He grinned, and for the hundredth time in the last four days, his chest tingled at the sound of her voice, the softness in her eyes, the way her hand brushed against his stomach as she brought it from beneath the blanket. “You blame me?”
She pushed the cover away and ran her hand from his shoulder to his throat to his cheek. Every inch she touched blazed with need for more. “If you weren’t my husband, it would be kind of creepy.”
“Good thing I’m your husband then.”
He leaned closer, kept his gaze locked with hers as their breath mingled and she parted her lips. “Good thing.” Before his mouth managed to find hers, she turned and hopped out of bed like she had floppy ears and a fluffy tail. “Gotta get ready for tea.”
So close. So damned close. Every time he got anywhere near a kiss or a cuddle that meant more than holding her, she ran, raced for whatever part of the house he wasn’t in. They were newlyweds for heaven sake. Unconventional maybe, but newlyweds anyway. And after the way she touched him, just little caresses here and there, he’d thought…oh hell, maybe it was all an act. Maybe she only did it for the sake of the cameras. But the cameras weren’t allowed in their room—their room. The one she’d chosen to stay in. To sleep in. With him. Every night.
And the days…He’d spent the last five so turned on he could hardly walk. From that little sway of her hips when she walked to the way she laid her head on his chest of his arm to sleep. Seriously. Was it only him?
And the singing in the shower as if it didn’t affect her one bit—it probably and very sadly didn’t—was a bit too much like rubbing his nose in the fact that he was out here while she was in there. Did she have to sound so happy about it?
Okay, maybe he was wound a little tight, but he’d been sleeping next to her for four days, trying to charm her pants off—literally—when they were awake, and still she wouldn’t even kiss him good night. Sure, she rubbed her cute little ass over his groin enough to make him pant, but still hadn’t given up even so much as a peck on his cheek. And maybe the rubbing was in her sleep, but his dick didn’t recognize that difference.
Just as he pulled out his waistband and looked down to mutter, “Dude, she isn’t ready yet. You’re just gonna have to wait,” she popped the bathroom door open.
“Should I ask?” He could have lived without the smirk.
Heat streaked up his body and remarkably, for the first time since the wedding, his hard-on deflated. “I’m gonna lie if you do.”
“Okay then. I won’t.” Her mouth twitched from one side to the other as if she was trying to suppress a laugh. “But if you...two...need a minute, I could go.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder to the hallway. Although all Jacob could see was the silky skin over her towel, the one droplet of water that rolled down her thigh to her knee then kept going. He wanted to trace it path from destination back to its origination. Slowly. With his tongue.
Just that fast…oh, God. He was about to pass out.
“We’re good.” He managed to mumble the words around his embarrassment. Great. Now she thought he might “need a minute” alone with his dick. Well, maybe he did. Maybe then he could stop salivating, following her around like he was in heat, like a teenager with a perpetual hard-on.
She walked to her side of the closet they shared, towel slipping as she reached to shuffle the clothes from one end of the pole to the other. “What do I wear to tea?” She turned to look at him.
Just a little lower. Please God. One more inch.
He blinked twice. She’d asked a question. Something about what to wear? “It’s just going to be you, my grandma and a bunch of old ladies. Nothing fancy.” Instead of telling her she could wear a garbage bag and one of his silk ties…silk ties…nope. Focus. He needed to focus. He concentrated on the panic—terror?—written in her wide eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“You’re not going to be there?”
“At a ladies’ tea?” There was a half-joke in there about too much equipment, or something, but even though that damned towel stopped its downward slide, his mouth was too dry, his brain too foggy to even attempt any sort of witty repartee.
“I thought this shindig was to celebrate our wedding.” She came stomping out of the closet and flopped down on the bed beside his feet. “I’m not going if you’re not going.”
Oh God. Now he could smell her too. Stop it. And yeah. He was talking to his dick again.
“I have to go to work.” He hadn’t been to his office since the wedding. A doctor from Redford had been filling in. “And you have to go. Not only is it in the contract, but my grandma will be devastated if you don’t show. She’s been dying to rub you in all those old lady faces.” Okay. That mental image calmed things down a bit.
