by Sarina Bowen
Braht knots that apron like he knows what he’s doing. I’m not a cook. I’ll admit that. It’s why I always come running when Brynn calls. Well, it’s not the only reason, I mean, I love her and all. But as I watch Braht work, I’m actually wondering if he could give her some competition. He’s making corn tortillas from scratch.
I didn’t even know that was possible. I thought corn tortillas were born that way, you know, flat and ready to fold.
I keep these thoughts to myself as I pour copious amounts of alcohol into a pitcher. Beside me, Braht turns lumps of some kind of masa mixture into food, flattening them out and cooking them on a hot griddle.
It’s hard for me to admit, but he looks pretty adorable. I have a flash in my mind of him wearing that fucking gingerbread men apron with nothing under it, his arousal obviously pushing the apron up and out…
Hello, nipples. Nice to see you again.
I catch myself swaying to the music in the background. It’s Buena Vista Social Club, because party boy Braht is the kind of guy who matches the tunes to his meal choice. He’s humming to himself and the kitchen smells so good, and it’s so…
Nice.
Just nice.
I grab two glasses, rub the edges with fresh lime, and dip them one at a time in margarita salt. Then I add ice to my amazing concoction. Braht’s tortillas are ready to go. He’s got some sliced radishes to garnish the pulled pork, farmers’ cheese and what looks like fresh salsa. Holy hell, a girl could get used to this.
And by “a girl,” I mean me.
I hand him a glass and say “Cheers,” to which he says “Olé.” Fucking Braht.
After taking a sip, I realize that I’m not afraid anymore.
And this margarita is really good.
And I think Braht’s apron is tenting just a little bit.
“Let’s eat,” he says, and I have to remind myself that he’s talking about the tacos.
We grab our plates and drinks and hunker down in front of his massive leather couch, butts on the floor, plates on the coffee table, backs against the sofa. He has about ten remote controls. “Are you serious?” I say.
“Hey, don’t knock it. Those have serious firepower. One of them could even give you an orgasm.”
He grabs one off the table, presses a series of buttons, and then his window blinds begin to roll down. The music stops. The TV flicks on.
“Don’t dim the lights,” I say as a fresh flash of fear shoots through me. I’m not afraid of Braht making the moves on me. I’d tell him to fuck off, but honestly, I just don’t want to be in the dark right now. My mind keeps going back to the parking lot and Dwight and all the things that could’ve happened but thankfully didn’t.
“No lighting changes,” he promises. The TV menu pops up. “What are you in the mood for?” He starts scrolling. “Jeopardy? Horror movies? Sci-fi?” Before I can answer, he says “Oh! Moonstruck. God, I love this movie.”
He presses enter and there’s Cher and Nicolas Cage in a kitchen. I don’t think I’ve ever watched this movie all the way through. It’s old. I’ve heard good things about it, and it was pre-mullet and pre-douchebag Nicholas Cage, but still. I’m not sure I can suspend my disbelief long enough to buy him as a romantic lead, especially in the eighties. “Is Nicolas Cage supposed to be sexy here, because I’m really not…”
“SHHHHH!” Braht says. “This is the best part.” He whispers that and I look over to see if he’s serious. He has one taco poised halfway to his mouth, frozen in midair, and his other hand is latched onto my knee. What the…?
I’m not sure what’s happening onscreen now, but it’s something about Nicholas Cage having lost his hand and Cher getting hit by a bus. Then Cage grabs her, kisses her, she slaps him, she kisses him, and he carries her to the bed.
We watch it in devoted silence. It takes a little bit of pulled pork falling to the floor from Braht’s taco to break the spell. I mean, that scene is fucking hot.
I shake it off. “I don’t know why I’m surprised, but I never took you for liking chick flicks.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is totally a chick flick.”
He sets his taco down and turns to me as if this is really important. “Moonstruck is not a chick flick. It’s a brilliant classic film about love and longing. And there’s an amazing monologue where Ronny talks about losing his hand and how everyone else still has a hand…and I can just relate. To the not-having-a-hand part and really wanting a hand. It’s one of my favorite movies.” Then he returns to his taco. It’s gone in two bites. Two.
