By the Book

by Nancy Warren

  In fact, he’d written the last couple of chapters of Sex for Total Morons picturing Shari in every glorious position his eager imagination could invent. He’d felt so intimate as he’d described the hard-edged pleasure a man feels as he drives himself into a woman who’s primed and ready for him, that it seemed inevitable he and Shari would soon be lovers.

  Tonight she’d appeared at his door like a fantasy brought to life. The sexual heat they were generating with no more than eye contact had made him feel as if he might burst into flame if he so much as touched her. After months of monklike devotion to work, he’d wanted to start wooing his neighbor into bed. And the way she’d returned the heat of his gaze, he’d half convinced himself the wooing wouldn’t take long.

  Tonight, his body had begged.

  Yes, she’d eagerly answered.

  Then the book had tumbled to the floor.

  Oh, yeah. Based on Shari’s reaction, she believed he needed the how-to primer. Which raised some interesting possibilities. Would the lady be open to helping him discover his inner Casanova?

  He’d always loved any kind of a challenge, but a challenge wearing a skirt—a short, sassy skirt that bared shapely legs—was his favorite kind.

  What would it take to convince Shari to help him test drive his new book?

  He rose and began to pace.

  Things had started feeling a little stale in his love life the past year or so. Nothing too specific, just that sometimes going home alone at the end of the evening was more appealing than taking a woman with him. The company was better.

  It wasn’t as if he was going to be popping Viagra anytime soon, but the old Johnson wasn’t clamoring for action the way it used to. Sometimes, even at the hottest clubs, with the hottest women, he’d feel restless. Bored, even.

  The women he went after nearly always said yes. Where was the challenge in that? And Luke was beginning to realize that he’d come to enjoy the chase almost as much as the catch.

  He turned and the lamplight bounced off the red cover of his book like a lascivious wink.

  Getting a woman into bed when she believed he was a complete loser in the sack would be a challenge unlike any he’d ever faced. Not just any woman, but Shari Wilson with her intelligent eyes, trim figure and her recently conceived notion about his sexual prowess—that he didn’t have any.

  He started to chuckle. If he could convince Shari to work through the how-to manual with him, step-by-step and chapter-by-chapter, he’d be able to tell firsthand whether the book actually worked.

  If she stuck with him through the whole book, while he did nothing but what the manual recommended, and, at the end of it, she still wanted to sleep with him, then he could safely consider himself the Hemingway of the how-to book.

  Getting Shari to agree to his crazy-ass plan was not going to be easy. In fact, it was just this side of impossible—Which was why he liked it so much.

  He glanced down and addressed his privates, which really hadn’t seen much action lately. “What do you say, are we up for the challenge?” It seemed to him his answer was self-evident; his body snapped to attention at the thought of seducing Shari.

  Now all he needed was a plan of attack.

  2

  “I HAVE NEVER BEEN so mortified,” Shari told her friend Therese Martin over sushi. Therese was laughing so hard she was choking on green tea.

  Even though they taught at the same high school, they kept all personal conversation for nights out together. The teachers’ lounge had no privacy and was a hotbed of gossip—which Shari and Therese, who also happened to be young and single, avoided at all costs.

  Therese managed to stop laughing long enough to gasp, “Sex for Total Morons. You really picked yourself another winner.”

  “I know.” She couldn’t grudge her friend the laugh. If it had happened to anyone else Shari would have thought it was pretty funny, too. “And he seemed so normal. I mean, he’s gorgeous, and he’s got this totally sexy look about him. I don’t get it. Why would a guy like that need a book on how to make love?”

  Therese helped herself to another piece of salmon sashimi. “That’s easy. The better-looking the guy, the less they’ve ever had to bother learning about women. They think all they have to do is show up with all their hotness and we’re panting for their package.”

  The image of Luke, who all but oozed sex appeal, popped into her mind. “What are you talking about?”