“But…I don’t know anyone. What am I supposed to talk about? What if they ask…questions?” She gulped hard, the sound loud in the silence of the room.
He scooted closer to her, inhaled a big whiff of her—the perfume, the woman—and almost passed out right there next to her. Okay, brain. Stop thinking below our belt and focus. She’s melting down. “You worked in a bar, didn’t you? Just pretend they’re your customers.”
She turned and he got the full-on benefit of her disbelief. “So you think I should lead with baseball or the secret ingredient that gives my Bloody Marys just the right amount of zing? I mean, I could go on for days about batting averages and ERAs, but maybe it’s more a recipe kind of party? What do you think?” She was making fun of him, almost smiling, more unsure of herself than he’d seen. “Oh, you know, maybe we could talk about why I don’t go topless behind the bar. I once spent three hours explaining that very thing to Stanley Garta.”
The grocery store guy? Wow. “Isn’t he like seventy?”
She shrugged. “According to him, he was quite the ladies’ man in his day.” Jacob watched the tension fade and her smile return. It was like heaven had come right into his bedroom. “And he likes boobs apparently.”
And what a lovely pair they were, but he bit his lip to keep that to himself. Just didn’t feel like the right time. “Look, these are a bunch of old ladies who like quilting and dog walking.”
“Maybe we should get a dog. I’ve never had one.” She cocked her head to one side and stared at the closet door. “Wouldn’t really be fair, though, to the dog, would it? To have both of us for a year then…custody battle, visitation…forget I mentioned it.”
A dog, huh? He hadn’t really gotten her a wedding present, though she’d given him a picture frame for his office—an expensive one he now knew she likely couldn’t afford.
Before he could bring his thoughts back around, she had moved back to the closet and pulled out a sweater. “What about this?”
He didn’t know afternoon tea fashion from a lab coat, but this was important to her. He studied the shirt. Long, brown, belted at the waist. “It’s good, I guess.”
“But you don’t like it? Maybe something that doesn’t make me look like a walking turd then.” She shoved it back with its sweater-like counterparts, and started pawing through shirts further down the pole. “What about this one?”
He shrugged and held both hands out in front of him—the international sign for clueless. “Don’t you have a girl friend who could help you with this?”
“Chicks don’t usually like me, and my sister lives two hours south. You’re all I have, new bestie.” At least she was smiling. “And if you’re really good, and if I somehow manage to survive this thing, maybe later, we can give each other facials and talk about boys. But right now, you have to help me figure out what to wear to a tea.”
NAT: I had no idea what to expect. It was like a whole other world from where I grew up. Our idea of art came from the swap meets and usually had some sort of velvet background and dogs playing poker. This was so opulent. I’d been to Lucia’s when I was a kid, spent a lot of days there, but I didn’t notice things like the linens on the tables or flower arrangements bigger than some gardens. But Lucia made me feel…like I belon
ged.
* * *
Oh, for the love of God, this place was huge. No wonder her mother had chronic back pain. When she’d work for Lucia, her job had been scrubbing these marble and hardwood floors. Whoever had taken the job after her mother, did a great job. Nat could see her reflection in the shine below her.
And the artwork. Holy finger paintings—which these most definitely were not. Even the wood bannister in the foyer was intricate and ornately carved, and of course, shined to a golden finish. Nat couldn’t have been more out of place if she’d wandered in naked and drunk—the actual reason her mother no longer worked for Lucia. Still, contractually obligated, she followed the maid to the formal dining room where more than thirty women—in hats and gloves—stood.
She made a mental list of things to do. Breathe. Kill Jacob. Kill Jacob again. It made the list twice because he’d left her to attend this alone and he’d led her astray wardrobe wise. The brown sweater, leggings and orange scarf were all wrong. These women were dressed for a wedding…or a funeral. Nat didn’t even own a hat. And if that camera guy didn’t stop nudging her into the room, she fully intended to turn around and shove that camera right up his nostril.
