by Norah Wilson
I snorted. “Obviously you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full of penis cookies. I could have sworn you said something about head.”
Rochelle laughed, covering her mouth to avoid spraying me with cookie crumbs. “Oh, come on,” she said when she’d swallowed, “you know he’s not bad looking. Kinda hot, actually.”
“He’s a pig,” I said. “And to be clear, I’m not talking about his chosen occupation.”
Rochelle knew all about my history with Dickhead, which began so auspiciously by me documenting his adultery, so she ceded the point with a, “True,” before taking another bite of her cookie.
Bagel raisins consumed, I was carefully pulling the sprinkles off a cookie of my own. Okay, penis-shaped cookies were one thing. Penis-shaped cookies with sprinkles that looked for all the world like a cartoonish portrayal of stubbly pink hairs, was another thing altogether. Hey, even I have boundaries.
I shrugged. “Yeah, there were a couple of guys who weren’t bad looking, I guess.”
“Single?”
“Possibly. But then, given how many people there were lying about themselves, who knows?”
“Did they have woodies?”
I slanted her a look. “Woodies?”
“You know, were they—”
“I know what a woody is, Rochelle. I just can’t believe you asked that.”
She looked up, startled. “For real?”
I grinned. “As if! Just messing with you.” I sat forward on the sofa, and put the cookie back in the box. Sprinkles or no sprinkles, I just couldn’t bite the end off.
God, there must be three dozen of them. Was Mother trying to send me a message? And if so, what was it? Not enough dicks in my life?
I’d give Rochelle the lot of them to take home.
“So, these woodies?” she prompted.
“There were a few, I imagine. Of course, I suspected a double meaning when Gaetan clapped his hands and said, Let’s make tents! Those cuddly blankets have a dual purpose, I’m thinking.”
“And when everyone scrambled out from under them...?”
I shuddered. “Okay, I was trying to block that from my mind, thank you very much. But yeah, some evidence of arousal, even considering the circumstances.”
“What about you?” Rochelle asked.
I snorted. “Did I have a woody, you mean? Was I wanking under the cuddly?”
“Wanking?” Rochelle snickered. “I guess we’re watching British porn again, are we?”
“Blimey! Why would you say that?”
I sat back, suppressing my own grin as I waited for Rochelle to stop laughing.
Minutes later, wiping away tears of mirth, Rochelle asked, “So... what about Dylan?”
I lifted an eyebrow. “What about him.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. What was it like having him declare his passion for you in front of so many people?”
“Rochelle, get a grip. We were undercover. He hardly declared anything. It was all a ruse. All a... fantasy. Let’s pretend. All in the line of duty.”
“You think that’s all there is to it?” Rochelle’s voice had changed, the teasing note replaced with a more serious one. “Dix, I know you have the hots for the guy. Hell, so does any woman who’s stood close enough to look into those peepers. But he looks at you differently, not at all the way he looks at the rest of us.”
That shut me up. That made me smile.
I know, I know, I’m hard-as-nails Dix Dodd (got the T-shirt to prove it). Rochelle knew that Dylan and I had fooled around some in the past. But the emotion of it? I’d hidden that from her. Hell, I’d been hiding that from myself. There was something about the guy. Not just the looks, the brains, the promise in those jeans. It was—
My cell phone rang, and I jumped.
Rochelle had that smart-assed smile on her face as I reached down into the sofa cushions under me to retrieve the ringing cell. Two tossed cushions and a pair of socks (okay, not a matched pair; one white and one black) later, I found the phone and looked at the call display.
Interesting.
I snapped the phone open. “Hello?”
“Dix?” came the female voice on the line.
“Yeah, it’s me. Who’s this?”
I knew who it was, but I’ve found that if I pretend I don’t have call display, people are more inclined to call me again. Strange, I know. But those people who are reluctant to call, but want so badly to call, will sometimes dial my number, wait until I answer, then hang up before saying a word. Works to my advantage sometimes.
“It’s Babe Gough.”
