Touch Me (Promise Me Book 2)

by Viragh, Brea

  “You’re digging yourself a huge hole,” Nell cautioned. “Take my advice, for once in your life. Get out now while you still can. Forget about August, forget about what’s-his-face—”

  “Duncan.”

  “—and stop sighing when you say his name. It’s creepy and unwarranted.” She groaned and let her head drop back. “Gross.”

  “My heart won’t listen to reason.”

  “You stop. No more tingles. That man isn’t for you!” Nell frowned at me. “Listen to me. Unscrew your head, shake out the cobwebs and dust clogging your better judgment, and put it on tighter than ever. I’m your friend, and we are both strong, forward-thinking women. You need me right now, Leda. You need me to get you off the path to Hell, paved with good intentions or not. Trust me on this! You need me to tell you the hard truth sometimes.”

  She made sense, and I’d been thinking the same things myself. Unfortunately, there was a disconnect between my brain and my heart. Both shouted at me to listen and neither wanted to concede. “I know.”

  “For starters, stop all contact.” She was adamant. “Cold turkey.”

  The prospect caused a visceral reaction. Like a ball tightening in my abdomen and turning my insides to rubber. “I don’t think I can. I’m sorry.”

  “If you can’t get past step one, then there’s no hope for you,” Nell murmured. “Don’t cry to me when you’ve dug your own grave.”

  Smoke poured out from each of the lit burners on the stove. In the past I’d used the plumes and differing colors as a timer. When the smoke turned black or hit the ceiling, the meal was done. We were nearing completion on the horror Nell had concocted tonight.

  My gut burbled at the sight. “I don’t know what to do,” I muttered, miserable. “I’m physically unable to stop this feeling!”

  Nell took the chicken out of the pan and stared down at something resembling burned sauce and smelling like scorched garlic. She frowned at it and sniffed, then took a spoon from the counter, dipping it into the sauce for a small taste. Her face scrunched, eyelid ticking. “I think it needs more pepper.”

  “It’s already charred,” I advised. “Use the burned pieces for seasoning.”

  Considering, Nell shook her head. “I give up. I can’t get the hang of this cooking thing. I’m not meant for a kitchen.”

  “But you sew like a demon.”

  “Who cares?” Nell was starting to turn a bright shade of scarlet from her taste test. “Sorry. I keep trying but it doesn’t amount to anything. Just once I want to cook myself a meal and be able to eat the finished product. I try and try, but end up feeding the garbage can instead.”

  Nell’s cooking, my love life. I kept trying to hold it all together but failed miserably. “It’s okay, sweetie. Stick to what you’re good at.” I ran a hand up and down her arm, wondering how the situation had turned to shift the focus away from my tingle. “You’re a damn fine nurse, and a genius with a sewing needle. Stick to your strong suits.”

  A now self-critical Nell set her glass down on the counter. “I cause kitchen chaos.”

  In this case, she was right. “It’s pretty unsalvageable,” I agreed. “Come on and follow me home. I’ll whip something up in a snap. I have all the makings of a quiche and room for one more at the table.”

  “If you insist.” Nell ran a hand through her thick mahogany hair to shake it loose from the bun. In all the years I’d known her, she’d never once turned down a free meal. “One of these days I’ll have to pay you back for all the meals you’ve fed me.”

  “I’m pleased to have the company.” I hopped down from the counter to loop my arm through hers. “I’ll ignore your shortcomings if you ignore mine.”

  “Deal.” Our elbows still touched when Nell turned back to the oven. “Forgot to kill the gas. Wouldn’t want to come back to an apartment on fire.” She clicked the burners off, although the smell of gas lingered in the air. The smell was ten times better than the lingering stench of the burned garlic chicken.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.” I grimaced at the faded floral couch passed down from generation to generation of Quades.

  Nell pooh-poohed. “Everyone’s a critic.”

