Fed Up
Page 14
“I’d never take a job that required me to give up food.” Danielle’s comment made us all laugh.
“That’s the perfect answer from someone who was raised by two chefs,” Ian said.
“I’m not sure life would be worth living without butter and cheese,” I confessed, before stuffing another piece of tuna roll in my mouth.
“Yet neither of you ladies have weight issues that I’m aware of.”
Danielle’s unflinching gaze shifted to Ian.
“Well.” I swallowed too quickly and had to gulp down bottled water.
“That’s probably because of my years in France. I learned to approach food like a Parisian: eat small portions but don’t deprive yourself of anything. No processed foods or artificial ingredients.”
“You should’ve seen the homemade lunches she packed when I was in school,” Danielle added, her mood shifting once more. “I never got to eat sandwiches and chips like the other kids. Mom wouldn’t allow it.”
When Ian smiled in my direction, I noticed how the corners of his eyes crinkled, lending such an appealing manliness to his expression that even with the air conditioner running, my internal temperature shot up and I had to fan myself again.
We sat at the short breakfast bar, helping ourselves to shrimp tempura, a variety of sashimi, and more of the delectable spicy tuna roll. The sushi was as tasty as any I’d eaten locally, although, to be honest, the northern Shenandoah Valley was hardly a hot spot for fine Japanese cuisine.
“What do you think of my tiny house?” Ian asked.
“It’s cozy and surprisingly plush.” I reached for another piece of tuna roll and dipped it in soy sauce.
Ian nodded toward the far end of the living area.
“I’m particularly fond of that sofa,” he said, drawing a piercing gaze from Danielle. “And, no, it’s not what you’re thinking.”
He threw her a wink.
“I’ve had many lovely mid-day naps stretched out on that sectional.”
She produced a tight smile before setting down her chopsticks and launching into an anti-Tyler Chance rant, still fuming over his obnoxious sexist behavior.
“…and I used to think he was sexy. He called me cupcake! He’s so superficial. All he cares about is how someone looks, not who they are.”
“I’m familiar with that situation myself,” Ian muttered. “And you’re wise to stay away from him. He’s slept with at least half the female cast and crew since we arrived. I think he has women slotted in by the hour.”
Dani stabbed at a piece of shrimp sashimi.
“Fill us in,” she pushed. “What, exactly, was going on in that scene we watched? Is that painting possessed?”
Ian flinched.
“Bloody awful, isn’t it? The writers got themselves into a corner, and now they must figure out a plausible explanation for all women who’ve died or disappeared over the past two seasons. They’ve decided that the ghost of John Sutherland’s late wife is to blame. Any living woman who gets close to her husband is either killed or run out of town.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” my daughter insisted.
“Agreed,” he said, “but I don’t write this shit.”
“Does it mean that Jennifer’s character is about to meet her demise?” I inquired, wondering if her on-screen death was imminent.
“One can only hope.”
“Is there some reason she would hate Dani and me when she’s never met us?” When I told him about the death ray looks we received from his co-star, he shrugged.
“We don’t get on well,” he said, which didn’t answer my question.
A long, uncomfortable silence followed, making me wonder what else Ian might be holding back.
Chapter Sixteen
Ian
Just as I was beginning to experience something resembling happiness, she came back to me again last night in a dream. I sensed her presence and inhaled the lingering scent of J’Adore long before I caught a glimpse of her. More beautiful than ever, tall and elegant, with a body worthy of worship. Dressed in an off-the-shoulder cocktail dress that showed off her pale skin, she stood at the end of my bed with her hands on her hips, mocking me with her eyes before directing her gaze to the delicate gold watch on her wrist.
“Aren’t you dead?” I asked my apparition.
“Yes, lover, but I’ll still be here if you need me.”
I wanted to cry, “Get out and stay out! You’ve given me enough heartache to last for several lifetimes.” Instead, I remained mute because I was trapped in a web of deceit and lies, as securely as I had been when she was still alive.
“No matter what, you always went home to him,” I managed to utter. The instant the words were out of my mouth, she vanished, floating out of sight like one of the computer-generated spirits on Sutherland’s Ghosts. I woke up to heart-pounding fear while blinking back warm tears.
***
On Saturday morning, I arrived as scheduled to pick up Shelby for our overnight at Ravenswood Inn. Since check-in time was hours away, she suggested we have brunch at another favorite restaurant, a tiny hideaway tucked into the lower level of an historic building in downtown Appleton. Of course, she knew the owners, a cheerful gay couple who insisted on showing her photos of their recent New Zealand honeymoon before serving us soft scrambled eggs and apple wood smoked bacon, accompanied by that staple of traditional southern cooking, biscuits and gravy.
“That should tide us over until dinner, don’t you think?” she asked me, straight-faced.
“I should hope so. I’ll have to waddle back to the car.”
