Romance: Catching Helena Handbasket

by Lily Flowers

  Helena froze, grabbing her forehead in what seemed a show of pure and genuine agony.

  “Trey,” she rasped out, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t think he’s going to make a second attempt on Blaine’s well-being so he can take his place as cover model, do you?”

  Trey laughed.

  “He’s crazy,” he admitted, adding with the arch of a sardonic eyebrow, “Not certifiably insane. Don’t concern yourself about it, Helena. During our trip to London, I’m going to insist on doing a ‘med check’ twice daily, making sure that he takes all dosages as prescribed. He’ll be sent on the first plane home at the first sign of trouble.” He assured her, adding as he lowered his voice to a smooth, succulent purr, “Of course, I’d also like to perform ‘Helena checks’ at least twice daily—to keep you feeling hale, hearty, and pretty darned good at all times. I do like to keep my employees nice and satisfied, you know.”

  Helena nodded.

  “The idea of us enjoying our first, um, what do they call it in those schmaltzy books we publish, ‘encounter’ in one of the most romantic cities of the world is very enticing indeed—providing, of course, that I remember to blush, flush, and heave my bosom at all of the prescheduled and appropriate times.” She paused here, adding as she ‘pouted’ reflectively, “Of course, I’d have to say that London probably ranks as the second most romantic city in the world. Maybe on our very first night together, we should hop a plane over to Paris…”

  “Don’t push it, Helena,” Trey interrupted her, raising a finger for emphasis. “I’m not concerned about the romance quotient of the city that will host our first—um—‘encounter.’ I’m concerned at just how comfortable you are with sharing a hotel suite with me.”

  It was Helena’s turn to bite her lip—and so hard that she feared for the safety and well-being of this particular, very sensitive body part.

  “I’d love to, of course,” she affirmed, in a slow, tentative tone. “As I said, though, I’d be concerned as to what my co-workers would think—especially in that particular situation. They might think that I’m not only sleeping my way to the top, but to the front cover of my own book—a book that you, my lover, rushed into publication when countless authors are still waiting for the chance to have their manuscripts considered by this company.”

  Trey sighed.

  “Honestly, Helena, I’d never thought that you’d be one to care so much about what other people thought,” he told her.

  Helena scowled.

  “Just try being a woman for a day or two, Trey,” she told him, folding her arms before her. “Try walking a mile in some spiked heel shoes sometime. Then tell me that you never care about what other people think of you—how they judge you and watch every damned move you make.”

  Trey nodded.

  “You’re right, of course,” he relented, head bowed in what seemed to be a show of repentance. “I’m sorry, darling. I just need to know your final decision on our accommodations in London.”

  Helena thought a moment, then snapped her fingers.

  “By George Clooney, I think I’ve got it!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t we book our suites side by side,” she paused here, adding with the sly waggle of her feathered eyebrows, “Just make sure that the rooms are separated by a door—and that, furthermore, each of us comes into the possession of a key to said door. In addition to matching flashlights and inordinately quiet shoes.”

  Trey guffawed outright.

  “Good plan, love, I like it!” he told her, applauding her idea with yet another caddish wink. “You sly little minx, you.”

  Helena beamed.

  “Oh I try,” she told him, striking a coquettish pose that she was certain looked absolutely ridiculous—but in an absolutely adorable way.

  Chapter Thirteen

  All signs of coquettish confidence abandoned Helena that evening, as she found herself just barely able to finish her evening meal of macaroni and cheese; one she enjoyed while parked on the edge of her floral print day bed.

  “Of course,” she mused, “I’ll still be able to manage the chocolate éclair that Irving bought me as an “I’m sorry” gift this afternoon. And since I stopped on the way home to have its ingredients screened at a convenient walk in laboratory, I am now fully confident that I can indeed manage said éclair—without the imminent and immediate fear of keeling over dead at any point during the consumption of my little treat.”

  What she was not as confident of, however, was the rendezvous—there she went with those pesky salacious words again—that she had planned with Trey in the heart of London.