“Oh, Babe!” I said, acting both surprised and pleased to hear her voice. “Are you okay? I mean... after last night with Albert Valentine and all...”
“Yeah... that was very sad. I’m fine, Dix. Really. But... I’m calling you for another reason.”
There was anxiousness in her voice.
I listened. And listened. Nodding occasionally (which, yes, I realized she couldn’t see). Rochelle’s eyes never left me. And by the time I closed the cell phone with a click, she was more than curious. Even more so as I punched in Dylan’s number.
“’Lo,” he answered.
That single syllable, uttered in that sleepy, husky voice, sent a thrill arcing through me. God, that was crazy! Maybe I should start setting my alarm earlier, find reasons to call him so I could hear that sleep-roughened voice. Of course, there were better ways to accomplish that. Ways that would also let me see those warm brown eyes, feel the rasp of his beard-roughened face against my tightening—
“Dix?”
I cleared my throat to make sure my words didn’t emerge on a croak. “Saddle up, Mr. Foreman.”
“Er, Dix, have you been watching cowboy porn again?”
Dammit! Why do I leave my things lying around?
“No! I mean, get dressed! Get ready; we’re starting the day early.”
“What’s up?” By the shift in his voice, I could tell he was already crawling out from between the sheets. No background noises, no mumbles, no toilet flushing down the hall... yes, he was alone.
“We just got an invite. Babe Gough. Big brother’s out of town for the morning. She wants us to come over and talk clothing design.”
“And while we’re talking shop, we’ll have a chance to look around, ask her questions without big brother watching?”
“Exactly.”
He’d be at my place in twenty, he said, and hung up.
“Want me to leave out the cookies?” Rochelle asked as I closed the phone.
“Bitch.” I smiled. “And I mean that in the good way.”
“As if there was any other way?”
Chapter 7
DYLAN CALLED me on his cell when he arrived, and I ran down and met him in the street. I climbed into the passenger seat, turning to deposit the box of cookies on the floor behind the driver’s seat before buckling myself in.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Cookies.” Yep, the cookies. Rochelle hadn’t taken them with her when she’d left. She’d been in too much of a hurry herself. I figured penis-shaped or not, they were still cookies, and they might come in handy if we needed to pull a stakeout.
Dylan nodded as though it made perfect sense. Which I’m sure it did; I’d glimpsed a six-pack of bottled water back there which he probably carried for the same reason. You’d be surprised how palatable tepid water from a plastic bottle tasted when you were parched.
I glanced at Dylan. He was looking particularly handsome (I’m talking fresh-out-of-the-shower handsome). And his attractiveness increased exponentially when he handed me a Starbucks skinny latte. True, I’d polished off the extra-large eye-opener Rochelle had brought me, but I was definitely due for my second caffeine infusion of the day. It was almost nine, after all.
We had time to spare before our meeting with Babe Gough, so he suggested we swing by Aunt Gert’s place on our way to 33rd Street. That was fine by me. I liked the old girl.
&n
bsp; Gert was Dylan’s aunt on his father’s side. She’d been widowed young and left with two small boys, he told me. That had knocked her right on her butt. But like any good women, Gert had dusted herself off and risen to the challenge before her. Her parents had wanted her to move back home, volunteering to take care of everything, but that wasn’t what she’d wanted for herself and her boys.
Apparently everyone told her that she was crazy to do it, but Gert had used all the insurance money—every last dime of it—to open a little café in Marport City’s new industrial park (the first one out there). And when the boom hit, she’d made a pretty penny on the lunch crowds in the newly popular park. Gert had supported her family—and put both her sons through university—with her little enterprise. Two years ago, she’d sold the business to her boys, who’d equipped themselves to build on her legacy.
Dylan had just finished relating that last bit as we turned into the narrow drive of Aunt Gert’s house.
“And now that she’s retired,” Dylan concluded, “she spends her days sewing. She always loved to sew. Always had to. But now she doesn’t just do it out of necessity. She creates.”
“Good for her,” I said, meaning it. “I mean, going into business for herself when no one believed in her and disproving the naysayers? Gotta admire that.”