  “Haven’t you ever gone home with a really great-looking guy and all he talks about is himself?”

  Shari nodded. Oh, yeah.

  “Then they get in bed and it’s still all about them. One time I said to this guy, ‘I have a clitoris, you know,’ and he asked if it was contagious.”

  Shari choked on a sip of tea. “You made that up.”

  Her friend raised her eyebrows and gave her a believe-me-baby-I-have-been-there look. “Uh-uh. I’m telling you, those good-looking ones are the worst.” Therese munched reflectively. “But get a guy who stood in the wrong line when they were handing out the Viking genes—maybe he’s not so tall, a little skinny. He has to work harder to make it with women. Nobody’s going to fall in bed with him based on his looks, right?”

  “I hate to think women are that shallow, but in theory, I guess you’re right.”

  “So what does he do? If he wants to have sex with women he has to make up for his shortcomings by being more interesting to them in other ways. Maybe he clues in to asking them about themselves instead of always talking about himself. Maybe he figures out how to have a conversation that doesn’t involve sports, his job, his great car, whatever his latest ego trip is. Maybe he’s funny.

  “Now this guy, when he gets a girl in bed, is going to want to make her happy. He’s going to ask her what she likes. He’s going to learn how to please her. And he’s going to get quite the rep. Because—” she winked “—women talk.”

  Shari glanced around the restaurant, paying particular attention to the couples. Some were talking animatedly, touching, holding eye contact, sharing food, while other couples looked as though they could barely stay awake, more interested in checking their phones than in each other. She couldn’t immediately see that it was the homely ones having the great conversations. Anyway, something else about Therese’s theory was suspect. “Come on. I’ve seen you with lots of good-looking guys.”

  “Yeah. I’m as big a sucker for a hottie as the next girl.” She sighed. “Then we get in bed and I spend the next hour going over my lesson plan.”

  Shari laughed, still certain her friend was joking. She thought back on some of Therese’s conquests. “What about that skier, Todd? He looked pretty hot.”

  “Todd was great. In the looks department. In bed with him, I worked out a whole new way to quiz kids on passé composé.”

  “Ouch. Aren’t you being a little harsh?”

  Therese shrugged. “Maybe there are men who are fabulous-looking and fabulous lovers. I’m not saying it can’t happen, I’m just suggesting that some men have a real advantage when the lights go out. Think about it. Which would you rather have? A guy who makes you drool just looking at him? Or one who knows how to do things to your body that turn you into a musical instrument? An orgasmic virtuoso.”

  Shari munched a piece of California roll as she considered the possibilities. “It would be nice to have both.”

  “Yeah. I know. He’s the guy we’re all looking for, hon. But he doesn’t exist. He’s a dream. Your Total Moron guy’s a perfect example.”

  “At least sending away for that book shows he’s trying. I mean, somebody must have told him he wasn’t making the grade in the bedroom and he’s doing something about it. That’s good, right?”

  “It’s great. I’d be interested to see how far he gets. He’ll probably read all the guy stuff and skip the female pages.”

  “Who turned you into such a cynic?”

  It was a rhetorical question, so she was surprised when Therese sighed the sigh of the heartbroken and an
swered, after a long moment, “A guy named Brad.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.” Which was odd. She thought they’d shared everything.

  “Let’s pay up and I’ll tell you on the way to the movie. I’ve got to walk off all this food.”

  Once outside in the warm spring air, Therese was uncommonly silent. Shari waited, knowing she’d get the story when her friend was ready to tell it.

  “At my last school, across town, I started dating the phys ed teacher. He wasn’t good-looking at all, and he was the same height as me in bare feet, shorter when I wore heels. But there was something about him.”

  They crossed at a green light and scooted round a couple of teens kissing passionately while standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

  “I can’t explain it. He listened to me, as if what I had to say was fascinating. As if I was fascinating. He paid attention, not looking behind me to see who was coming into the room who might be more exciting. Not droning on about himself all the time. He was funny, too, which I always like in a man.”

