past my crazy behavior, fixed my chair, and was now crouching down and scratching Mr. Oinks on the head, the pig’s eyes closed in bliss. I busied myself putting the items back, watching him out of my peripheral vision as he wandered into the living room. He stopped at a photo of Ansley, Mom and me, and tapped it. “This your Mom?”
“Yeah.” I did a quick wash job of my hands and patted them dry with a kitchen towel. “She passed away about seven months ago. Two weeks before the plane crash.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” He set down the frame. “Was it sudden?”
“As sudden as a distracted housewife in a Ford Explorer can be.” I grimaced. “She’d started to have spells of dementia and had taken to wandering around. She was in the middle of the street…” I felt the familiar well in my throat, the one that normally came right before I burst into tears. I struggled to contain it. “and she got hit.” The story never seemed to get easier to tell. Yet, for some reason, I wanted him to know.
His face tightened. “That’s terrible.”
“Yeah.” He didn’t know the worst of it, and I busied myself with kneeling down to retighten my shoelaces. “Especially…” I swallowed. “Especially because I was supposed to be home, watching her. I’d stopped for coffee, then the bookstore…” and then I’d gotten the call. It’d been a frantic one from Ansley, telling me to meet her at the hospital. I stood and turned away from him, grabbing my bag out of the closet. “Ready?”
He pulled me into his arms, a fierce, protective gesture that caught me off guard. Out of reflex, I resisted, then melted against his chest.
There was a long moment where we did nothing but stand, my arms wrapped around his waist, my head turned, ear pressed into the warm beat of his heart. I let out a sigh, feeling the sadness seep through me, and sniffed back a surge of emotion.
I hoped he wouldn’t say anything, and he didn’t, giving me time, my eyes closing, the clip of Mr. Oinks’ toenails sounding as he tapped over to his bowl. I smiled at the loud sound of him slurping water, the liquid splashing, and pulled my head back, looking up at Declan. He ran his hand over my hair, and tilted forward, pressing a kiss onto my head.
“I lost my mom three years ago,” he said gruffly. “It takes a long time. Don’t feel pressured to rush it.”
I nodded, unable to speak, and pulled away from him, digging in my purse for my key.
Declan reached for the door handle and looked down at Mr. Oinks, who wandered back from the water dish, his snout dripping along the tile, and wagged his tail in response. “Do you do anything with him?”
“Nope.” I cleared my throat, the word coming out thick, and bent down to give Mr. Oinks a kiss on the top of the head. “He’s a good boy.” There wasn’t a need to share all the times he hadn’t been a good boy. Like when he got into the trash and dragged the Hefty bag all over the house, snacking on different items along the way. Or when he found the new bag of toilet paper and ripped twenty-four rolls into a gazillion tiny pieces.
I pulled the door behind us and locked it, taking a deep breath and refocusing my thoughts on what was about to happen. Lunch, just Declan Moss and me.
I couldn’t let this opportunity pass. I didn’t know what had prompted his visit, or this lunch invite, but this was my chance to smooth the w
aters, refocus our relationship off the smoking hot events of last weekend, and set a new precedent we could move forward with. All I had to do was stay level-headed, avoid swooning, and come across as un-crazy as possible.
One lunch. I could certainly manage those three things during that short timeframe. Checking the door, I turned away and hurried down the front steps after him.
26
I struggled with the chicken sub, the extra banana peppers slipping out of the side as I held it. A glob of ranch dressing dripped out of the end and hit my napkin. I sighed, and attacked the sandwich, managing a bite without everything falling out of it. Declan watched me, his eyes crinkling, and I reached for the napkin and carefully wiped my mouth, avoiding the drop of ranch. “So… anyway. That’s why you shouldn’t use a SlimJim. Not if you value your jugular vein.”
His smile widened, and he could hurt a girl with that thing. Slice right through her chest plate and mortally nick her heart. “Let’s talk about something less morbid.”
“Okay…” I lifted my cup of Sprite and took a sip. “Like what?”
“Who’s Adam?”
