Just Her Type

by Laudat, Reon

  Trudie looked heavenward. “Is it too much to hope I can pull this day off without a hitch?” She turned to Jaimie. “You stay right here. Feel free to grab a bite and a drink. I’ll be back as soon as I straighten out this mess.”

  Jaimie smiled as the brunette took off with Trudie in her wake. Shangri-La members circled long tables topped with a smorgasbord of meats, cheeses, fruits, crudités, ice cream…And other delectable sweets! Her weakness. Two fully stocked bars flanked the buffet.

  Jaimie couldn’t blend in. Her navy suit demanded attention against the palette of flesh tones and white towels. She reached for a fistful of doughnut holes with rainbow sprinkles. Popping one inside her mouth, she caught the rear view of a magnificent male physique near the fountain. It wasn’t like her to gawk, but she boldly catalogued his assets—long sleekly muscular legs, broad V-shaped back, diamond-cut calves, and double-wide shoulders. A tribal tattoo— concentric black swirls with knife point edges—sprawled on his right deltoid and shoulder blade. His towel hugged slim hips and a taut tush, making what she couldn’t see all the more tantalizing. She popped another doughnut hole. Too bad. Though he looked quite tasty, a guy into social nudity was definitely not her type. When he turned to talk to the obviously enraptured female at his side, Jaimie caught a glimpse of his profile. For a closer look, she took a few steps forward, and joined a cluster of chatting women. He had a neatly groomed moustache anchored by goatee so closely shaven it looked like a shadow. Both gave a smoldering edge to a face almost too pretty to be male. But that physique of his, layered with well-honed muscle, inspired fantasies involving honey, 103 ways to savor honey to be exact. Her gaze climbed the stairway of his deeply chiseled abs. One. Two. Three, Four, Five. Six…The man was the proud owner of the legendary, but rarely seen eight-pack! She dropped a doughnut hole. Awww. The last cinnamon-sprinkled one, too. But her attention quickly returned to him. That chest… Sculpted heaven, she marveled before trying to snatch her attention back to the business at hand. Richardson. Focus. Yes, making a connection with Reuben Richardson. But instead Jaimie strained to block out the cackling women to eavesdrop on Eight-Pack’s conversation.

  “I’m going to get a drink. Would you like something?’’ asked the woman with the boom-boom curves standing beside him.

  “Allow me,’’ he replied in a rich, deep timbre perfect for whispering sweet-and-naughty nothings.

  “No, I’ll get them. I need to chat with Stan, the bartender anyway. What would you like?” The question came fully loaded with the coffee-tea-or-me option.

  “Surprise me.” He winked.

  Jaimie nearly choked on a doughnut hole when the handsome stranger’s gaze locked with hers. Something magnetic zinged between them. Her belly fluttered. Her breath snagged in her throat. His honey-colored eyes bewitched her. She definitely wasn’t at Shangri-La for that! Turning on her heel, Jaimie scrambled like a skittish cat and crashed into Trudie, who broke her ricochet. “Lynn, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine!” Jaimie eased out of her grip, adjusting her jacket and fanny pack. “Will the dedication ceremony start soon?”

  “Trudie! Trudie!” Betty Boop accosted the Shangri-La manager again.

  “What now, Debbie?” Trudie heaved a sigh. “You’re the assistant manager, you know. When are you going to start assisting? I can’t handle everything.”

  “I know, but it’s Mr. Richardson. He’s on the phone in your office. Line one.”

  “I’d better take that. I hope he’s not canceling.” Trudie turned to Jaimie. “Debbie here can show you around.”

  “I’d like to wait if you don’t mind.” Jaimie wore a meek smile. “I’m more comfortable with you.”

  “Oh, all right, I guess it’s okay if you wait here for a few more minutes.” Trudie took off again.

  “Take your time.” Jaimie hadn’t recovered from the stranger so handsome he had to be trouble. She didn’t care how long it had been since her legs felt all noodly like they did when she first laid eyes on him. Nor did she care that he had made her insides somersault. Something nobody had done in a long, long while. She was there to work, and it was high time she got to it. Richardson hadn’t arrived yet, but she doubted Shangri-La was as squeaky clean as Trudie insisted. She’d repay Priscilla, a pal and Bee co-worker, who had passed along the Shangri-La tip. If there were any freaky-deeky happenings at this place, Jaimie would ferret them out for Priscilla’s Deep Dish gossip column.