As soon as Lucia saw her, she clapped her hands together twice. “Ladies, our guest of honor has arrived.” She walked to Nat, upright and with enough spring in her step no one would ever believe she was about to turn ninety-six, took a shoulder in each bony, but strong hand, and kissed the air beside each of Nat’s cheeks. “Natasha! I’m so glad you’ve come.” She took Nat’s hand in hers and pulled her to the end of the table. Not quite a yank, but close. “You sit beside me. We have so much to chat about.”
Before Nat’s rear end had time to make a dent in the seat, a dainty cup of tea on a tiny china saucer steamed in front of her. The table was massive and, once again, shined up as if there was a commodity sale on furniture polish at the supermarket. Oh Lord. She really didn’t belong here. This was lightyears from her mother’s battle-scarred TV trays.
Lucia leaned in close. “Don’t worry. My grandson called and said you were nervous.” Kill Jacob, times three. “We’re going to get you right through this.”
Nat smiled her appreciation as her stomach churned and her ears rang. Superstition or not, she could tell these women were talking about her by the way they covertly—translation: index finger of one hand shielded by the air-palm of the other—pointed at her then turned back to whisper. “You have a very lovely home.” Wasn’t that something people said?
Lucia chuckled. “This old thing?” She waved off the compliment as though she lived in a cardboard box rather than a fully staffed, shiny-wood mansion. “It’s been in my family for hundreds of years. I’m thinking of renovating this summer, adding on a play area for my great grandchildren.” She winked and Lanie’s stomach went into rumble mode. The piece of toast Jacob had almost forced down her throat was threatening a reappearance. “So, have you two made any plans? Trips or…” Was she really winking or did she have something in her eye? “Children?”
Oh yeah. His death was going to be a slow and painful one. Maybe something involving a chainsaw…one limb at a time. “We, uh, we talked this morning about getting a dog.” More she’d talked, and he’d stared at her cleavage. And she’d discounted the idea for the very reason there would be no children or even mention of them.
“How fun! A dog.” She grinned and Nat relaxed just a little. “I could build a puppy sanctuary.” Lucia clapped her hands twice more, and as if moved by her mere will, all the women standing and gossiping took their seats, began passing silver platters of tiny sandwiches from one end of the table to the other.
The woman on Nat’s left held out her hand. “Hi. I’m Lanie Carpenter. I’m new to Rangers End, too.”
Nat shook her head. “Oh, I’m not new. I lived at the”—don’t say trailer park—“at the edge of town.”
“Lanie came to us from Chicago. Next to Lanie is Ryhan Connor, you probably met at the wedding?” If she had, she didn’t remember. “But that was a pretty busy day for you, so Ryhan will forgive you if you’ve forgotten her.” Lucia nodded to Ryhan with a frown that said she’d better agree or face some unnamed consequence, then went around introducing each of the other guests as if Nat would remember any of them beyond this afternoon.
Ryhan—was it?—leaned around Lanie and held out her hand. “It was a lovely wedding. When you two were dancing in the rain…” she sighed and clutched her chest. “So romantic. My husband is also very excited about what you both are doing for the town.” She pushed Lanie closer and motioned for Lucia to lean in, too. “Most of these women are up in arms about the cameramen, not even to mention the prospective tourists Jesse hopes to bring in, but I can’t wait.” She sat back in her own chair and plopped her napkin in her lap, still not taking a breath. “This is such a great place, and he—both of us really wants to see it prosper.” Her hat sank, covering her eyes as she spoke. She pushed it up so that it sat at an angle over her ear. “I hate these things, don’t you? The hat, I mean.” She glanced at Lucia. “The tea is lovely.”
Okay. So, the mayor’s wife had only one speed—supersonic. “It is lovely.”
“You know what? I was telling Jesse this morning that we should get together for a girl’s day.” She tapped Lanie on the shoulder. “You in? I’ll ask Lana—that’s my mom. You’ll love her and she can help you with all your insurance needs and any gowns you need made, too. Oh, and of course, Lucia should come.”
“Oh, I know just the place.” Lucia’s eyes brightened.
Lanie and Ryhan, in one alarm-filled voice, said, “No.”
Lanie continued on her own. “You…you don’t want to let Marco and the boys scare her off before she’s really settled in.”
