by Eve Langlais
“Mmhmm.” She swallowed before saying, “I have a dinner date right after, so don’t wait up for me.”
My daughter had gotten over the breakup that brought her to live with me and was seeing new people. Lucky. I’d yet to figure out who I was and what I wanted.
I want to get laid.
The thought hit, and I choked on my coffee, spraying it everywhere. As I heaved and hacked, with Wendy slamming me on the back, it occurred to me I’d never find someone interested in me romantically. I was a mess.
“You going to live?” my daughter asked as my attempt to drown myself with coffee failed.
“Barely,” I croaked.
She laughed. “There’s the spirit. You heading over to the shop?”
I nodded. “Although I told Marjorie I’d take over for her at the diner late afternoon so she and Trish can go out for dinner. It’s their six-month anniversary.”
“Good for them. We’ll have to remember to send them flowers when they hit their one year.” Her use of “we” never failed to warm me. Her tone turned uber casual as she said, “So, hey, remember how I was saying maybe your store needs to be multipurpose? My boss was telling me he knows a guy who knows a guy with a line on genuine healing crystals.”
“I thought we agreed no psychic stuff.”
“No, you decided. I still say you need to expand the scope of your offerings.”
Which thus far were antiques I had no use for that I’d found in the cottage. Funny how no matter how many I located and put aside, I still found more. According to Trish, it was the house providing me what I needed. Which was nuts. Houses didn’t just magically create stuff. It was just that the place was so cluttered we couldn’t keep track of it all. That made more sense.
“Come on, Winnie. Psychic crystals?” I couldn’t help the mom tone. “I can’t with good conscience sell something I don’t believe in.”
“You and your morals.” Winnie rolled her eyes and laughed. “I think you forgot to give me any, which is why if my date goes well you shouldn’t expect me back until really, really late.” My daughter bent down to kiss me on the cheek. “So feel free to have a guest over. Or two. Whatever floats your boat.”
My cheeks flamed. “Winnie! I would never.”
“Maybe you should. I hear the only thing better than two guys in bed is three.” Winnie winked as she sauntered out the door.
Whereas I shook my head and smiled. Our relationship had evolved since my separation with Martin. It was one of the highlights of being single again. My daughter was now talking to me. I’d even go so far as to say we were friends.
And apparently friends teased each other about their sex lives. Even nonexistent ones.
Before heading into town and my shop, I tidied the house. I parked in the alley around the back, but rather than enter the nondescript gray metal door, I headed to the front. There was something I enjoyed about entering like a customer would.
As I exited the alley for the sidewalk, I glanced across the street at the completed bookstore. It sported a vintage style, the owner having opted to stain its outdoor wood trim, giving it an old library feel. A banner hung in its window, stating in large letters: Open. I really needed to get my shop off the ground and quickly so I could take advantage of any traffic the bookstore managed to gather.
Turning away, I admired my own shop. The wood trim was freshly painted. I’d done my best to fill in the gouges beforehand with plaster. The two big windows, currently covered in paper, would showcase my wares. If we ever got foot traffic, attractive displays would draw them in. Winnie offered to take pictures for the internet. Something about setting me up with an online store and some business social media accounts.
First, I needed a functioning store. Stepping close, I dug into my pocket for the large metal key that fit into the very old lock. When I bought the place, I’d spent the first day scrubbing at the tarnished metal, bringing back its brassy shine. Not the most efficient use of my time, and yet it brought me pleasure. An antique store should have antique locks.
As I entered, the little bell strung to the door rang. Ding-a-ling. Winnie hated it, but I loved the sound. It made me nostalgic for a different time when life seemed less hectic. I knew I was being sentimental over something that probably never existed, but there was something about watching movies from those eras, a sense of class we didn’t see much of anymore.
The paint had dried since my last visit. As I walked around the shop, I ran my fingers over the fresh surface. A faint giddiness filled me. I could finally start to place items. It took some grunting and heaving to bring in the furniture to hold my wares.
The big bookcase was originally muscled in with Trish’s help. Alone I couldn’t exactly carry it, which was where the wool blanket I kept in my trunk came in handy. I leaned that bookcase up enough to shove the blanket under. Then leaned the other side to even out the fabric.
After that, it slid quite easily across the wood floors. I’d not been able to have them stained—too expensive—but I’d washed and oiled them. I heaved the bookcase into place and then tilted it again to pull out the blanket.
I’d done it. One done, tons more to go. Ugh.
I shoved the sweaty strands of hair out of my face. Rather than move the next big piece, I chose to bring a box of things over. The shelves were perfect for showcasing the fragile porcelain pieces I’d found, figurines and dishes. I sat a few items on some hand-crocheted lace doilies. The old linen tablecloths with matching napkins were folded into a large wicker basket and set beside the bookcase on the floor. At the bottom of a box, I found the very carefully wrapped china set. It would be perfect for the front window, currently covered in paper.
Glancing around and seeing the place looking like an actual store, I realized it was time. Time to reveal what I’d accomplished.
