Drop Dead Gorgeous

by Jennifer Skully

  Madison grabbed his thigh. He almost lost control of the car. Again. “Oh my God, T. Larry. That’s it. I have to teach her how to laugh. Especially at herself.” She bit her lip. “But first I’ll have to get her to stay in the same room with me.”

  The woman was crazy. He peeled her fingers one by one from his leg before he wrecked the Camry. “Stay away from Harriet. You’ll only make things worse.”

  “I don’t think they can get much worse,” she murmured, tucking herself into her corner by the door, an atypical Madison position.

  “She really bothered you, didn’t she?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been hated before. At least not that I know of. It’s not a nice feeling.”

  In some ways she was so naive, so untouched. All the more reason to keep Dick the Prick from taking advantage of her. “Harriet doesn’t hate you—”

  She stopped him with a look.

  “All right. She hates you.” He wanted to protect her from Harriet’s hurtful words just as he wanted to save her from whoever had slashed her tires. Unfortunately, he was sadly deficient on the Harriet front, a fact that turned him grumpy. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  She shrugged off Harriet as if she were a coat too heavy to wear. “Where are we going?”

  One couldn’t stay grumpy with Madison around. Except Harriet.

  “It so happens, we’re here.” He’d exited the freeway and entered a worn, cracked parking area while she sulked in her corner, not that sulk was really a word that applied to Madison.

  Castles, windmills and a giant laughing clown mouth rose above them. Madison jumped from the car, stood transfixed, her smile wide and the skirt of her spandex dress hugging her bottom. Watching her, Laurence could have died a happy man if that was the picture he’d take to his grave. Madison’s smile did nothing less than bowl him over.

  “Miniature golf,” she said in hushed, reverent tones. “Do you know how to play?”

  He settled at her side. “I was champion of my senior class.”

  “Oh, T. Larry.” Were those tears in her eyes? “I didn’t think you had it in you. I really didn’t.”

  He hadn’t known he had it in him, either. Planning for the future, he’d thrown off those youthful games. Watching Madison gave him a tiny stitch in his side. Maybe he’d missed something in the ensuing years, something Madison knew innately.

  “I’m proud of you.”

  Laurence’s chest swelled unaccountably, though he wasn’t quite clear why she was proud.

  She looked down at her hands, then flipped one out. “Picnic.” She flipped out the other. “Mini golf.” Repeated the process. “Picnic. Mini golf.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to decide which is more romantic.”

  He grabbed her hand and tugged her over the scarred macadam to the entrance. “Miniature golf is far more romantic,” he decided for her. He’d be damned if he’d allow her to make Dick comparisons on his date. “Subject closed.”

  Nothing was ever closed with Madison unless she decided it was. “Well, I really think it depends on the man.”

  He snarled as he dropped her hand to grab for his wallet. She moved to her purse. He snarled again.

  “But it’s dutch.”

  Dutch over his dead body. Not when she’d gladly let Dick pay for her meal. This was a date. He’d want to be with Madison in this moment whether or not someone had slashed her tires and regardless of Dick the Prick entering the picture. Finally admitting the full truth to himself, relief suffused him. He no longer needed to make excuses. No more minimizing his emotions. He wanted Madison’s sweet, crooked smile all to himself.

  He had their tickets, scorecards, miniature pencils, and not a red cent from her. “Choose your weapon.”

  She viewed the range of putters, picked one with a neon-pink handle with no regards to accuracy.

  “About the romantic angle…” She’d bitten into the damn question with a tenacious grip.

  He selected his own putter, minus the neon bright. “You said this was an outing, not a date, so you’re talking apples and oranges.”

  She took a practice swing, her delicious rump agitating. “You only called it an outing because you wanted to make sure you slipped neatly through all those rules you made up today.”

  Actually, she’d been the one to call it an outing. He’d always considered it a date. Not that it mattered. She was with him, and that’s all that counted.