  A few feet away on a grassy patch, the two plump perky women who were playing table tennis earlier had moved on to a heated badminton battle with Pops. Most Shangri-La members, including those who had been working in the office when she arrived, now cavorted on the lawn or around the pool and fountain. Jaimie headed for the main building to do a little sleuthing.

  Chapter 2

  Mitch Malone scoured the patio for the woman in the boxy suit, granny flats, and uncompromising bun…Why? She was not his type at all. Tall, angular, and regal. Built, babelicious, and defiantly buck wild was more his style. Still, he continued his search, convinced he’d seen her before though he couldn’t recall where.

  “I’m back. Did you miss me?” Desiree, the woman who had been shamelessly flirting with him, returned carrying two bright crimson drinks with little umbrellas sprouting from them.

  Mitch accepted the offered drink with one hand and adjusted the jumbo safety pins securing his towel with the other. He couldn’t believe he’d been reduced to wearing the damn thing, but he wasn’t about to blow an opportunity to get to Reuben Richardson simply because he refused to part with his pants, something he’d eagerly done for captivating females on too many occasions to count.

  Landing this interview was his ticket to a full-time staff position at the Corrinth Examiner and a little professional respect. Freelancing alien abduction and three-headed baby stories for the International Inquisitor and the Weekly Tale Tattler was losing its appeal. He hadn’t expected his first foray into legitimate journalism to land him in the middle of Shangri-La. But here he was at a festive gathering with nothing but a scratchy towel between him and complete humiliation. And all because that Examiner editor had made it clear that landing the Richardson profile was the only way he’d overlook Mitch’s tabloid background.

  Once Mitch accomplished what many others had tried and failed, that editor and all the rest who had looked down their noses at him would have to admit they’d been wrong. That strengthened his resolve as he sipped what must have been wild cherry Kool-Aid spiked with rubbing alcohol blazed a path down his throat.

  “Too strong?’’ Desiree reached for his cup. “Can I get you something else?”

  Mitch wheezed and swallowed an unmanly cough. “Nah…I’m good.”

  Not one to bypass an opportunity to add an entry to his little black book cell phone app, he couldn’t help noticing Desiree wasn’t half bad to look at. Not bad at all. A nice full figure eight. Thick. Like a woman should be. Tone and firm, but she hadn’t aerobicized all of her feminine softness away. Rarely did he get to perform such a thorough appraisal of the goods before the wining and dining. That towel of hers was so short one hiccup would expose all her secrets. But he would not go for her phone number. While he’d admired the centerfolds in Playboy from time to time, the thought of other men ogling his date’s private parts would drive him crazy. Call him a hypocrite. But besides that, he couldn’t resist lush bee-stung lips; Desiree’s all but vanished when they stretched into a smile. Now the woman in the navy blue suit… She had quite a kisser on her. A real cushy pair that could inspire a marathon of heated fantasies. She obviously knew that mouth was her most striking feature because it was painted a sassy shade of red while she’d used a lighter hand with everything else.

  “Thanks for the drink,” Mitch said. “Hey, did you happen to see where the woman in the blue suit went?”

  Desiree pointed. “In the main compound over there.”

  “Excuse me.” Mitch pivoted in that direction. “I’ll be right back.�
��

  ***

  Jaimie slipped inside the recreation room relieved that she’d eluded Trudie, still ensconced in her office on the phone.

  Snooping was next to impossible so Jaimie kept out of sight as she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a mirror on the wall. Her lipstick could’ve used a touch up, but she wouldn’t bother. She usually saved cosmetics for special occasions. That day she had worn Brazen Berry lipstick, blush, and nail polish samples only because Granny Mac had insisted. Her grandmother had grinned impishly as she presented a plastic bag bulging with miniature containers pilfered from Tricia, Jaimie’s close friend, neighbor, and Mary Kay representative.