  **

  We passed a delightful evening gathered around the mobile butcher block island in the middle of my kitchen. I didn’t claim to be the best chef, as cooking fell far behind my baking forte. However, compared to Nell, I was a regular Julia Child. The spinach and bacon quiche was in the oven and bubbling before she came back from using the restroom.

  She rubbed her hands together, newly cleansed, before taking a seat to better watch me prepare the salad. Better to keep her at a safe distance while I prepped.

  “There is a solid prospect of food for my belly, which means I’m content and you can tell me about your day. Your troubles. Unburden yourself on Nurse Nell.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Sounds like a horrifying prospect.”

  “No, no, I’m serious, I’m ready to listen now.”

  I knew how she got when she was hungry. My papa was the same, needing a constant supply of available snacks to keep from slipping through the spectrum to full-blown grump.

  “I went in to Duncan’s office to talk about insurance. We ended up spending about three hours talking. Just talking, nothing fancy or serious.” The knife sliced clean through the head of lettuce.

  A sudden thunderclap heralded the imminent arrival of a late evening summer storm. It explained the crackle of energy in the air, the nerves skittering up and down my skin I’d at first attributed to my own guilt. You have nothing to feel guilty about! It was a conversation and nothing more.

  With a sigh I told Nell about the rest of my afternoon, from coffee onward to the moment Duncan walked me back to my vehicle and tucked me safe and sound inside. I’d driven from the parking lot with his reflection in my rearview mirror, unable to tear my gaze away. A stop sign almost fell to my carelessness before I turned my attention to the road.

  Once I finished the story, Nell grunted, the sound somewhat between a groan and a gargle. “He sounds like a sweetie. How disgusting.”

  “He is,” I agreed. “He’s also attractive, kind, generous, and an intriguing amalgam of everything good. Whoever he ends up with is a lucky woman.”

  “If you and August have your way, it won’t be Isabel. August should come right out with his feelings and let the woman know he’s had a hard-on for her since pre-pubescence.” Nell chuckled at her own wit and grabbed another slice of bread to fill her mouth.

  I wished it were easier. Duncan, I know we only met a few days ago, but do you believe in love at first sight? I think I do now, because I have a tingle and I’m beginning to picture my life with you. Down to the dog and the white picket fence. Maybe two-point-five kids in a year or so...

  I could see that future in my mind—as well as a second one where Isabel sat behind the wheel of a dump truck and ran me over. Then reversed.

  Lettuce fell into a checkered bowl, followed by chopped tomatoes and radishes. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt,” I asserted, clearing my throat and twisting around to meet Nell’s eyes. “It’s like, if I could play matchmaker, I would switch up our couples and everyone would eat, drink, and be merry. But this is the real world.”

  Nell leaned forward, her arms on her knees. “You need to be prepared for the very real possibility of people getting hurt. Not even a possibility...we’ll call it an assurance. People will get hurt, Leda. I don’t want one of them to be you. If anything happens to you,” she cracked her knuckles in a clear warning, “I’ll be there.”

  I turned back to study the salad, appreciative of her willingness to go to bat for me. “I’ll be fine. I’m not the one who has anything to lose yet.”

  The tingle insisted otherwise.

  “If you intend to go forward with this stupidity—” Her body language told me what she thought of my decision. “—then be as careful as humanly possible. Tell your imagination to stop pu
tting you and the groom-to-be on the same side. You are on your own side, get it? And don’t do anything ridiculous or overt.”

  “Such as?”

  “Get naked and dance the Hora. What do you think I mean?”

  “I’m not sure. I can’t think anymore.”

  “Screw your head back on, and ASAP. Otherwise you’ll be screwing something else.”

  Nell was correct, which I hated. I needed to take better care of my feelings before something dreadful happened. I studied the strawberries as I diced. They fell into the salad like pieces of a broken heart.

  My insides ached for something to fill them, although I’d managed to swallow the rest of my soup hours earlier. At least the quiche was fast and easy. The sides were baking golden, the color reminding me of...

