by Troy Storm
GETTING IT ALL
Troy Storm
Erotic Romance
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
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A Secret Cravings Publishing Book
Erotic Romance
Getting it All
Copyright © 2013 Troy Storm
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61885-756-9
First E-book Publication: June 2013
Cover design by Dawné Dominique
Edited by Kyle Lewis
Proofread by Elaine Meyler
All cover art and logo copyright © 2013 by Secret Cravings Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
Dedication
To my writing buddies at RWA/NYC for their constant support and encouragement. You make me proud to be a member of the romance community. Thanks, ladies and gents, for your good humor, good advice and good sense.
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*Trouble With a Cowboy, a western, erotic romance:
Can some slashed tires and an ornery bull bring two hard-headed people together for some fun in the sun and a little more?
**Forget Me Not, paranormal erotic romance:
A war is brewing, a war that could destroy an entire vampire race if left unchecked, and Julian Marino has been requested to participate in it. He stops his search for a long time friend to go home and discovers there is more at stake than just his wants.
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GETTING IT ALL
Troy Storm
Copyright © 2013
Chapter One
“I say he’s ready.”
“I say he’s not.”
“I say it’s up to him and not you two.”
Dorothy Ardmore glanced up from the fine head of blonde hair she was styling and rolled her eyes at her gossiping friends. “I say you all ought to have better things to do than to keep making bets on when Matt Bartholomew is going to drop his pants and remember what to do with what’s inside.”
The six women in the small CoveHaven Main Street beauty salon erupted in giggles and full-throated laughs.
“Score one for Alice’s successor,” the proprietor of The Crowning Glory remarked over the brunette head to which she was adding highlights. “She would have been proud of you, Dot.”
“Sorry, Amelia, but all of you know Matt is as stubborn as Alice was easy-going, and her having been gone for almost three years now, has only made him more so, it seems to me. I don’t see a lot of movement in the direction of giving any of us a shot at scoring with the town’s most eligible widower.”
“Well I say he’s not ready and it’s a shame,” Lucy Drake, the younger highlighting customer in Amelia’s chair remarked earnestly. “He’s good-looking, he’s got money, and the pickings around aren’t all that great.”
“I even dated his chief mechanic,” the outstanding ‘I-say-he’s-ready,’ Christy Swanson, the natural white-blonde under Dorothy’s careful scissoring sardonically replied, shaking her radiant shoulder length mane to check how it fell. She smiled approvingly up at Dorothy. “Buddy may not be the beauty his boss is, but he got the job done. Just like you’re doing, babe. My hair looks great.”
“You all appall me.” In the small waiting area, Marta Dalaport, the tight-jawed ‘I say-it’s-up-to-him’ commenter, looked up from a well-thumbed three month old copy of a fashion magazine to glance at a nearby much older customer for corroboration. “Some men are a one-woman man and that’s that. It’s tragic what befell our beloved Alice, but he seems to be managing fine. We all miss her dearly, but she would want us to get on with our lives, and we have. And her widower has, too, in his own way. I say leave him alone.”
Lucy stared at herself in the large mirror facing the two styling chairs. “From what you all tell me, everything you and his buddies at his shop have tried to do the last couple of years to get him out and about hasn’t worked, anyway. It does seem such a waste. He’s very sexy,” she not
ed shyly. “Especially for an older man.”
“He’s sexy…for a man.” Christy ran her fingers through her white-blonde locks and shook her head. Satisfied with the impressive effect, she smiled at her stylist who was standing over her with scissors and comb. “And my professional opinion is that he’s ready. Last time I dropped by to say hi, he checked me out. Even Buddy noticed it. I don’t think that man’s checked out anything but Brunnie’s Oldsmobile since Alice took off for a better place. Right, Brunnie?”
Brunhilda Mendle, well into her 80’s, tiny, trim and svelte, and the only person in the room who might give Marta Dalaport a run for her ’most elegantly maintained’ status, smiled noncommittally at Christy’s comment.