  The night was balmy on the Peninsula, several degrees warmer than it had been up in blustery San Francisco. Tuesday night didn’t appear to be a particularly big golfing night, two couples battling it out four holes ahead of them, and no one in line behind. Good, no one would notice the way he eyed Madison’s sweet rear end in that too short, too stretchy, perfect dress.

  A scalloped neckline left her collarbones bare. There was something sexy about bare collarbones, especially Madison’s.

  “Ladies first.” He smiled, anticipating the view.

  She bent daintily to place her lime-green ball on the tee. Nice muscles. Nice calves. Nice…everything.

  “Now, about a picnic being more romantic.”

  Nice everything except her topic of conversation. “We never agreed a picnic was more romantic.”

  She straightened, lips pursed prettily and that damnable lipstick all moist and shiny. “Will you let me finish? I’m trying to figure this out for future reference.”

  “Fine. Talk while you’re putting. We don’t want to get behind.”

  “There’s no one behind us.”

  The telltale rumblings of a family outing sounded from the parking lot, and Laurence wanted to get a good five holes ahead of them. “Putt.”

  She did. Her ball clattered right through the faded covered bridge and landed within four inches of the hole.

  Damn.

  She skirted the bridge, bent down on the other side to stare at him through the bridge’s overhang, then stuck her tongue out.

  His putter got stuck on a tuft of plastic turf, and the ball skewed to the right, bouncing off the cement siding and coming to rest inches before the wooden planks of the bridge.

  “You did that on purpose.”

  She laughed. “Did what?”

  Bent over. Couldn’t say that aloud, though. “Take your shot.”

  She wiggled, she wriggled, she stuck the tip of her tongue between her teeth, then she made the four-inch putt. Laurence closed his eyes when she bent over for her ball. His heart couldn’t take anymore right then.

  “So anyway, what I was saying about taking the man into consideration when you’re determining the level of romance.”

  “I’m concentrating.” His ball had rolled a few inches from the concrete edging, but he still didn’t have a straight shot through the bridge.

  His need for concentration didn’t concern her. “For one man, a champagne picnic—”

  “Champagne?”

  “With strawberries soaking in it.”

  He groaned. He’d never be able to compete with strawberries and champagne in a park. So, he took his shot with geometric calculation, banking the ball off first the right wooden wall, then the left, and watched it roll straight into the cup.

  Madison clapped, bouncing on the two-inch soles of her snazzy black sandals. “I think you cheated.”

  “Then we’re even.”

  She moued and preceded him to the next hole and obstacle course. “Okay, so a champagne picnic can be nothing out of the ordinary for one man. And another man—”

  “Can we please stop talking about this?” Laurence didn’t like the rise of these feelings of inadequacy.

  Madison ignored him as she did that deliberately intoxicating wiggle-wriggle before her ball. “And another man might be wholeheartedly romantic when he takes a girl miniature golfing. Or…” She straightened, a gasp on her lips, putter in midswing behind her. “Or bowling. Like the time Marge Simpson fell in love with her bowling instructor because Hom
er gave her a bowling ball for her birthday.”

  “I’ve never watched The Simpsons. And putt, you’re throwing off our schedule.”

  “Well, it was very romantic because in the end, Marge chose Homer over that French bowling teacher.”

  He balanced his putter on the toe of his canvas shoe. “Are you trying to say bowling is more romantic than a moonlit picnic?”

  “No, I’m saying it depends on the woman.”

  “I thought you said it depended on the man.”

  “It depends on both.”

  He ground his teeth. How had he allowed himself to be trapped into this “comparison” game? The operative word was trapped. He had to know. “So which is better, a picnic or miniature golfing?”

  She turned back to her ball. “Maybe you should give me champagne while we’re playing so it’ll be a fair comparison.”

  She hit. A flash of neon green zipped through the clown’s laughing mouth, shot past the arc of the pendulum tongue, came out on the other side, then slid right into the cup. Hole in one.