  No, absolutely not. I halted that train of thought before it took firm root. If I was going to continue helping August, then I had to focus on the task at hand. Show Duncan friendship and nothing more, otherwise I’d be taking advantage of the situation.

  Friendship and nothing more.

  I hoped the last part caught.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The next morning, I checked in with August to see how things were progressing with Isabel. He assured me of our even keel, our slow and steady work toward happiness, and then I heard nothing else for two days. I went on about my own business in silence, wrist-deep in gray-blue hair and curlers. The client in front of me now had been one of my first upon moving to Heartwood. Another proper lady who took a chance on a newcomer because she didn’t feel like paying out the nose at a high-priced salon. One snip and she’d been mine for life.

  “I wish you would let me cut this.” I fingered the delicate strands winding down and around the woman’s shoulders. “You have wonderful bone structure. A pixie style is what you need to bring it out and emphasize those cheekbones.” The unsaid tagline was instead of dragging down your aging features.

  Mrs. Esme Monroe turned right and left, studying herself in the mirror. “I don’t know. The mister loves the length. I’d hate to see him upset.”

  I leaned over her shoulder, fluffing as I went, until our heads were side-by-side. “Do you know how long my hair was before I decided to chop it all off?”

  Esme quirked her brows up when she looked at me. “How long, dear?”

  “It was past my rear end. Do you know what the length did for me?” I paused for dramatic effect. “Nothing.”

  She didn’t quite believe my claim. I saw an overabundance of women in this part of the state with a deep-seated unwillingness to chop off a single bit of their hair. Sure, they came to me knowing they wanted a change, but then the moment I had the cape on and the scissors in my hand, they started backpedaling.

  I recognized style, had a knack for bringing out the inherent shape I knew would look best on my clients. Like a master sculptor staring at a piece of marble. The beauty was there if they would let me do what I needed to do.

  I’d been begging Esme to let me snip away since the first moment she sat down in my chair, and every time she insisted her husband wouldn’t take to a new style. I wondered if all the men in this county had their women kept on tight leashes, long hair clenched around their fists.

  “I don’t know...” She twisted her chin in what might have been, in her youth, a look designed to bring men to their knees. There were hints of the same coquettish grace there now. In all likelihood, her mister had his hands full. “How do I know I would like it?”

  “Because I’m a genius,” I stated without hesitation. “Do you think I look horrible with short hair?”

  “No, you don’t look horrible with short hair, dear!” Esme was aghast at the question. “You are stunning! If my Bill were thirty years younger, I would have to watch him like a hawk around you.”

  I patted her shoulder at the compliment, smiling. “Then let me do the same for you and we’ll give Bill reason to fall to the ground and praise his decision to marry you. Trust me.”

  She twittered and I took her lack of negation as an answer. At last she handed the reins over to me. Grabbing the spray bottle, I dampened the strands of hair before running a comb through them.

  “The mister and I will be married for forty years this coming October,” Esme told me, pride evident. Her tidy river of hair didn’t budge when I grabbed my shears and began to snip at the ends.

  “You must be so excited to celebrate.”

  “Yes, we are. In this day and age, people can’t stand to be with each other for more than a year, let alone forty of them. It’s cause for festivity when people make it past the five-year mark.”

  Inches fell away before my ministrations and I kept her talking, her attention far from her hair before she could renege on her decision. “Are you going to have a party?”

  “The kids want to plan something. Some monstrous affair where I buy a new dress and Bill dusts off his old suit. With grandchildren and catering and dancing until midnight. I would rather curl up on the couch with a cake and call it a day,” she told me.

  “I like your way of thinking.”

  “My girls won’t take no for an answer, though, and I’m afraid I’ll wake up come October stuffed into a gown with no choice but to party.”