“Matthew has looked after my beloved car for many a decade, since he was a stalwart youth. Although I love that machine inordinately it does seem a pity to squander such dedication on a mere mechanical object, no matter how classic.”
She adjusted the small veil on her delicately perched hat. “I’m glad to hear you girls feel our beloved widower might be nearing the starting gate again…even if skittishly. Perhaps he just needs, how shall I put it, a starting pistol to get him off and running.”
“Right on, Brunnie,” Christy exclaimed, delighted. “Couldn’t have put it more euphemistically myself, having been referred to as a quite a pistol on numerous occasions.” She aimed a finger at Dorothy.
“Bang. Bang.”
“Really?” Dorothy asked Christy’s reflection. “You sure you’re not just hoping wishfully?”
“It’s her professional opinion,” Marta Dalaport noted flatly from the waiting area, not looking up from her magazine. “I doubt if Christy ever has to ‘hope’ for any man. Amelia, you wouldn’t mind if I dropped off a few more up-to-date copies of these, would you? Styles change so rapidly these days, it’s sometimes hard to keep up.”
“Any donations of your magazines will be more than welcome,” Amelia said. “We appreciate all the help we can get in keeping customers of The Crowning Glory au courant.”
“Thanks for the compliment, Marta,” Christy noted, blandly, “but when I have to settle for the mechanic instead of the mechanic’s boss, I begin to think maybe I’m losing my touch.”
Dorothy removed the styling cape and dusted Christy off as her client and close friend stood and preened in the mirror.
“Maybe it’s time to try for the boss, again.” The attractive older blonde leaned into the mirror to check a possibly mussed lip line with a delicately testing small finger. “Just to see if my man radar is losing its accuracy or not. I’m looking good, right, everybody?”
“You always look spectacular, Christy,” Amelia noted, pleased her co-worker had produced another satisfied customer. “And Marta will soon be giving you a run for your money when I’m finished with the lovely Lucy here and attack the few wayward strands that Marta allows.”
The elegant, extremely well pulled-together middle-aged woman in the waiting area allowed a brief glance toward her admirers, accompanied by a small, self-satisfied smile. “Christy and I both like to look good, even if at different ends of the spectrum.” She produced a dramatic sigh as Christy returned an energetic two thumbs up. “Even if there’s little reason, other than ourselves, to do so.” With the gesture of an elegant hand she graciously included the group of ladies.
“Are you serious about trying for Matt?” Dorothy asked Christy, shaking out the styling cape and neatly rearranging her work area.
“Could be. Why? You interested?”
“No…of course not…I…well…maybe…”
“I am.” Lucy piped up loudly from the adjacent chair beneath a cloud of hair spray. “I mean…if we’re going to make a contest of it, I want in.”
“Why, Lucy, I hadn’t thought of it that way, but that just might add a bit of spice to these lack-of-a-decent-date days.” The blonde bombshell turned, hand on hip, a bemused look on her beautifully made-up face. Marta, I suppose you’ll be sitting this one out.”
“I’m very happy with Milton, thank you. With the kids off to college, we’ve had plenty of time to,” she smiled wryly, “remember how things used to be. Even if he doesn’t exactly appreciate the amount of effort I put into maintaining myself since those early romantic days.” She shrugged and tossed the out-of-date fashion magazine aside. “He makes up for it in other ways. I see to that.” Her hand lovingly caressed the skirt of the designer suit she was wearing.
“Okay, Dot, are you in or out? May the best hot dame in this room win,” Christy chortled, pulling her over to Lucy and encircling them both with a friendly hug. “This is going to be more fun than I’ve had in a month of dating losers…which would take me back to around ought-eight.” She whipped her newly styled mane about. “The poor guy won’t know what hit him, but he’ll have a better time than he’s had in a long time. What do you say, ladies? Briefs or boxers?”
“Briefs, of course,” Marta replied instantly, standing to remove her suit jacket in preparation for her appointment. “White, I imagine. On sale at Macy’s. You can count on Matt Bartholomew to be an upstanding and unsurprising citizen. That outburst at the board of education meeting startled the rest of us board members, but I believe that was an anomaly. He was just responding to the emotion of the moment. Otherwise, he’s a straight down the line kind of guy.”