  After Jaimie heard Trudie’s flip-flops heading for the front door, she tiptoed from the rec room to find the lobby clear. Two doors led to opposite hallways. She went left and ended up in a Tex-Mex-style kitchen. Nothing out of the ordinary there—except the broken-down juke box and the pop-bottle-cap-studded Frigidaire. An old smashed-penny clock loomed over a velvet portrait of Vegas Elvis. Studded white jumpsuit. Pork chop sideburns. A scratching sound drew Jaimie’s attention to another door. After turning the knob and peeking through a slit of an opening, she found a pantry chock-full of dry and canned goods packaged in the party-sized containers.

  “Go for it, little fella,” Jaimie said to the rodent who had burrowed its way inside a giant box of Cheez-Its. Those Twinkies tucked away on the top shelf called her name. Light-headed with glee over her discovery, Jaimie paused and drew in a deep breath. Resist temptation. At breakfast, she’d stuffed herself with enough Pop-Tarts to fell a moose. And what about those doughnut holes she’d just eaten? She’d pushed past her sugar allotment for the day. Did her sweet tooth rule her? She would rule her sweet tooth.

  Tomorrow.

  Jaimie peered up at the box of Twinkies and gauged whether she needed a chair to reach them. The shelf’s warped, fraying wood, and loose joints were much too rickety to disturb, but the craving got the best of her as she latched on to its edge anyway. Dust rained down and stung her eyes. The shelf creaked in protest, announcing its instability. Careful. She had to peek inside the big box of spongy delights. If there were lots of them, no one would miss the one she planned to swipe. Hoisting herself up on tiptoe, she gingerly tilted the box.

  “Need some help?” A deep voice came from behind.

  Jaimie reeled back and lost her grip on the box. A shower of individually wrapped snack cakes pelted her head. She whirled around and recognized Eight-Pack from the pool area. Then the Twinkies box and rotting shelf plummeted toward her. Eight-Pack shoved her toward the box of Cheez-Its. The frightened mouse skittered between her feet. In a flash, Eight-Pack avoided flattening the rodent, dodged a Costco-sized can of stewed tomatoes, and caught the wayward plank before it bashed their brains out—all with that towel of his securely in place.

  “Are you all right?” she shrieked, grasping the sturdy doorjamb. “I’m so sorry!”

  “I’m good.” He pitched the plank to the floor and wiped bits of wood and chipped paint from his towel wrap.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Just took me by surprise, that’s all. You all right?”

  “Yes, thanks.” Jaimie’s hand flew to her chest, where it felt as if her heart would hammer through. “Goodness, you scared the bejeezus out of me. You should never sneak up on a person like that.”

  “Especially when that person is snooping, right?”

  She’d been busted, but she took a stab at shifting the focus. “You’re hurt.” She pointed to the clusters of inch-long splinters piercing his palms.

  Eight-Pack looked down as if he’d just noticed them. “I think I’ll live.” He plucked away the longest ones.

  “I’m sure more tiny pieces are imbedded in there. They need to come out—now.” Jaimie grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the picnic-style wooden table. “Sit.” She pointed to the matching bench. Stunned into submission by her take-charge manner, he complied. “Splinters can cause infection if they’re not removed quickly and properly.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You don’t have to be macho about it. The smallest injuries—paper cuts, hang nails, splinters—can hurt like heck,” she told him in the gust of a single breath. Her hands fluttered about her fanny pack and removed a slim vinyl case containing a deluxe Swiss Army knife. She flicked past the mini corkscrew remover, magnifying glass, pliers, can opener, toothpick, file, and cigar cutter until she came to the shiny tweezers.

  Eight-Pack eyed the Swiss Army knife. “Does that thing come with a Batman decoder ring, too?”

  “I feel really bad about this.” Still flustered, Jaimie turned his palms upward for closer inspection. She plunked down on the bench next to him and tried to extract bits of wood. Block out the awe-inspiring ridges of his bare torso and lean blocks of chest flesh. Instead, her fingers trembled and she fumbled the tweezers.

  When he leaned forward to get them for her, the slit in his white towel wrap widened a bit–exposing just enough of his hard, etched thigh to send her pulse rate racing.