  Madison jumped, her skirt riding dangerously high. “Come on, tough guy, beat that.” Then her hands spread. “Oh my God, is that what the T stands for? Tough Guy?”

  “That would be TG.”

  She stopped then, halfway around the clown face on the way to retrieve her ball, though she was too far away for him to gauge her relative seriousness. “Is this a date, T. Larry?”

  His heart seized. The distant sound of freeway traffic faded, childish laughter blew away into the night. There was only Madison. And him. “That depends on your answer to my question.” His pulse pounded in the silence waiting for her answer.

  “I’ve known you for seven years, T. Larry. I think this should be just an outing.”

  He wasn’t hurt. Real men didn’t get hurt. They didn’t wear their feelings on their sleeves. He was simply angry. What did the length of time she’d worked for him matter? Unless it was that word. Work. And the fact that she worked for him. Damn and blast.

  He hit his ball harder than he intended, watching with a jaundiced eye as it skidded just to the left of the swinging tongue and plopped right into the hole.

  Hole in one. He didn’t leap the way Madison had.

  “Does this mean we’re tied, T. Larry?”

  Perhaps in miniature golf. In everything else, Madison was winning. “I think it means we need a bet.”

  “What kind of bet?”

  “Over who wins the game.”

  “What will we bet?”

  He stepped closer. “What do you want?”

  “How about lunch?”

  “Think bigger.” Five inches separated them. Her scent matched the glossy pink-and-red flowers on her dress and filled his senses.

  She chewed her lip, eating off a taste of her lipstick. “How about a week of lunches?”

  “Done,” he said before she could shrink the date range.

  “Starting Thursday, because you have that appointment tomorrow with Davis Dullard.”

  “It’s Dillard. And don’t call him that to his face.”

  She flapped a hand. “Dillard, Dullard, same diff. What do you want if you win?”

  He took the shortest of pauses. “A kiss.”

  Her eyes flared. She swallowed. “Just one?”

  “That’ll be enough. For now.”

  “Excuse me, mister, you done playing this hole?”

  Madison made a sound like a small bird cheeping, tripped over the back of her sandals and caught herself on his arm.

  Damn the kid. Damn the parents. Damn. “We’re done.”

  He helped her to the next hole sporting a devil with a swinging pitchfork. He’d lost one advantage, but sought another. “Afraid of losing, Madison?”

  She didn’t look at him as she squared herself in front of her tee. “Of course not.”

  “Then why not take the bet?”

  “It’s the idea.” Her putter slipped, nicked the ball unintentionally but sent it far enough to qualify as her turn.

  Laurence gave her a beatific smile, blinked slowly and set up for his putt. “What’s wrong with the idea if you’re sure you’re not going to lose?”

  “Somehow I think you’re sure you’re going to win.”

  He straightened, his shot waiting. “I am sure.”

  She stared at him from two yards away, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You aren’t afraid of a little kiss, are you? I think you even enjoyed the last one.”

  “You took me by surprise.”

  “Maybe that’s why your mouth just popped open for me. All that surprise.”

  “That is not true.”

  He gave her his shark smile, one he usually reserved for staff accountants with big egos. “What’s not true? That you enjoyed the kiss? Or that you opened your mouth voluntarily?”

  “Oh, take your shot,” she snapped. Madison never snapped. He was winning.

  “I can’t take a shot until we finalize the bet.”

  She stamped her foot. Another good sign. Madison wasn’t a foot stomper. “All right, you’re on.”

  He hit the ball, which whizzed past the devil’s pitchfork, and sank another hole in one.

  CHAPTER TEN

  MADISON WAS WINNING! She was winning! By a lot. He-he-he. She wouldn’t have to kiss him.

  T. Larry had scared her the last few days. Madison had scared herself.

  The worst part? Mini golf with T. Larry, king of plans, was far more romantic than a dozen champagne picnics.

  But if T. Larry was The One, wouldn’t she have known it a long time ago?