“Is his underwear like part of the game?” Lucy asked, slightly puzzled. “I thought all older guys wore boxers. That’s all they seem to wear in the movies, anyway.”
Dorothy smiled. “Briefs means held in, honey, boxers, hang free. It’s more of a very unscientific analogy of how to describe a man’s perceived sexual attitude. ‘Perceived’ being the operative word. My Beau used to wear briefs in the winter and boxers in the summer. And his sexual attitude never changed. He was just Beau.”
Amelia gave her co-worker a comforting pat. “Beau would be proud of you too, no matter what he might be wearing now…or not wearing,” she grinned. “They never show us what those angel types have on under all those fancy robes.”
Christy broke the hug to pace. “Do Lucy and I get a handicap? Letting a predatory widow like Dorothy loose against an unsuspecting widow-er seems like it might give the widow a leg up, so to speak, against her competition.” She laughed.
Dorothy thought how good it was to see her friends excited by the prospect of a little more action around town. Action they had made several attempts to stir up before, but had always been thwarted. Now, if Christy’s observation was correct, they might have a chance to get their beloved Matt Bartholomew up and running again.
“What do you think, Dot?” Christy asked. “Boxers or briefs? Plain or fancy?”
“I have no idea. Guess I’ll just have to find out, won’t I?” She high-fived the chortling blonde, sealing her participation in the competition.
But she thought she knew. Matt would be wearing boxer briefs. Maybe colored. Undecided which way to go, but beginning to think about it. She hadn’t been checked out like Christy the last time she’d had her oil changed, but Matt seemed a little easier around her, a little more relaxed. She recognized the signs. She had been there. There might be hope.
And then again, they might all be wrong.
She had been there too.
* * * *
“What the…”
Staring at the handful of black gauzy fabric he pulled from the unmarked envelope in the morning’s mail, Matt Bartholomew, the proprietor of Matt’s Motors, thought briefly it might be a sample of a new leather wipe, or some kind of fancy polishing cloth.
He started to unfold the soft goods.
It was not a leather wipe.
“Hey, boss. Whatcha got there?” Buddy Crawfield, his chief mechanic and shop foreman, popped his head in the door of the cluttered office, his curly head framing a bright morning grin. Surprising himself, Matt swept the padded brown envelope and its tissue wrapped contents into the bottom drawer of his battered wooden desk.
“Nothing. Who knows
? I’ll check it out later. Can’t keep up with amount of junk I get. Especially on Mondays.” The surprise package had shaken him up, surprisingly. His face was warm.
Why? he admonished himself. He had nothing to be embarrassed about. Even if the filmy fabric calling to him from the closed drawer was what he thought it might be, it was certainly nothing worth reddening his cheeks.
On second thought, maybe that’s what was finally getting under his skin.
After all these months, Buddy was right. Matt had absolutely nothing going on in his life that might cause him to blush.
“Buddy, old buddy.” Matt quirked an inquisitive eyebrow at his longtime pal and employee, “Don’t you have work to do? I haven’t even had my coffee yet and you know how I am before the caffeine kicks in.” Suddenly the thought occurred to him. Buddy might be up to his old tricks. “Wait a minute. You aren’t messing with my head again, are you?”
The silky black substance in the drawer shut down its siren call. Damn.
“Buddy, I warned you the last time…”
Matt’s solidly built young foreman stepped into the cluttered space, looking genuinely startled. But, then, Buddy had more than once been able to look genuinely startled when it turned out he knew better than anyone around what was going on. Matt’s eyes narrowed. He ran his fingers through his hair. Double damn.
“Why do you say that, boss?” the young man protested. He glanced out the doorway into the nearby work bays. “Oh, yeah, well, I promise I’m not gonna rip out old lady Mendle’s carburetor, as much as I’d like to bronze it and give it to her to put on her mantel in memory of that damned Oldsmobile, if that’s what you mean. She’s back with that antique again. ‘It ‘sounds…tired. Y’know, Buddy?’ she says.”