  With his honey-colored eyes on her, Eight-Pack licked very kissable-looking lips just before flashing a rascally smile, gleaming and white. “Here you go.” As he passed the tweezers back his thumb brushed over hers. The small gesture, charged with sensual promise, sent a current bolting through her body. Instantly moist in the desert between her legs and so intensely sensitized everywhere else, she felt dizzy with awareness. His gorgeous body was so close to hers. Her nipples hardened against her lace bra, driving her batty in a wanton sort of way. Reigning in uncharacteristically dirty thoughts, she gulped and went back to work on the needle-like bits of wood sprouting from his palm.

  “This is really sweet of you.” His gaze, fringed with satiny jet lashes, bored into her.

  “Seeing as how I almost got the stew knocked out of you, helping with these splinters is the least I can do.”

  “The ste-ew? You’re too cute. Do I detect a Southern accent?” Eight-Pack shifted as she plucked and his towel parted a tad more.

  “Born and reared in Corrinth, Ohio but my folks are originally from Alabama, so I might have acquired a slight twang. And certain idioms might present themselves every now and then.”

  He nodded and shifted some more.

  C’mon! C’mon! Open Sesame! Jaimie’s reinvigorated libido willed his towel to fall. But her better sense intervened. Divert. Divert. Divert.

  Idle chatter about her family’s roots, the weather, the stock market, or even simple introductions would not suffice. Besides, tagging this ultimate female fantasy with a name might somehow detract from the titillating surrealism of the encounter. Her best friends, GinaMarie and Tricia, were going to flip when they got wind of this!

  Jaimie sneaked a peek at the muscle definition around his knees, a sure sign that he also possessed a rock-hard butt. The mental image made her tingle. His knees parted a bit more, almost in invitation, or so she hoped. Jaimie guesstimated that seven splinters later that towel of his would split wider than a Broadway stage curtain on opening night. She plucked faster! So fast she fumbled the tweezers again. This time they landed between Eight-Pack’s bare feet.

  “I’m such a klutz !”

  “Is that right?” He bit his lip, eyes glittering with mischief. He gazed at her as if he could see right through her tank top and blazer. She crouched to the floor as lady-like as a skirt would allow. That’s when it hit her. She kneeled before a body that would make any woman say adios to her morals and good home training. Oh, my! Realizing how ridiculously suggestive this all looked, she lunged to retrieve the tweezers so she could pop back to her spot on the bench. But with two left feet, she lost her balance again. Forced to brace herself, she used his knees to break her fall. Her face landed way too close to his danger zone for someone who refused to French kiss until the fifth date. The room spun around them. Then their gazes locked until…

  A wail of disapproval ripped out of nowhere. Trudie stood in the doorway, h
ands clutched to her chest, mouth stretched in a giant O. “Why, I never!”

  Jaimie, stunned to a freeze frame, crouched at this towel-clad stranger’s crotch. Her lips wiggled into a nervous smile and her voice went quivery and high pitched. “Um, hi Trudie! I swear; it’s not as bad as it looks.”

  ***

  Minutes later, Mitch and the woman in the ill-fitting blue suit sat in Trudie’s office like juvenile delinquents in detention. He checked the safety pins on his towel. In the kitchen earlier, modesty had been the last thing on Mitch’s mind, but he took some satisfaction in the fact that Trudie didn’t get a gander at the goods. Now the woman in the blue suit…He had to admit, he’d entertained thoughts of flashing her something to talk about.

  “I knew something wasn’t right about you two.” Trudie lips contracted as if pulled tighter and tighter by some invisible drawstring. She bounced from one to the other, scolding them and pacing the length of her small office. She whirled toward Jaimie and pinned her with a look of disgust. “And you, with all your highfalutin talk about feeling the soft breeze and the warm sun on your skin. That’s obviously not all you wanted to feel,” she harrumphed, zooming in on Mitch’s groin.

  Straightening his towel wrap, Mitch crossed his legs. Unrepentant, he tried to get comfortable on the cool molded vinyl chair. He refused to give Trudie the satisfaction of pleading his case when he knew no matter what he offered as an explanation, he’d get the big boot.

  “But Trudie…” The woman in the blue suit tried reasoning. “I know it looked bad, but if you’ll just let us explain. What you saw… isn’t really what you saw.”