  Of course she looked forward to spending some prime sexy time (and, secondarily, in celebrating this radiant glow of their love and all that good stuff) with the man of her dreams. She just wondered what a woman of little (read: absolutely no) sexual experience could do to fulfill his dreams as well.

  “OK, time to recall just what I learned in the sole sex ed class offered at Hoosier High, my alma mater and pretty much the only institution of higher learning conveniently located in provincial Murphy, Indiana.”

  Scrunching her nose in a show of deep thought, Helena paused to ponder just what the Sam Hill she did learn in that blasted class.

  “I vaguely remember them telling us that we were pretty much going to rot in the deepest, farthest reaches of hell if we ever dared to make it past second base outside the holy bonds of wedlock,” she recalled now with a wince. “Second semester, meanwhile, we learned about several viable forms of birth control—up to and including chastity belts (to be used on the female of the pair), and fully charged firearms and cans of mace that were at least partially filled and less than 6 months old (to be used, of course, on the male of the pair).”

  “OK, so this is not helping,” Helena surrendered the cause, throwing her hands in the air with a resigned sigh. “Maybe instead I should draw upon the wealth of knowledge culled throughout various viewings of Skinemax After Dark.”

  OK, so there was this one movie she recalled, entitled “Romance at the Ranch,” that showed a couple doing some pretty freaky things to each other on horseback.

  “Of course, the extreme likelihood of sustaining some major saddle sores in that particular scenario would be likely to cancel out any sure to be ecstatic monkey love pleasure experienced during that particular sensual union,” she mused. “Ouch.”

  Another of her personal favorites, “Night Thrills,” showed a couple—well—thrilling each other at night to the very best of her recollection.

  “I might just check our hotel room Pay Per View option to see if they have that particular selection on steady rotation—along with more explicit offerings that include ‘Sorority Slut Slumber Party’ and ‘Tootsi Does Tahiti’,” she mused.

  Of course, she reasoned with a shrug, she probably shouldn’t worry herself so much about the mechanics of the sex act; as an experienced, cosmopolitan man of the world, Trey surely knew several effective—if not out and out mind blowing forms of proficient sexual gratification. Instead she should probably be more concerned about the strict moral code that had dominated her upbringing; one that pretty much forbade her from having sex outside of marriage.

  “Of course, I always thought that sex outside of marriage was just fine—as long as you get to the wedding on time afterwards,” she grinned, but only briefly. “Yet if my parents don’t much like the idea of my watching depictions of sex—even simulated depictions, yet—then they definitely would not be totally boffo with the idea of my having actual intercourse with an actual male. Ya think?”

  Of course, she supposed that the only way to find out for sure would be to—gulp—actually contact one or both parents and ask.

  “In the interest of preserving my ear drums, my sanity and my very life,” she reasoned through gritted teeth, reaching for her nearby cell phone, “I think I’ll call Ma.”

  Dialing her home number with trembling fingers, Helena hoped against hope that her mother was watching either Wheel of Fortune or
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire; or, perhaps, watching one program while cleverly DVRing the other—and would be unavailable to answer her call.

  “Come on Millionaire!” Helena said aloud, fist bound tightly around her receiver. “Wheel, I am routing for you! Pat and Vanna, I’m counting on you! Buy me a flippin’ vowel!”

  The fast click of an answering receiver dashed her hopes; indicating that her mother had just picked up the phone on the opposite end of the line.

  “Blast it,” Helena slapped her palm hard on the surface of her polished end table, adding aloud, “Hey Mom.”

  “Helena!” Miriam Vance greeted her daughter with a bright, warm tone that always managed to bring joy to her heart—and, on this particular evening, an acute round of nausea to her recently filled stomach. “How are you doing, Cupcake?”

  “How can I tell you that your cupcake is about to get frosted, and royally?” she answered silently, adding aloud, “So, Ma. What’s up?”

  “Oh, too many things baby!” her mother chirped, adding in a sharp, amplified tone that indicated her apparent level of excitement, “Your sister Hillary just swept her category in the cow milking competition at the county fair?”