“Name your other favorite movies,” I challenge him.
“All of them?” He chugs his margarita.
“Hmm. Top ten? Top five?”
“That’s totally easy,” he says. Somehow I’ve gotten closer to him on the floor. When he sits back, I actually snuggle in beside him. He’s wearing a ridiculously soft shirt that feels good against my skin. And I watch with fascination as he ticks off the names of films on his fingers. “When Harry Met Sally. The Devil Wears Prada. Roman Holiday. Clueless. And Working Girl.”
I burst out laughing. I can’t help it. “Those are all chick flicks. You should just hand over your man card right now.”
“Not a chance.” Braht’s expression grows intense. “In the first place, I gave you a very thorough demonstration of my man card last week. I don’t remember hearing any complaints.”
I swallow hard, because this is certainly true.
“And secondly, you’re looking at this all backward.”
“I…am?” And why can’t I look away? He has the most beautiful, intelligent eyes.
“Yeah, you are,” he whispers. “It’s the guy who has a firm grip on his man card that can hold your purse. He’s not afraid to be seen with that Tory Burch you like to carry—nice color, by the way. He’ll free up your hands because he likes your hands, and he remembers all the terrific things you can use them for.”
“Oh,” I say slowly. Now my fingers itch to reach out for him. I have to make fists with both hands so I won’t do it.
“Furthermore, he’s not afraid to quote Working Girl. Because Joan Cusack is a genius. And who wouldn’t want to say Melanie Griffith’s best line out loud?”
I can’t help saying it with him, and together we sound like the world’s horniest Greek chorus: “I have a head for business and a body for sin.”
Sin sounds pretty good right now, actually. But Braht’s not done with his speech. “Any man who tells you that chick flicks are for pussies can’t be any good in bed. Because that man does not speak the language of women. He doesn’t know that a little luxury can erase a shitty day of worrying about your ex…”
Braht takes my hand in his and begins to massage it. He has a great technique, applying gentle pressure between each joint. I relax just a little bit more against him.
“…That man doesn’t speak the language because he’s afraid of sounding like a girl. But fuck that noise, honey bear. If a man doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe a satin teddy with peekaboo lace and mother-of-pearl snaps at the crotch, he can’t buy it for you and then strategically ask you to wear it. He can’t plan ahead to blow your mind sometime by lifting your skirt somewhere semi-public and dangerous. And he can’t get down on his knees and kiss that lace and then pop open those snaps while you bite your own hand to keep from screaming when you climax.” Braht takes a deep breath and lets it out in one hot gust. “Fuck. What was the point of this speech?”
“Um…” My voice is hoarse, and my face is suddenly very hot. Let’s not even mention my nipples. “Man cards, I think.” But I’m not sure, because everything tingles.
“Right,” he says with a sigh. “Still got mine. Shall we watch Working Girl next?”
“Okay,” I breathe, sinking a little further into his comforting embrace.
Braht aims the most enormous remote control at the television and pushes some buttons. That Carly Simon anthem floods his top-notch surround sound system, and
my heart races in a good way.
Braht turns his head and gives me a quick kiss on the jaw. Even that paltry contact makes me crazy. I want to rip all his clothes off him and climb on his dick.
But we’re not doing that tonight. I can’t send this man any more mixed signals. So I watch the movie instead.
Nine hours later I’m face down in heaven. Braht has super-silky sheets and premium feather pillows.
Of course he does.
Last night I purposely drank too many margaritas so I couldn’t safely drive back home. Braht tucked me into one of his guest rooms to sleep it off.
Now I’m vaguely aware that morning has arrived. There have been showering sounds and coffee smells. But I can’t get up. This is the most relaxed I’ve been since finding out that my ex is out of prison, because my subconscious knows that I’m safe and hidden in a house where Dwight can’t find me.