Ravenswood Inn was a pleasant half-hour drive away, reached on one of the secondary motorways that crisscrossed this part of the country. Our destination was located within the miniscule hamlet of Indian Springs, which wasn’t so much a town as it was a handful of vintage buildings clustered along one paved street. The inn, which anchored one end of “Main” Street, was a symmetrical, two-story white brick building dating to the late 1700s, with traditional black-painted shutters, a covered front porch, and chimneys rising from each end. Posted near the front door, a hand-painted sign featured the outline of a raven accompanied by Ravenswood Inn in shaky script. A lush, well-tended garden separated the main structure from another historic building, once a school and now home to four luxury suites, according to my reservation confirmation email. We were booked in the Adams Room.
Shelby sat on the edge of the four-poster iron bed and took it all in. Our mini-suite, once a classroom, oozed vintage charm. The room’s walls were painted a soft, buttery yellow, offset by crisp white moldings and trim. Dark plank floors, brightened by a blue and white pattered carpet, shone with the unique patina acquired from more than two centuries of use. In the cozy seating area, twin upholstered wing chairs flanked a small wood-burning fireplace. A pair of French doors at the far end of the room led to a private screened-in porch with views of the green countryside and the Blue Ridge Mountains beyond.
I’d upgraded our reservation to the Romance Package, which included several thoughtful extras—a bottle of local wine chilling in an ice bucket, a basket of fragrant soaps, lotions, and oils, his-and-her spa robes, and a small box of dark chocolates, all the ingredients for a night of passion.
“Is everything to your satisfaction?” I asked her, receiving a smile in return.
“So far, everything is perfect.”
She perched on the bed with her legs tucked underneath a short, flared skirt. As she bent over to retrieve something from her tote bag, her silver hair fell forward in a wave. When she pushed it back and gazed up at me, I was reduced to the maturity level of an anxious schoolboy swooning over his first crush.
“I brought some things,” she announced, which hardly prepared me for the sight of her “things” spread out on the comforter—a strangely realistic vibrator, a pair of fur-lined hand restraints, a bottle of scented massage oil, and an enormous cock ring, which she waved in my direction.
�
��Do you know what that is, Shelby?”
“I certainly do,” she said, assessing me with clear eyes. “It was described in the brochure that came with the Sinful Nights gift box. It’s made of hypoallergenic silicon, stretchy for a tight fit. I didn’t know your size, so I got a big one.”
“Thinking of me, were you?”
My comment produced her feline smile, the one that hinted of whispered secrets in the dark.
“As a matter of fact, I was thinking of you and what you might like,” she said, a moment before her face flushed. “In bed.”
“Next time, you really should measure the man’s knob before you make a buying decision,” I advised, receiving another smile.
“Your knob wasn’t around when I placed the online order, so I took a guess. After all, I do have some knowledge of your, um, man parts.”
“That you do.”
I eased myself onto the comforter next to her, slipped one arm around her waist, and nuzzled her neck with my lips.
“We can play with your toys later if you like, but for the record, I have no complaints about basic vanilla sex, either.”
She leaned into me and I rested my chin on the top of her head, getting a whiff of her lemony-herbal scent.
“Sex aside, you’ve no idea how good it’s been to have someone to come home to at the end of the day, somebody I can talk to and who won’t judge me. I think I’m going to miss our conversations even more than your food.”
I couldn’t allow myself to get maudlin at the prospect of saying good-bye in a few days, so I plastered a halfway authentic smile on my face, pulled her off the bed, and announced, “Let’s get going, Chef, and tour a few wineries before dinner.”
My lips found the sweet spot at the base of her neck that made her tremble.
“Ian,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “I thought we said no attachments.”
I remembered precisely what I said, but despite what we agreed to, I’d never been a man who played by the rules.
***
The persistent rain that had trailed us all afternoon finally tapered off as I steered the Mercedes up a winding gravel road to our third and final destination. Misty Mountain Vineyards, located all of nine hundred feet above sea level, boasted of its “high altitude” wines in the brochure. The tasting room was contained within a large, two-story structure with weathered walls and a tin roof that suggested an historic barn. After we climbed a set of stairs to the second floor, the room opened onto a spectacular outdoor deck offering views of blue peaks in soft focus.
“Oh, let’s sit outside,” Shelby suggested, taking my arm. “While the sun is still out.”
In southern California, warm, sunny days were commonplace. Here, it seemed, sunlight was viewed as a special treat, a cause for celebration. A server wiped the last remaining moisture from a metal table and chairs before we were seated. I opted for a glass of Cabernet Franc, while she went for the Pinot Noir.
I lifted my wine glass in a toast. “To a lovely, relaxing weekend.”
She sat across from me wearing her serene smile, appearing cool and composed while I, on the other hand, was wilting in the oppressive humidity. My scalp felt moist and my shirt was sticking to my back.
“Don’t you ever perspire?” I teased.
“Occasionally,” she said. “I guess I’ve gotten used to the heat over the years.”
She reached across the little patio table to take my hand. The touch of her fingers shot a current of raw energy up my arm and through my body, lodging near my restless cock.
“What you said in our room earlier,” she began, “about having someone to talk to. It’s been good for me too. In fact, something you said the other night made me start to re-evaluate my career plans.”