  Helena nodded—then pondered just how very ineffectual it was to make a nonverbal gesture over the phone.

  “That’s awesome! Tell her that Big Sis said, ‘Congrats!’” she told her mother, adding with a grin, “Her namesake would be proud.”

  Hillary Vance, the victorious maiden of the bovines, she recalled, had been named after Hillary Clinton, and at Helena’s suggestion. Her mother had agreed, citing her own great admiration for the senator, first lady, and presidential hopeful. Her dad also had agreed, citing “Hillary” as yet another cool feminine name that started with an H.

  “Indeed, she would,” her mother agreed, adding as an afterthought, “Oh, and one other thing—your sister Havana just graduated business school magna cum laude, and she’s been named executive vice president of a small finance firm in the Carmel suburb of Indianapolis…”

  “Equally impressive, at least!” Helena enthused, adding in a low voice, I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it to Havana’s graduation—or, for that matter, to Hillary’s cow-milking competition at the fair. My work schedule has been so crazy at Elmhurst Publishing—I am, however, planning to make a very special overseas trip in conjunction with my work; and with my own soon to be published novel.”

  “Wow! As your younger sisters would say, ‘That rocks!’” Miriam exclaimed. “That’s almost as momentous as Hillary’s bovine blue ribbon. So tell me, dear—where are you going? And who else from the company is going on the trip? Not Irving Birnbaum, I sincerely hope.”

  Helena guffawed outright; her laughter releasing at least part of the tension that held her system captive.

  “It turns out that Irving is going, Ma, but with a steady and plentiful supply of mood-enhancing medications stashed in his suitcase. We’ve also demanded his doctor’s home, office and cell phone contact numbers, just in case even more meds need to be prescribed—and ASAP.”

  Miriam laughed.

  “Good to know, Kid,” she told her, adding in a quizzical tone, “So who else is going with you?”

  Helena cleared her throat.

  “Well, there’s Blaine Bennington, the world famous cover model,” she offered. “He and I are going to be posing together on the cover of my book.”

  “Blaine Bennington?” Miriam repeated, voice blank. “He sounds like a department store.”

  Helena guffawed outright.

  “Well whatever he sells, I’m certainly buyin’,” she chortled, adding more seriously, “Mom, do you remember those books we used to ‘sneak peak’ during our monthly visits to Barnes & Noble—the tomes we perused when we were pretending to just make a casual pit stop between the literary classics and the creative scrapbooking aisles? Well, Blaine just happens to be the strapping blond that appears on the covers of roughly half those books. And, as it turns out, he’s going to be posing on the cover of my own sinful, salacious read.”

  She braced herself, readying her senses for the verbal onslaught of unbridled feminine excitement that she was sure would greet this comment.

  Ah, but no matter how she braced herself for this impending assault on her senses, she never could be prepared for the utter wrath of Miriam Vance’s long suppressed lust.

  “Woo hoo!” she exclaimed, shattering Helena’s eardrums in the process. “Now I know the gentleman of whom you speak—and, in the words of your younger sisters, he’s a major hot-tay with whipped cream…”

  “…and a cherry on top!” Helena completed with a laugh, adding more seriously, “In addition, Mom, one other extreme hottie stud is going to be accompanying me to London. And that would be my publisher, Trey Lawrence.” She paused here, cringing at the wave of unbroken silence that met these words.

  “Trey Lawrence,” Miriam said finally, adding in a thoughtful tone, “Is that the hottie hot publisher that you’ve been shagging?”

  OK, it was official. Helena Vance had just lost her mind.

  “Ma,” she gasped out, clutching her chest as it tightened sharply. “Did I just hear Miriam Vance use the word ‘shag’—and not as a descriptive term for the rug that currently occupies our back end rec room at the farmhouse?”

  “I sure did!” Miriam affirmed, quickly and without the slightest hint of visible regret. “You didn’t answer my question, though. Is he the one?”

  Helena sighed.