My subconscious likes this turn of events a lot. I might need another three hours of sleep just to break even. Also, I’m in and out of a terrific dream. Something about lingerie that snaps open at the crotch, and a willing tongue.
The mattress shifts, and the edge of the bed dips gently. A warm hand palms my back.
More, my subconscious begs. Touch me.
“Wake up, sugar pop,” a voice says. “We have a meeting.”
“No,” I grumble. I don’t like meetings. And that hand isn’t doing what I need it to do. “Lower. Hand.”
There’s a chuckle. “I wish.” The hand leaves me.
Braht’s voice?
Fuck! I flip over and sit up fast. “Hi!” I gasp. I think I just asked him to grope me. Did that happen?
“Hi yourself. Here’s your coffee.” He lifts a mug from the bedside table. “Open those pretty eyes all the way. We have a new gig.”
“What?” I’m still trying to navigate a thick fog born of both sleepiness and embarrassment. “Gig? Who?”
“Our thriller writer who bought Tom’s house? She’s putting hers on the market.”
“A new listing?” That snaps me to consciousness. “Where is it?”
“On the back side of Reed’s Lake. Google Earth shows a really small roofline. Could be hard to price. Drink up.” He presses the coffee cup into my hand. For one split second, his gaze slips. His eyes travel downward over my scantily clad body. “Rawrrr,” he meows.
“Stop it,” I say. “You’re making me giggle, and I don’t like giggling.”
“How can you not like giggling?”
I walk past Braht sipping this amazing coffee that I’m pretty sure he made with a real espresso machine. “Giggling chafes,” I say and I head for the shower.
“Hey!” Braht says, and I feel his hand on my elbow. I consider leaning back, my ass pressed up against him. But then he says, “What’s this, a tattoo?”
His hand moves down my back to my panty line, and suddenly everything in me goes cold. I mean, I freeze from the inside out.
“Nothing,” I say, the words sharper than necessary. I tug my panties a half inch lower, hoping it covers it up. I’d tried to have that tattoo removed ages ago, but some things you just can’t make disappear.
It’s faded now, but the memory of my worst mistake never will.
14 Black Cat and an October Confession
Ash
“Do we even want this listing?” Braht asks me as Ms. T.S. Archer drives away in her Mercedes. We watch her tail lights recede. “I feel like this is some kind of shakedown.”
“It will be fine,” I insist, because arguing with Braht is in my blood. “You’re worried about your manicure, aren’t you?”
Braht gives me an arch look. “I was worrying about yours, honey bear. Because I know you’ll get pissy if I do more than my share of the work.”
He has a point. I need to pull my own weight, and this won’t be easy. T.S. Archer—and let’s be honest for a second, the woman’s name is plain old Tracy—has not taken such great care of her delightful little property on the lake. Apparently thriller-writing is an engrossing pastime, because the garden hasn’t been tended to for months. The lawn is practically a meadow. Ivy has taken over the brick facade. The effect would be picturesque but the vines are actually threatening the front door.
Maybe thriller writers need a lot of atmosphere. I can picture a tendril of ivy wrapped around a butcher knife, poised to stab me Psycho-shower-scene-style.
Before she left us, the seller had said: “The listing is yours…if you can feed my cat and tidy up the yard while I’m in Cuba.”
Braht and I didn’t even need to look at each other. We just nodded in tandem. Nobody turns down a waterfront listing. Even if it’s going to take us days to make the place presentable.
Even if she just conned us into free cat-sitting.
Now she’s off to the airport while Braht and I try to figure out how we’ve been suckered into cleaning up her mess.
“At least the interior is in good shape,” I say, searching for some good news. I’m totally wearing the wrong clothes for yard work. My silk blouse, pencil skirt and stilettos are not conducive to weed-pulling.
“It’s in okay shape,” Braht hedges. “Do you think we should market the place as a teardown? It needs a second bathroom almost as badly as I need two fingers of Macallan 18 year. Be a dear and run out for whisky?”