“What was that?” I gave her hand a gentle squeeze, feeling the power surge between us.
“When you told me I could do anything I set my mind to. I used to think of myself as an independent, capable person, but after Jean-Pierre died I let myself lapse into a dreary, day-to-day existence. I flew back to Washington state several times to check on Mom, and I rationalized that I couldn’t take a full-time job because of her declining health. That was simply an excuse to keep doing nothing.”
Shelby put on her sunglasses and turned her face toward the weak afternoon sun.
“My passion is cooking and feeding people, so I’ve decided to go forward with a consulting chef business. If I’m careful, I’ll have enough money to keep me going for a few months until I can produce an income. Dani said she’d help me set up a website so I can start blogging. And if things get slow, I’ll test recipes for my cookbook.”
“Brilliant.” This was good news, indeed. She was planning her future, moving on with a life that I hoped might include me.
“I’m sure you’ll be wildly successful. I could help you out financially if you need it.”
I could not stand the thought of her struggling, alone in that big house with only two cats for company. All alone, that is, until another man came along and saw her as I did. My chest tightened at the thought of her with someone else.
“That’s sweet of you to offer,” she said, “but I can make it on my own.”
“Oh, right. The ‘no attachments’ clause again.”
She peered at me over the top of her shades.
“It doesn’t mean we have to stop seeing each other,” I pressed on, offering a smile in an attempt to keep the mood light. “They have these things called non-stop flights that depart from places called airports.
“And we can always call and text.”
I laced my fingers through hers, holding on with a firm grip.
“Think it over,” I urged, training my eyes on Shelby’s face. “I don’t want to let you go.”
In less than a month, she had become a welcome sight at the end of my day, far removed from the brutal, back-stabbing world of prime-time television drama. With Shelby, I could open up and share my feelings, knowing she wouldn’t ridicule me or cast blame. She was warm and kind, sexy as hell, and everything I’d ever wanted in a partner.
Although, if she knew the whole, sordid truth, would she have me?
“Since you’re so hot,” she taunted, while removing her sunglasses, “why don’t we go back to our room and you can shower before dinner?” Her cool eyes looked me over as the corners of her mouth turned upward. She downed a remaining sip of wine.
“And maybe you could let me watch.”
It took a moment for her words to register.
“You want to watch me shower?”
“Yes.”
My heart sped up at the thought of her eyes fixed on my nude body.
“Is this something you’ve fantasized about?”
She nodded.
“Uh-huh. Ian in the raw.”
“I quite like where this is going.”
Under the table, her knee grazed mine.
“After you brought up the subject of John Thomas, I got to thinking about Lady Chatterley’s Lover. I read it years ago, strictly for the sex parts, of course. While I don’t remember much, there was one scene where she comes upon Oliver outside the gamekeeper’s shack, washing himself.”
Her hand squeezed mine again. “His back is turned to her, so she stands and watches, stunned by the sight of his naked flesh. It was so…voyeuristic. I’m getting a little turned on just thinking about it.”
Shelby’s blue eyes held mine.
An erotic appetizer before dinner?
As soon as I could catch our server’s attention, I waved him over, threw a few bills on the table, and stood up in such a hurry that I banged my knee and almost knocked over a water glass.
Extending one hand to her, I announced, “I’m ready to go when you are.”
Chapter Seventeen
Shelby
“Since you’re the director of this independent production, who, exactly, is my character?” Ian kept his eyes on mine while I sat on the edge of our bed. “And what motivates him?”
“He’s, uh…well.” My throat tightened. “He’s a sexy, virile man in the prime of life, but he’s also lonely.”
Ian unzipped his shorts and stepped out of them, while I gulped at the noticeable swelling underneath his briefs. My head spun, both from the wine and the almost-naked man standing in front of me, eliciting a tingling sensation that began at the base of my neck and rocketed down my spine.
“He needs a woman’s touch, but she’s not around, so he’s forced to take matters into his own hands, so to speak.” I kept my eyes fixed on his face, not daring to look downward. “Pretend I’m not here and enjoy yourself.”
“All right,” he said, “although I expect to be paid handsomely for this role.”
“I don’t have any money. You would, however, get to have sex with the director.”
“We have a deal.”
Peeling off the briefs, he turned and headed toward the bathroom, leaving me with an inspiring view of his broad back and two sculpted butt cheeks. My heart caught in my throat. Every inch of him was nothing less than spectacular, and I was about to have it all.
I decided to give him a few minutes’ head start to get wet and soapy, so I took a seat in one of the wingback chairs and waited. My legs were wobbly and my hands shook. The thought of having sex with Ian, after all my foolish fantasies, was both exhilarating and terrifying. I knew I needed to relax, but I was as jumpy as Francoise and Henri during a thunderstorm. Burning anxiety built in my chest. Then, from somewhere deep in my subconscious, a random thought of Jean-Pierre emerged, and I was racked with guilt.
What would he think of me having sex in a hotel room with a man I’ve only recently met?