  “So you found your bliss with a short, funny guy who listened to you.”

  “Did I mention he was balding?”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “He was. But we became friends and one thing led to another. Next thing I’m in bed with this guy. I swear I turned the light on after an hour just to make sure it was the same man in my bed. I mean, he was…incredible.”

  “Okay, I need to start looking for short, funny, balding men. Shouldn’t be too tough.”

  “It’s not a joke, Shari. Brad had moves on him that…” She tossed her head back, and her long wavy black hair swayed behind her. “Phew! I’m telling you that man should be in the tongue Olympics.”

  “What happened to him?”

  The blissful smile faded fast. “He dumped me for a former Miss Minnesota. Think blond, Swedish, you’d want to kill her.”

  “But you’re gorgeous.”

  “Thanks, but she was gorgeouser. The bastard. He’d made me look beyond the surface to the man inside, and he dumped me for a twinkie.”

  “So I’m not looking for a bald, short, funny guy with amazing tongue control.”

  “Ah, go out with whoever you like. Just buy a vibrator, so you’ll always have a love you can depend on.”

  YAWNING and thinking she’d get to bed early, Shari was still thinking about Therese’s theory of men when she got home. She checked her mail in the lobby, and winced. Two letters to her downstairs neighbor. Suddenly, the dyslexic postie wasn’t quite so charming.

  Unfortunately, her apartment building had security boxes, so she couldn’t slip the letters in the correct mailbox. She could leave them on the console table in the foyer, but it didn’t seem quite right. Luke hadn’t done anything wrong, he’d merely embarrassed them both.

  She picked up his mail along with her own. Maybe she could slip the letters under his door in the dead of night.

  But when she got to her floor, puffing slightly from running up two flights of stairs, a familiar shape hovered outside her door. Luke.

  She started to blush, and wanted to kick herself for being such a fool. So he read a how-to book. Good for him.

  He turned as she approached and, in spite of her new knowledge, her knees still went weak. The eyes, the smile, the dimple… Could an Olympic-gold-medal tongue really compete with all that?

  “Hi,” he said. He didn’t seem embarrassed, so she decided she wouldn’t be, either.

  “Hi.” She halted outside her apartment and sorted through the letters in her hand, handing him his two.

  “Thanks. These are for you.” She took the bundle from his outstretched hand, not thinking about the last time they’d done this. It was the furthest thing from her mind.

  “Um, sorry about last time,” he said.

  He had to bring it up. No wonder he was a dud in bed if his social graces were any indication. What was the appropriate response here? Hope you get it right? Let me know if you need help with your homework?

  She still hadn’t recovered from the discovery that her fantasy man had turned out to be a limp noodle in the sex department. And thinking of limp noodles made her wonder if he had some kind of physical problem.

  Her eyes focused on his crotch. Before she caught herself, she gave a soundless gasp and glanced up again, ascertaining that this did not, in fact, appear to be his problem. A respectable bulge nestled in the crotch of his jeans.

  She caught a sparkle in his eyes she could have sworn was amusement. He thought this was funny?

  In any case, size didn’t matter half as much as what a man did with his equipment.

  “It all works, if that’s what’s worrying you,” he assured her.

  This time her gasp was audible. She glanced up and down the hallway, ensuring it was empty. “Your…your works are none of my business.”

  “I know,” he said, taking a step closer. His voice dropped to a deliciously husky murmur. “I was hoping we could change that.”

  “I beg your pardon?” she asked in her teacher-to-bad-student voice. She had this tone perfected. It worked on male students who tried to tell her dirty jokes, swore, or made lewd comments within her hearing. There was a matching look that went with the tone. She would pull up through the neck and retract her head so she could look down her nose at the culprit.

  It made swaggering sophomores cringe every time.

  All it did with Luke was deepen the amusement crinkling his eyes. “There’s something I want to ask you. It concerns the other night.”