Dylan’s lips quirked.
“What?” I asked.
“Sounds a little like you.”
Which meant what? That he admired me? Kind of a staid, boring, platonic word...
He reached over and took my hand, stroking his thumb over the back of it. Every single cell in my body, from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, came to attention from that simple stroke. I dropped my eyelids to shutter my reaction. A useless tactic, I quickly realized. There was just no ignoring the instant, palpable current that flowed between us.
“Dix, we never really talked about what happened in Florida.”
I resisted the urge to lick my suddenly dry lips. “You mean the crossword competitions? I still say penis fits a five-letter word for cockpit dweller. I mean if the pilot is a guy...”
His lips curved in a smile, but his eyes remained serious. “You can’t avoid it forever, Dix. You can’t avoid me forever.”
He hadn’t meant the crossword competitions. I knew it. And he knew I knew it.
“You can’t deny it, Dix. There’s always been something between us. Right from day one.”
I wasn’t going to deny it. And I pressed every smart-mouth comment back in my throat till it felt like they’d choke me. It was complicated. So very complicated. I was twelve years his senior. I was his boss. I was loving how this was feeling, yet so scared to let anyone get close.
I hated the lump I felt in my throat, and yet, I did push past it. “Dylan, I—”
The door to the small house flew open. “Yoohoo! Come on in, you two!” Gert yelled. She stood there with her measuring tape around her neck, her sewing apron on. She wore her reader glasses down on her nose, as if she’d been hard at work. Then, as though we could possibly miss her standing there, she waved vigorously, her arm moving in a wide windmilling arc.
Saved by the yell.
“Guess we’d better get going,” I said, and jumped out of the car.
Dylan’s sigh was audible.
An hour later, the new silk pajamas (yes, thank God, no more fleece for me!) were in the back seat of the car. I was still shaking my head. Let’s just say Aunt Gert’s designs were getting a little more... uh... creative. But our cover was that we were designers. And what better place to hawk one’s sleepwear than a cuddle club? We had to keep it up! At the last club meeting—oh I’d heard the whispers—other cuddlers were planning on wearing (or was it threatening to wear?) their PJs.
So yes, henceforth, loungewear designer was now officially on that don’t-go-there list with veterinarians, doctors, and plumbers.
But in the meantime...
Dylan grabbed my hand as I reached to open the stairwell door.
I stared down at his big hand which easily swallowed mine. “Dylan, this isn’t the time—”
“We’re posing as lovers, remember?”
Oh, crap. Of course. Just part of the cover. “I knew that.”
Babe met us in the hallway of the complex, right by the stairwell door. “Come in! Come in, quickly!” She appeared really happy to see us, grinning from ear to ear as she motioned us to follow her back in through the club door. The girl certainly wasn’t one to dally!
Sunlight filled the cuddle room. The other night it had been overhead lighting on a dimmer switch. The daylight was much nicer. There was the smell of lilac in the air, as if someone had just lit a candle. Soft music played. Not the music we’d heard last night, but something instrumental, soothing, with a sort of Celtic vibe. The place was really calm. Peaceful. And—
Suddenly, loud and jarring, an industrial vacuum cleaner rattled and sucked to life.
I looked at Babe. For some reason, I’d expected her to be doing the vacuuming. All the cleaning, in fact. Maybe because of her cleaning frenzy after cuddle club had de-cuddled the other night. I reminded myself that just because she did the laundry (and yes, I was glad to know the Cuddle-Uppies were laundered between uses) didn’t mean she necessarily did all the heavy lifting.
“Eva will be done in the office in a minute,” Babe said, raising her voice over the sound of the vacuum.
“Eva? From last night?”
“Yes,” Babe said. “Eva Mulligan. She’s one of our most regular cuddlers. She and her friends—Zoey Smythe and Brandy Crotty. They hardly ever miss a night.”
I did a double take on that last name. “Brandy Crotty, as in the Crottys of Ashford Drive?” We’d met a Brandy the other night, but we hadn’t exchanged last names. Possibly because she’d been eyeballing Dylan like he was about to become dinner.