  “I’m so looking forward to not packing a lunch for a week.”

  T. Larry eyed her speculatively. “I’m down four strokes. There’s one hole left. What do you say, double or nothing?”

  “What, two weeks of lunches versus two kisses?”

  “Make it a month of lunches. If I win, I get the kiss and another date on Friday.”

  She leaned on her putter. “This isn’t a date.”

  He didn’t acknowledge her clarification. “Bet?”

  “What if we tie?”

  “Then we flip a coin. Heads I win, tails you lose.”

  Four strokes ahead of him, how could she lose? She wouldn’t have to eat Hamburger Helper leftovers, turkey hotdogs, or bologna sandwiches for a month. On the other hand, she might get fat. “You can’t take me to McDonald’s all the time. Some have to be places with Chinese chicken salad or vegetable stir fry.”

  “I’ll take you wherever you want.”

  A lesser woman would have thought the Top of the Mark or the Equinox overlooking Alcatraz and the Bay. Madison thought Max’s Café and that hole-in-the-wall Chinese place over on Taylor. She loved food. Her mouth watered. “You’re on.”

  Then she saw the windmill. The wood had been washed clean of its white paint and the red siding faded to brown. She hated the windmill. The space between the wings—what on earth were those long whirling arms called?—always got the best of her.

  It wasn’t the actual kissing or even the date that bothered her. It was the confusion. She didn’t know what T. Larry expected. She didn’t know what she wanted.

  The sun had fallen behind the mountains, and bright incandescent lights shone down on the grubby indoor-outdoor. She lined up her first shot. She wasn’t overly optimistic for that first try. She had to warm up. Shuffling her feet, she planted them just right, counted the seconds between the swing of each wing of the windmill, then closed her eyes and putted.

  The ball hit a wooden arm with a thunk and rolled back. Stop, stop, stop, she mentally shouted at her ball. The closer her shot got to the windmill, the easier it was to time the turns. Four feet. It seemed like a mile.

  “Time the ball, Madison,” T. Larry murmured behind her.

  She whirled on him. “I can’t concentrate when you’re breathing on me. And I do not need you to coach me on this.”

  No big deal. She could at least
break even with him.

  She wiggled into place. T. Larry sighed. She tried to ignore him. The ball went awry anyway and bounced back even farther than before. Perspiration gathered beneath her breasts.

  “It’s all right, Madison. You still have two more for the win.” He was even closer now, his indefinable male scent messing with her mind.

  She elbowed him. “Back off.” But then she moved to the shot too fast after he did. Darn. Muffed it again.

  She turned on her heel and pointed. “Stay over there.”

  Counting, counting. She tapped the ball because last time she’d whacked it too hard. The ball rolled. Then stopped six inches in front of the windmill.

  “You can’t lose now,” he called, the tone definitely a taunt meant to rattle her.

  He was right. How could she miss from six inches away? A month of lunches with T. Larry. Every day, sitting across from him. Or beside him. Close enough to breathe in his scent.

  The putter slipped in her now sweaty palms, her count not exact, and that darn arm hit that darn ball and knocked it clear off to the side.

  She raised a hand over her head and scooped her hair back from her face. T. Larry made some strange unintelligible sound. He was probably laughing. But when she looked, there was just a sort of dazed hockey-puck-to-the-head stare.

  “I have one more, then we’ll tie.”

  “Then we’ll fli-ip the coin.” His voice cracked oddly.

  She was at a bizarre angle, with the ball off to the right of the windmill wing-things. T. Larry had moved closer, eyeing her ball on the green carpeting. She didn’t have the concentration to spare to tell him to park his butt elsewhere.

  She did four trials, moving her hips back and forth to find the right spot. T. Larry made some weird strangled noise.

  Concentrate. Count. Putt. She did.

  The ball slipped right in, sucked into mini golf heaven. Madison jumped, hopping, hooting and throwing her arms in the air.