Grabbing a garbage bag, ammonia spray, and paper towel, I crawled into the bay window with its built-in shelf and began peeling off the paper covering. I had to stand to reach the highest pieces. As I stretched, my shirt tugged upwards, which was when a tap at the window drew my attention.
I glanced down from my perch to see an unwelcome—yet still handsome, damn him—face.
Kane. After getting drunk one night, I’d made out with him in a parking lot with no idea how I got there. Trish thought he cast a spell on me. I wondered if I’d experienced my first roofie.
Either way, my actions were out of character, so I avoided him when possible. But in a town this small, it was inevitable I’d run into him, and each time he discomfited me.
To be fair, despite my dislike of Kane, he still made me wet my panties—in a good way. He was the epitome of good-looking older guy with silver in his hair and a face that had creases in the right places. Another thing to his credit? He didn’t peek up my shirt like a creep or stare at my almost eye-level crotch. He looked at my face, held my gaze as if he found me interesting.
Which I couldn’t figure out. I wasn’t some hot babe who’d aged well. I had crow’s feet and gray in my hair. Weight loss didn’t leave me flawless. Gaining so much left its mark in loose hanging skin around the middle and boobs that needed a bra. Then there were the stretch marks. Silvery things now, but they were all over my body. I looked my age, which wasn’t meant to disparage but act as a reality check. I’d accepted what I’d done to myself, even as I still worked on accepting myself as I was. What I couldn’t get was why a man like Kane—a renowned architect who’d been photographed with some of the most beautiful women in the world—would pay me any attention.
Screw what people said about men being attracted to minds. I called bull on that. That first night when he’d kissed me, we’d barely talked. He had no idea of my politics, beliefs, nothing. But he did know the taste of me and how I moaned when he sucked on my tongue.
Funny how I could remember parts of the kiss, but not other bits.
Tap. Tap.
He rapped on the glass, but I ignored him. I had nothing to say.
Kane stood there for only
a second longer before he left, and I let out a breath. Look at me, ghosting a guy.
I yanked some more tape.
Ding-a-ling.
“We’re closed,” I yelled over my shoulder.
“Would you really turn down a potential customer?” Kane’s smooth timber hit me like a spoonful of hot caramel. It slid, sweet and delicious, into me. It felt so good, even as I knew it was so bad for me.
Ignoring him was no longer an option. I sat down on the edge of the bay window and eyeballed Kane. “How can you be a client when you don’t even know what I have to sell?”
“Word on the street is you’ll be dealing in antiques.”
“People are talking about my store?” I brightened.
“Does one person count?” he replied.
“Marjorie.” I could see her telling people at the diner that I’d be opening soon.
“She told me you’re planning to sell antiques.”
“Are you a collector?” Despite my dislike of him, I’d take his money if he bought something.
“I guess you could say that I am. I am fascinated with the past.”
“What do you collect?” I asked, climbing out of the window.
I tried not to imagine how dusty and sweaty I looked. I wasn’t interested in Kane. He’d probably slipped me something that night in the bar. More than likely if I’d been in my right mind, I would have never kissed him.
Lie.
My own mind accused me. I hated it was right. Kane was tall, much taller than me, and broader than I recalled. Handsome. Handsome enough I wondered what would happen if I pressed my lips to his.
As if he sensed my thoughts, his gaze flickered for just a second to my mouth.
Heat licked me in a place that made me want to cross my legs.
“I collect only the finest of things.” He stared at me a moment longer before he turned and headed for my bookcase and its eclectic figurine collection. “I like to be intrigued.” He lifted the shepherdess with her curved crook and the sheep at her feet.
“I wouldn’t have taken you for the type to collect knickknacks.”
“Ah yes, because you’ve learned so much about me from our brief encounters.” He cast me a side eye, and I almost blushed in shame.
I’d made more than one assumption about him, especially once I saw how much Jace, my next-door neighbor, appeared to dislike his half-brother, Kane.
“Why are you really here?” I asked. Because I highly doubted he had a sudden need for the junk lying around my cottage. Nice junk, which, according to my research, would fetch tidy little sums with the right buyers.
“Can’t a man pop in and say hello to a paramour?” His dark gaze flashed with amusement.
“We aren’t lovers,” I huffed.
“We would have been if not interrupted.”
He was so cocky. So sure of himself. I wanted to knock him down a peg. Or three. “I was drunk.”
“Implying that you wouldn’t have kissed me if sober.” His lips quirked. “I assure you, Ms. Rousseaux, I am even more delightful when all your senses can be fully engaged.”
“Says you. I don’t plan on finding out.” I managed a sassy retort, the perfect comeback that was at war with my racing pulse. There was something kind of heady about having a man like Kane flirting with me.
Obviously, he was after something. Why else would he bother? But the woman in me, the one dumped and sorely abused by her husband of over twenty years, needed the ego boost.
Kane set the figurine back down on the shelf. “If only I had time for your challenge. Alas, my business will be taking me out of town for a while.”
“Where?”
“Home.”
“You don’t live here?”
“Sorry, I should have said, the place where I grew up. I need to attend some business.”
“Going to be gone awhile?”