  “Trey Lawrence is a very attractive man, Mom, but he is more than just a hottie—he’s brilliant, sensitive, kind, strong—everything a woman could possibly want in a man,” she told her mother, adding with a slight smile, “And, while it’s true that our friendship is quickly blossoming into something more, I will have you know that I am not ‘shagging’ him, as you so delicately put it. Well. Not yet, anyway.”

  Miriam, apparently, had heard enough.

  “Well why ever not, Girl?” she barked—and barked loudly enough that Helena feared that her entire family—if not the entire state of Indiana—had heard her. “I’ve visited your company website and seen his corporate bio—one that, very conveniently, featured his photo. To call that man gorgeous is the understatement of the Millennium. Heck, Michelangelo’s Statue of David would take a mighty rough selfie in comparison to that beb.”

  “True, this,” Helena replied, tone slow and cautious. “I just want to avoid any and all appearances of sleeping my way to the top.”

  Miriam sighed.

  “I know, Girl,” she insisted. “A woman of your intelligence and skills should never have to sleep her way to the top, especially in this day and age. I’m not suggesting that you sleep with him at all, as a matter of fact. I just think that you should shag him. Hard, and repeatedly so.”

  Helena paused.

  “Um, OK,” she said finally, adding with a shrug, “Any particular reason why?”

  “Well, duh,” Miriam countered, thus convincing her daughter that she was spending altogether too much time with her younger sisters. “You are both consenting adults that are living the good life in New York City. You’re both as cute as hades and the world is your oyster—and, as an added bonus, you are about to travel together to the second most romantic city in the world—though it would have been mighty nice if he planned to whisk you away to Paris instead.”

  “I already tried, Ma,” Helena interrupted.

  Miriam chuckled.

  “I raised you right, Girl,” she praised her daughter, adding more seriously, “In more ways than one. I’m endlessly inspired, Helena, by what a well-mannered, honorable, totally moralistic daughter I have—though I do have to admit that your Skinemax After Dark days did have your father and me just a mite worried.”

  “Don’t remind me, Ma,” Helena groaned, covering her eyes with her hand.

  Miriam chuckled.

  “It’s all right, dear,” she assured her daughter. “As a matter of fact, it’s all all right as lo
ng as you play safe and don’t get your heart broken. I’d love nothing more than for my daughter to enjoy an exciting European romance.”

  Helena grinned.

  “Well I must say, Mom, this has been a disturbing, flabbergasting, and downright heartwarming phone call,” she told her, adding in a lower tone, “I love you, Ma. I really do.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning found Helena rising late from a brief, restless night’s sleep; one disrupted by dreams of the handsome, charming man who would soon be sharing her once in a lifetime European adventure; as well as, or so it seemed, her bed.

  “Criminy,” she sat up in the crisp cotton sheets that lined her soft, comfy bed; noting with an embarrassed flush the trail of sweat that lined their surface of pristine ivory.

  She blushed deeper still as she recalled the dreams that had produced this impassioned biological response; heated visions of a lustful Trey sharing this very bed—sweeping her up in his strong arms and pressing his hard muscled body tight against hers.

  She imagined him cradling her in his arms and kissing her lips with intense fervor; in her mind’s eye, she saw their naked bodies entwined and rolling together across the length of her bed; their arms and legs intertwining and their thighs locking as—finally—two became one.

  Her breath suspended as she cherished the memory of the night’s most intimate dream; one in which she totally gave herself to her beautiful lover; sinking joyfully in his tight embraces as he probed her, penetrated her, and filled her with his love.

  “Skinemax After Dark, eat your heart out,” she said aloud now, smacking her lips at the memory and grinning like the cat that had just devoured the fallen Cheerio. Or at least that’s just how her cat back home grinned, whenever he managed to snare the occasional fallen Cheerio at or at some point around the family breakfast table.

  This same grin dissolved moments later, as one stray glance at her bedside clock told her that she was late for work; thus ensuring that her heavenly fantasy lover might very well dock her pay; or, even worse, deny her her triple cream red velvet doughnut for the morning—or, at the very least, withhold the sprinkled topping that helped make that particular pastry taste so blasted good.