“You know it’s only eleven thirty in the morning, right?” I don’t know where all his negativity is coming from.
“I hate being taken advantage of,” he grouses. “I’m always cleaning up after other people.”
He actually sounds upset. Like, this is Braht with a real human emotion.
“She’s a helpless old lady!” I say firmly. With great bargaining skills. I totally respect that.
“She’s a con artist!” I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so grumpy.
“We just earned a bunch of money off her purchase, though. And we can always outsource the landscaping. Calm down, okay? This is merely a bump in the road, sugar butt.”
Braht startles at my use of one of his ridiculous nicknames. “You’re teasing me.” He sounds both surprised and impressed.
“Like it’s hard.” I just had my first good night’s sleep in days, and it’s fun to turn the tables on him for once. “Go find that wheelbarrow she mentioned. Let’s just see how much we can get done in a couple of hours.”
Not enough, it seems.
By five o’clock, Braht’s irritation is contagious. I want to tell T.S. Archer where she can shove her overgrown flowerbeds and her unraked leaves. My hands are dirty and scratched. My feet hurt. And worst of all, my manicure is trashed.
The only perk is the view. I’m not talking about the one on Reed’s Lake. Braht’s been slowly removing pieces of his clothing since we began working. First the jacket and tie. Then his belt and dress shirt. He’s wearing a pair of jeans he found in the back of his car. I’m wearing the sweatpants and T-shirt he removed from his gym bag for me, unfortunately still in heels.
The clothes Braht gave me smell like him. I’ve spent the day trying not to notice. Now we’re covered in dirt and only halfway done, and I’m absolutely starving.
“Okay, I’m calling it,” I say, tossing another handful of desiccated lily stalks into the wheelbarrow. “That is enough for one day. Let’s feed the cat and get out of here. We need food. And a shower.”
He grunts in agreement. “Who could sit down to dinner with dirt under his nails? It’s barbaric.”
I’m sure his friend Tom gets plenty dirty in his line of work. I don’t point this out, because Braht’s been in a mood all day. “I’ll handle the kitty. Back in a jif.”
Inside the house, everything is still. Slowly I take another walk around the space. The house is too small, and the footprint is very 1960s. But there are lake views from most of the rooms.
And except for an abundance of cat hair, there’s nothing out of place. Ms. Archer must be a fan of those TV shows where they show you how to style a home for a quick sale. There’s no c
lutter. She’s already removed all the detritus of everyday life—the bottles of lotion, the stray pennies, the unpaid bills. The countertops and tables are empty except for a few carefully placed items—like the photography book in the center of the desk.
The effect is classy. She’s even left an arrangement of red roses in a vase on a living room table. They look terrific against the lake in the distance and the autumn leaves outside.
According to the instructions I’ve pocketed, I open a can of cat food and plop the stinky stuff into the empty bowl. “Here, kitty kitty kitty!” I call.
A black streak runs into the room from the back of the house somewhere, butting my shin out of the way and diving at the bowl.
“Where are your manners?” I gasp, just to amuse myself. The cat turns its head and glares at me out of its one remaining eye.
The thriller writer has a black, one-eyed cat. Of course she does.
“See ya, puss. Stay out of trouble.” I leave it alone to eat in peace.
My cell phone rings. Braht must be getting impatient out there. He’s so moody right now. So I press answer and bark “What?”
But then I hear him breathing. And I know. There’s a sudden crash behind me and I jump about a foot.
Fucking cat. Please let it just be the cat.
“Come on, Ash…” Dwight’s voice is low and scary. “You ran away from me last night, and that’s not nice. You need to listen to me. All I want from you…”
I hit end call, my hands shaking uncontrollably. And I can’t get outside to Braht fast enough.
BRAHT
Okay, fine. I’m in a bad mood. Men can have moods, too.
I try some deep breathing exercises that I’ve learned from my meditation coach, but it doesn’t help. Even alternate nostril breathing doesn’t calm me. It just gets me even more pissed that I can’t breathe out of both my nostrils and find my zen.