I swallowed the soda. “Mr. Oinks’ vet. There was a major event lately, involving some rhubarb pie—which is toxic to pigs—and Adam saved his life.”
“Really?” He seemed skeptical.
“Yeah, really.”
“Just a whole heap of life savers. You guys sound like the perfect match.”
It took me a minute to recognize his perturbed scowl as jealousy. It was cute on him, and absolutely unnecessary. “You don’t have to be worried about Adam.”
He leaned forward. “In what way?”
“I’m just saying, if you’re jealous of Adam, you don’t have to be. It was a failed date. First and last sort of thing.”
“Huh.” He took a bite of chip and chewed. “And you think I was jealous of him?”
It was a dangerous road to wander down, but I still took the bait. “Yeah.” I studied him. “You were, right?” Maybe I had read him wrong. Maybe I’d been out of the dating game so long, I was reading flirtations where they didn’t even exist.
“Possibly.” He frowned. “Not that I like getting called out on it.”
“Well, don’t be jealous. I mean, in part because Adam’s and my relationship is dead in the water, but more importantly, because you and I… this”—I gestured between the two of us—“can’t happen.” There. Boundary set. I would have patted myself on the back but I’m not that flexible.
He tilted his head at me. “I think it already did.”
“Well... Something did,” I allowed. Lots of … somethings. Somethings I haven’t been able to stop recreating, every time I close my eyes. “But nothing else. Vagina is closed. Orgasms over.” I made an X symbol with my hands and he laughed. “It’s not funny,” I insisted. “I’m serious.”
“Okay,” he allowed. “No sex. Fine. Truth be told, it was a little sudden for me, too.”
Huh. He was saying I was a hoochie momma. Red-blooded slut tart. A Skankapotomus. I bristled a little at the comment, then had a second heart attack at his next words.
“So let’s start over. This can be our new first date. Where are you from?”
Uh… nope. Uh-uh. No thank you, Mr. Sexiest Man I’ve ever met. I am not interested in a “new” first date from you, or any repeat of what happened last weekend.
I thought it all. I just didn’t say any of it. Instead, I slowly chewed a chip, my brain stuck on the realization that Declan Moss knew little to nothing about me. While I could tell you almost every detail available through intensive background checks and snooping, his knowledge of me was… what? Glimpses of a woman screaming and waving a giant penis in the air? The dirty bottom of my downtown-trodden soles? Well… he did know a few of my more carnal details. The sound of my pleasure. How to kiss me into submission. The look on my face when I was about to…
I cleared my throat, a crumble stuck in an awkward place, and reached for my drink. “Yep. Born and raised here.” He’s from Los Angeles. I knew that, but guessed it would be odd of me to acknowledge it. I took the faux clueless path. “What about you?”
“LA.” He grinned. “My career as a surfer didn’t pan out.”
“Smart move.” I picked up another chip and bit it in half. “Anyone who tries to compete with Paul Brand is doomed for failure.”
He raised his brows, impressed. “You’re a surfing fan?”
I shrugged. “Not really. I worked in a surf shop in the mall during college. He was on all of the posters. And he looks reallllly good in a bathing suit.” I smiled, and it wasn’t too much of a confession. Anyone with two eyes could see that his ass and abs were built for board shorts and nothing else.
“Maybe we could go to a competition sometime. They have some over in Daytona Beach.” He nodded, as if he liked this idea, as if he and I would ever get into a car and travel the four hours east to attend a surfing competition.
I let out an awkward laugh. “You know… like a week ago, you were running from me like I had the plague.”
“Perfectly justified response. I thought you were crazy.” He took a beat, then amended the response. “Crazier.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly.
“Well, you did steal my trash,” he pointed out.
My sandwich, which had been creeping its way back up to my mouth, stalled, my hands tightening on it, half of the contents giving up their fight and free-falling to the plate. He knew about that? I tried my best carefree snort of innocence, and came out sounding as if I had a buzzsaw stuck in my nostril. I composed myself and tried again. “I didn’t steal your trash.”
“Uh… yeah, you did. Left about thirty pieces of evidence behind with your name on it. I still got the tampon boxes and energy drink cans if you want them.”