  Halfway down the corridor a door started to open. It was the garrulous and nosy Mr. Forrester. If he caught her in the hallway with Luke she’d never hear the end of it.

  Shoving her key in the lock, she opened the door, and all but shoved Luke inside. “Let’s talk in here,” she said. “Better without an audience.”

  “Sure. Thanks.” He walked down the small hallway, right into the living area. “It’s nice.” He gestured to the mishmash of furniture she’d collected from thrift stores and off the street and prettied up with paint and elbow grease, embroidered cushions and colorful throws. “Exactly like mine, only classier.”

  “Thank you. Would you like to sit down?” What was she doing? She should have put up with nosy Mr. Forrester and kept Luke in the hallway. Inviting him in was only encouraging him. Plus, it made her feel as though she were entertaining and had to be polite.

  “Yes.” He sat in the overstuffed floral-chintz sofa and she chose the opposite chair.

  Luke glanced at her and then at the mail in his hands as though he’d forgotten it was there. He put his letters down on the coffee table then leaned back, legs slightly parted, hands on thighs. Relaxed, confident. Too gorgeous for her peace of mind.

  Even though she knew his secret, her body didn’t seem to have caught on to it. She felt the same potent pull of attraction, the same melting desire. It wasn’t fair. Probably her inappropriate lust was just a symptom that she’d been without a boyfriend too long.

  She tossed her own mail down, where it made a messy fan. A couple of bills and a creamy vellum envelope that had wedding invitation written all over it. She cringed inside. The flu wasn’t as contagious as the wedding bug that had bitten so many of her approaching-thirty friends.

  It wasn’t that she grudged anyone happiness, but she was starting to wonder if she’d be attending their silver and golden wedding anniversaries—still alone.

  Given the appalling way she’d been misjudging men lately, it seemed very possible that she’d be spending her whole life single.

  She squinted at the return address on the invitation and felt herself pale.

  “Oh, no,” she moaned aloud.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “B.J. McLaren’s getting married.”

  “I see. My condolences.” She caught the amusement again, crinkling the edges of his eyes. It made her want to smile back, except she was too mad at B.J.

  “She was one of my best friends,
then she stole my boyfriend in college.” The hurt pride, which had never entirely healed, throbbed again as she saw the two of them smooching in the library. “Walt Whitman introduced them.”

  “From the great beyond?”

  She shook her head. “They took a unit of American poetry together and claim they fell in love during Leaves of Grass.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Milton. Paradise Lost. I haven’t seen B.J. in…it must be three or four years. Now she’s marrying him and wants to shove my nose in it one more time.”

  “What a bitch.”

  She chuckled. “My sentiments exactly.” She opened the expensive envelope and withdrew the card. “‘Request the honor of your presence…blah, blah, blah. Oh, and here’s a handwritten note at the bottom. ‘Please bring your significant other. Randy and I would love to see you both.’”

  “Sounds like she’s trying to mend fences.”

  “Sounds like she found out I’m single and wants to make me feel like the last unattached loser in America.” As if Shari needed the reminder. Maybe the marriage flu bug had caught her, too, because she was ready to settle down. She had a great career, loved living in Seattle, her ovaries were young and efficient. She was a woman in her prime mating and child-bearing years. All she needed was the right man. Where the hell was he?

  Luke shrugged. “So don’t go.”

  Her jaw dropped, her attention snagged from a mental review of her wardrobe. “Not go? I have to go. This—” she flapped the pale cream, engraved invitation at him “—is a slap in the face, a challenge to mortal combat. Oh, no. I’m going.”

  She checked the date of the wedding. A month away. “I’ve got four weeks to prepare,” she said, only vaguely aware that she was speaking aloud to a virtual stranger. “I’ll need a great dress, a great date—” She dropped her hand to her stomach and tested the muscle tone. “An intense fitness regimen. Maybe cut back on fats and try to lose a couple of pounds.”