I glanced at Dylan. From the look in his eyes, he recognized the Crotty name too.
Babe shrugged. “Maybe.” She snapped her fingers. “Oh, wait, yes! That’s where she’s from. I recall the address from her application.” She peered at me. “Why? Do you know her?”
Of course Babe wouldn’t be familiar with that family name—she wasn’t from around here. But, boy, did I know the Crotty name! Definitely an old-money family in Marport City. Mainly doctors, with the occasional lawyer or judge thrown in there for variety. Every single one of them was an overachiever.
“So how come Eva is doing the vacuuming?” Dylan asked.
“Working for her membership. She comes in after class almost every day to vacuum through and do a few other little chores, and Gaetan lets her cuddle for free.”
“How big of him,” I said, not trying to hide the sarcasm. By the looks of pretty, young Eva, I somehow doubted Gaetan’s motives for letting her work off her membership dues were pure.
Babe shrugged. Whether she thought I was really complimenting her brother or not, I wasn’t sure.
The whirring sound of the vacuum stopped.
Just then Eva backed out of the office, pulling the vacuum behind her.
“Oh!” she said, “I didn’t know anyone else was here. Hi, Dylan.”
Yes, yes, just ignore me. I’m invisible. Pretend I’m not even here while you make those eyes at Dylan.
“Hi, Eva,” Dylan said. “Nice to see you again.”
She turned with a shy smile to me. “And Ms. Davidson, hello.”
Argh! Okay, so she did remember me. And I wasn’t invisible... just old enough to be out of that first name club.
“Let’s move this into the office, shall we?” Babe gestured for Dylan and me to precede her.
“See you later, Eva,” Dylan said.
“Well, maybe.”
I gave a double take on that odd little answer. What? Did she think he was asking her out?
Dylan was half grinning as I sat down beside him, taking the second of two chairs in front of the desk.
“So,” Babe said. She was standing behind the huge desk. “Wh
at do you think?” She twirled around. A couple of times.
“You dance?” I said. “That’s great!”
She looked crestfallen. “No, Dix. My design. I designed this top. Gaetan tells me all the time I have no talent for design. That I should just... quit while I’m ahead. But, I think it’s okay.” Babe twirled again. “Soooo... what do you think?”
What I thought was—Babe designed that? Now that she was still, the material—a sort of hippie-chic pattern with browns and blues and greens—draped sedately from Babe’s slim form. But when she’d whirled, it had done something weird and eye-gripping.
“You made that yourself?” Dylan asked. “That’s really... creative. It’s so cool.”
“So, you think it’s okay?” she asked. “I mean you two are real designers...”
“Hey, none of that,” Dylan said. “When someone spends her days following her own passion, despite what anyone tells her to do... well, I guess that makes her real in my books.”
Suddenly that flowing thing Babe had twirled into life didn’t look so bad at all.
And clearly, Dylan’s compliment made Babe very happy. (I could tell because she spontaneously started spinning again.) She stopped all of a sudden and put both hands on the desk, though whether for balance or emphasis, I wasn’t really sure. (I mean the gal had been really twirling.) She lowered her voice, “I designed the Cuddle-Uppies, too. No one knows, though.”
“What?” I said. That really did surprise me. While I’d been checking out the obits on Rochelle’s iPad this morning, I’d done a quick Google search on the Cuddle-Uppies. Clear as anything on the homepage for Gaetan Land was the trademark registered on the product (along with a wide variety of smoothie mixes, hand towels—oh, why, why, why?—and scented body lotion. Totally Gaetan Gough’s.
“Gaetan says I’m not supposed to tell anyone—about the Cuddle-Uppies.” Babe whispered even lower now, as though she feared the walls had ears. “He says I have no head for business. Well, maybe that’s right or maybe it isn’t. But I was the one who thought of the Cuddle-Uppies. I make them, too, by hand. Each and every one. Though Gaetan tells people he does it himself, and that he sews in luvvvve with every stitch.” She held up her hands. “Well, I do the sewing, and I’ve got the calluses to prove it.”