I grimaced. I knew I should have done a trash swap with Ansley but noooooo. She’d been all hoity-toity about that. As if Roger’s psychology magazines and bottles of Pedialyte had a dedicated space allotment in her trash bins. I’d broached the idea with Mrs. Robchek, but apparently, her wild ways stopped with walking by Declan’s house. Anything more and she wanted me to sign a confidentiality agreement with her. I’m not exactly sure what I was swearing confidentiality to, or what said agreement would protect her from, but the demand had caused me to give up on decoy trash and just cross my fingers that he never noticed the difference.
I made a mental note to remove “crossing my fingers” as a viable method of guarantee-ability.
He was waiting for a response, one brow raised, and I scrambled. “At least you know I’m not pregnant. I mean, with the tampon boxes. You wouldn’t want a pregnant girl protecting you.”
“I don’t really want anyone protecting me,” he said slowly.
“But, imagine,” I babbled on. “If I was waddling along behind you, trying to catch your attention, but too heavy with child to move fast enough. And then BLAM!” I clapped my hands together to stimulate a pancaked Declan, and the woman at the table beside us jumped. I winced at her in apology, then continued. “You are a splat of guts and bone, under a semitruck, and I’m going into labor from the stress of it all.”
“A semitruck? Am I wandering along the highway?” Declan bit his bottom lip and I swear on McDonalds, I think he was trying not to laugh. “Where exactly is this impromptu accident and labor delivery occurring?”
“It doesn’t have to be a semi,” I defended myself. “It could be a normal car.” Like the one that killed Mom. I felt a sharp pain in my heart and looked down at the sad remains of my sandwich. “People get killed by cars all the time.”
He reached out and grabbed my hand, threading his fingers through mine. “Hey.”
I looked up at him and he smiled.
“You’re right. I’m glad you’re not pregnant.”
I scoffed, grateful for the distraction. “Um… thanks? Me too.” I guess.
We ate in silence for a while, and I foraged through the destroyed chicken sandwich and used m
y fork to stab up the remaining pieces. It was a peaceful silence, one I felt comfortable with, so I was surprised when I looked up to find him studying me, something on his mind. “What?”
“Could you be pregnant? I mean, if it wasn’t for the tampons.” He pulled at the neck of his tie, loosening it from his collar.
“What?” I sounded like that parrot, the one that Ansley bought during college, who we tried to teach a dozen phrases to, but stubbornly only squawked ‘what’ a gazillion times a day. It would have been humorous if he didn’t love to scream it at the top of his tiny parrot lungs at four a.m.
“I mean…” He rubbed his palms down the top of his thighs, as if they were sweaty.
“You mean from the other night?” He’s a grown man. An extremely intelligent one, based on the As that had covered every line of his college transcript. He has to understand condoms, their use, purpose, and the minuscule risks that were associated with them. “I mean, I guess. If you’re feeling ninety-nine-point-nine percent unlucky.”
“No. I mean, from someone else.” He picked up the tabletop display and studied it. “Did you want some dessert?”
Oh... Understanding dawned. He wanted to know how often I panted my way across a man’s body, and if I was doing my little orgasm act around anyone else. “I’m not really sure that’s your business.”
His eyes found mine. “You’re right. We don’t have to get dessert. Or, I can look away if you want to secretly order it.” His mouth twitched and I recognized the horribly weak attempt to redirect the conversation into a joke.
I didn’t let it slide, choosing to capitalize on his discomfort. “I’ll tell you about my sordid sexual past if you agree to get a bodyguard.”
He frowned. “No. And you were right, it wasn’t my business.”
This put me in a bit of a pickle, since I was now curious about his sexual history, and taking the high and mighty road didn’t seem nearly as fun. I scooped up a bit of mayo with a potato chip and crunched down on it. Actually, this was the responsible thing to do, right? Weren’t you supposed to discuss sexual history with someone before you had sex with them? Here I was, the touter of all things safety, yet I had dragged him to my bed without finding out anything about his proclivities. Did he have proclivities? What exactly was a proclivity?
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