  I clipped part of her hair up and attacked the underside. “Any tips for staying married as long as you have? For those of us who haven’t found the right man with whom to take the plunge?” Or maybe for those who have found the right man but he belongs to someone else?

  Esme puffed up and I could tell she was pleased with the question. “Let the little things go. Be kind, and always put your own welfare on equal footing with your man’s. Listen when he speaks, and if the fellow is a good one, he will do the same for you.”

  “There are some who would say you are too forward-thinking.” I chuckled. “They would say a woman’s job is to take care of her husband.” Horrible, yes, but I’d heard it before from those few clients who belittled my choice to remain single. They felt it an affront to the natural order of things.

  “Pish-posh.” She blew a raspberry so hard her dentures were on the verge of shooting out. “Leda, listen to me now. Your heart will tell you right from wrong even when the naysayers gossip about what you should and shouldn’t do. The heart and the gut, mark my words.”

  “Would a tingle count?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  “Oh, dear. A tingle is the best sign of all.”

  I caught the echo of her grin in the mirror, putting the finishing touches on her style. The silver strands glistened even in the dim light of my back porch as the afternoon sun departed behind dusky gray clouds. My last appointment of the day and, I must admit, my most successful.

  “Here you are, Mrs. Monroe. Done.” I flicked the cape off of her shoulders so the loose hair fell to the floor. “You are going to be the envy of the party you didn’t want. Mark my words.”

  Esme’s eyes widened while she took in her reflection, turning from right to left to get a better view. She leaned forward in the seat before raising a thumb to her new bangs.

  “I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of razoring the edges to bring out your face. These little curls by your temples need to be highlighted, not hidden away.” A bottle of mousse sat on a nearby shelf and I grabbed it, foam squelching between my fingers as I ran them along her scalp.

  “I...I look like a movie star.” A rose-colored blush bloomed on her cheeks. “I don’t know what to say!”

  “Don’t thank me now. Let me whip up a few pastries for your big day and we’ll call it even, okay? And I expect an invitation,” I said, and bent at the waist to place a kiss on her perfumed cheek. “You enjoy the new you.”

  She slapped two twenties into my palm and breezed out the door with surprising spryness for a woman her age. I watched the car putter down the driveway and onto the open road.

  The scattered remains of Esme’s unnecessary length lay across the floor and I grabbed the broom to begin cleaning. The moment bristles touched t
he ground, the cell phone buzzed in my pocket and broke into my daydream. I fumbled for the phone and pressed a button to answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Leda?”

  The rich, languid syllables traveled up and down my legs until the whole of me shivered. “Duncan.”

  “Yes! How did you know it was me?”

  I fanned myself. “Lucky guess.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me calling you in the middle of the day.”

  “You can call me anytime, darlin’,” I answered, draping my legs over the sides of the chair the moment I sat. “What’s happening?”

  He took a moment to compose himself and I made out the distinctive sound of a pen tapping on wood from the other end of the phone. “Your old insurance company is making a stink about you switching your policy over before your renewal date. I received a heated call from one of their representatives today and I’d like you to come in to the office. We can figure it out together.”

  It was the oddest sensation, the exhilaration at the prospect of seeing Duncan warring with the sick dread of dealing with my old company. I hurried toward my bedroom, the cell pressed to my ear. Salon mess forgotten.

  “Oh no. They’re causing problems for us? Do they want me to pay a fine or anything? What did they say?”

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle. But I would prefer you to be present in case they ask questions, or I need your permission to file paperwork.” he responded. “I’m not willing to hand out any important information without your acknowledgement.”

  “Sure, I can be there in fifteen minutes,” I said. “You’re sure you can get this straightened out?”

  “I’m positive. I’ve got the magic touch, remember?”

  I could always use a good reminding. Or maybe a personal example. I slapped myself with the back of my hand, teeth gritted. “So you say.”

  “I’ve got a clear schedule for the next few hours. Let’s tackle the big bad company, eh? Fight the man and all that.”