“Perhaps. Are you going to miss me?” He flashed me a smile.
“Why would I miss you? I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“More an observation that you’re not actually a part of my life.”
“Which is probably a good thing for you. You don’t want to be involved with me.” An ominous reply.
I snorted. “Is this supposed to be reverse psychology? I reject you so you’re trying the bad-boy, forbidden-fruit angle?”
His expression appeared even more amused. “Do you think me bad?”
“I think you’re up to no good.”
“Which is why you want me.”
“Do not.” A hot retort that was also such a lie.
“If I only had the time to prove you wrong.”
What did that mean? Was he going to kiss me again?
Would I stop him?
I needed him to go before I found out. “Don’t let me keep you. Have a good trip.”
“Is that all you wish to say?” he asked, stepping closer to me. “Not going to offer a more intimate goodbye?”
“I don’t hug thugs.”
His lips quirked. “And here I thought women were attracted to rogues.”
Oh, we were. Damn him. I stared up at him, the cologne he wore tickling my nose with its subtle musky scent. He loomed over me and stared right back. It was hotter than I’d have expected.
His gaze flicked to my mouth… Oh the temptation. It wouldn’t take much to kiss him.
Kiss a man I didn’t know. A man I didn’t like.
What the heck?
2
I frowned and stepped back.
Kane’s expression registered surprise then nothing, as if he’d dropped a mask and all the warm fuzzies left with it.
Weird how one second he could make me want to drop my panties and the next I could say, “I think you should leave now.”
“For now. But I will see you soon.” Why did he make it sound so ominous?
The bells jingled as he left, and I crossed the shop quickly to lock the door in case he tried to come back. As I reached for the bolt, he turned and smiled at me through the window.
My nipples tightened, and something squeezed down below. What was going on with me? Some women had pre-menopause hot flashes. I had a case of the lusting. Pressing my lips—and thighs—tight, I locked the door and yanked down the shade.
The pulse between my legs went for a few more beats before subsiding.
That man. How he confused me, but even more, my body’s reaction baffled.
I didn’t trust or like Kane. If ever a guy oozed a “stay away, I’m bad news” vibe it was him. Yet he also made me wet.
These days he wasn’t the only one to get my motor running. I eyeballed men like I would a hunk of steak, looking for something juicy I could sink my teeth into. It was disconcerting, especially because it kept happening. Even worse, I didn’t just crave one man; I craved many. I didn’t know how it happened, but since the divorce, I’d become a horny teenager.
Something happened to me when my husband asked for a divorce. I went from having no sex life to wanting one. Now every guy I met went through some mental checklist.
Single? Employed? Not too old? Not too young?
I judged all the guys I ran into. Had a few that I wouldn’t have minded getting to know better. Darryl, for example, had asked me to dinner. Jace, the next-door neighbor, kept popping by and offering to do manly stuff for me, like stacking wood. Even Orville appeared to be flirting in his own way, concocting low-carb dishes that he insisted I try.
Then there was Kane, the most untrustworthy of them all. He thought I’d care if he went away?
He was right. I did. I was happy he’d be gone because I wanted nothing to do with him.
I’d taken a step from the door when there was a knock. Immediately, my body tightened. He’d come back. My hand went to my hair. Had he come to insist on a goodbye kiss? How should I reply?
The fact I even wondered gave me the answer. I turned from the door.
Tap. Tap. “Naomi? You in there?”
“Hey, what are you doing here?”
Darryl looked good, if different than Kane with his smart suit. Darryl was a workingman with jeans and a T-shirt tucked into them and, over it, a jean jacket he’d left unbuttoned. The hem of his pants slouched over his construction boots, mostly unlaced and scuffed.
“Thought I’d pop in and see how the store was coming along.”
“It’s going great,” I said with a smile and a sweep of my hand. “Tada!”
He stepped in. “It’s looking good.”
“But a bit empty.” What seemed like lots of merchandise when I carted it in now seemed rather paltry spread out.
“Meaning you might have room for more, maybe on consignment?” he asked.
I blinked at the request. “I’d not thought about it, but I guess I could. You got some stuff you want to sell?”
He nodded. “A bunch of things in the basement, attic, and even the loft in the garage. Got all kinds of junk. I mean, cool shit. My dad hoarded everything, including things he inherited from my grandparents.”
“What do you want to get rid of?”
“All of it,” he stated with a laugh. “Or at least the stuff you think is worth selling. The rest I can just donate to the church or something.”
I felt a need to be honest. “I don’t know if I’ll sell anything. I’ve never run a business before.” I’d gone on a major limb with this place.
“Which is why consignment works for both of us. I only get paid if you sell. And you’re not out anything to try it.”
He made some good points. “What kind of split are you thinking?”
“Fifty-fifty sound good?”
It sounded too good. I frowned. “That’s too much.”
“Then how much?”
“I haven’t the slightest clue. I don’t know anything. What am I thinking? I can’t do this.” Instant panic hit.
“Calm down,” he drawled. “You’ll be fine. Just pre-opening nerves. If it helps, I usually mark up store product about thirty percent.”