Magic Marco’s All Male Dance Review. Finally, a subject on which she had full knowledge. Not quite carnal, but not quite PG rated, either. “How is Marco? I haven’t seen him in…a while.”
Lucia lifted her chin even higher. “I knew you were a girl after my own heart.” She rubbed her hands together. “We’re going to have such fun together.”
The woman across the table from Lanie lifted her teacup to Nat. “I noticed good Doctor Jacob has very large hands.”
“Clara, no.” Lucia shook her head and widened her eyes. “That is my grandson.”
“Then cover your ears because I am asking. It’s for research, Lucia.”
Lanie covered Nat’s hand with hers and gave it a squeeze. “Try not to laugh,” she whispered. “Clara doesn’t take it well.”
Clara’s heated discussion with Lucia raged on, each one in old-lady battle pose—hands fisted, eyes glaring, mouths tight and thin. “Look, Lucia Gilden”—uh-oh. They were bringing out whole names. “I am an academic, and this is my project. By next year at this time, I will be published with the findings in every academic, and likely every medical journal in the country, and you will have to eat your words.” She pointed her gaze at Nat. “I used to be the high school principal—that carries a lot of weight with other academics.” She tapped her chin with a wrinkled finger. “You know, I remember young Jacob so clearly. He was such a sweet boy, never a bit of trouble out of him. As a matter of fact, I believe he won the good behavior award every year he attended Rangers End High.” Nat nodded. She could believe that. He’d certainly been on his best behavior with her. “Now, as I was saying. Dr. Jacob has very nice sized hands.”
Nat nodded. “I guess so.”
“I am doing a study of hand size in relation to penis size.” She lifted her eyebrows in the question she hadn’t quite got around to asking.
Nat almost spit her tea across the table—snapped her lips shut to keep the burning liquid inside. This woman had to be at least seventy-five years old. And she was talking about Jacob’s penis—which, by the way, Nat had no first-hand knowledge of yet, unless feeling it with her butt cheek counted. Which she had repeatedly. Honestly, how many hints did the man need? She couldn’t think about hinting now. She had
a full-blown old lady scuffle about to happen at an afternoon tea right in front of her. Lucia scowled at the woman with the big red bird sitting on the side of her hat, but spoke to Nat. “You do not have to answer, Natasha, and shame on you, Clara Miller.”
“Well, Melvin’s penis is the exact size from the heel of his hand to the tip of his index finger.” She sighed into her teacup. “It’s a shame he has such small hands.”
Lanie’s eyes flipped wide as she stared from Ryhan—who was holding her own hand up in front of her face—to Nat. “Oh. My. God. I’ve never been to a town tea before, but I guarantee you, I’m not missing another one.”
Nat hid her smile behind the fist she held in front of her mouth. These women, in all their finest church clothes and some really big hats, were sitting at a table the size of a small country discussing penis size while sipping tea from cups that if she held too tight would crumble. Wow. Jacob was not going to believe this. Discreetly, she pulled her phone out of her bag to send Jacob a text. You are not going to believe this.
It took a minute before he replied. Try me.
Oh boy, did she want to, but that would have to wait. I think your g-ma and your HS principal are about to throw down over penis to hand size ratios. Yours specifically.
Let him digest that one. What?
To flirt or not to flirt, that was the question. Her brain spun with ideas the old Nat would have typed. The old Nat would have asked for pictures—for visual proof, of course. She would have even offered help in collecting the data. But the old Nat didn’t belong here, at this table, in this house, with these women. What should I tell them? Nothing like playing it safe.
When you get home you can look for yourself if you want.
Oh God yes. That was exactly what she wanted. You’re making me blush. I can’t sext you while your g-ma is sitting next to me. Raincheck?
Her phone tinged a picture mail notification. She looked left at Lucia who was still involved in a penis discussion with Clara, then right toward Lanie whose head swiveled as if she was watching a tennis match, and Ryhan who sat calmly drinking tea as if this was a usual occurrence at such an event. As covertly as she could without drawing any attention away from the table, she clicked on the message. A picture of Jacob, his lower lip puffed out in a pout. Until next time.
The Wedding Plan Page 3