by Trudy Doyle
“The department. Everything.”
“Hmm.” He thought a moment, his fingers lazily threading through her hair. “And do what?”
“Become private dicks.”
“Are there any other kind?”
“Tanaka! I’m serious!”
“Of course you are, precious. Do continue.”
She slipped her arms into his jacket and sat up. “Detectives, you know, P.I.s. Picture it, the two of us, like Nick and Nora Charles, finding errant husbands and cheating wives for rich clients. And maybe the occasional dead body.”
“Hmm…” Jack folded his arms behind his head. “And we can get a dog and call him Asta and drink highballs all day? Sounds sweet.”
“Doesn’t it?”
He shook his head and laughed. “God, you’re even more beautiful when you get excited.” He tugged her hand. “Come here, Nora.”
She snuggled into him, laying her head atop his chest. Outside, two surfers were paddling into the waves. He recalled an acquaintance who sold his successful business so he and his wife could roam the world, chasing the perfect curl. Jack took it as a sign. Dana was right. It was time.
“So?” She poked him. “What do you say?”
He sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. I always thought I’d work the squad until retirement, you know, a regular Joe Friday. Then maybe after, open a coffee shop.”
She laughed, shaking against him. “You? A regular Joe? You can’t be serious!”
* * * * *
Six months later…
“Make it out to Sheila,” the woman says, steepling her hands together in excited little taps.
I scratch it out, my fingers ready to bleed. “There you go, Sheila,” I say, handing the book back, the smile still plastered on my face.
“Thank you! Thank you!” she gushes, adding with a brush to my hand, “and good luck to you!”
“Thanks,” I say. Mainly because boy oh boy, do I need it. And after a solid hour and a half, she’s the last in line. Still, Expressway Arabesque is a hit, Tanaka and Shields’ first movie is now in the hands of the scriptwriters, Book Five is already half finished, and Renee and Consuelo both think I walk on water. I arch my back, feeling it ready to break. Walking on land would be a wonderful alternative.
“You all done?” Roark says, coming over.
“Done is right. Ooh,” I groan, “get the crane.”
Roark gets behind me and, slipping his hands under my arms, lifts my ever-expanding body to my feet. I stand, teetering. “You okay, baby?”
Feet, which once again, have fallen asleep. “I think it’s time I enter my confinement.”
He cocks his head. “Did you say retirement?”
I wave him off. “As if. I have a feeling three months from now just a nap on the sofa will be a fond memory.”
“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll be right there with you.”
I shoot him a look. “I think I’ve had enough of your help.” I ease around the table to the front and prop my steadily widening rear against it. “I swear, one screw in a train stop shelter and what does it get me? Triplets! Seriously, Roark, can’t you ever do anything small-time?”
“What’s the point in that, Mrs. Carmelli?” he asks, pulling me to him. I snuggle against his chest and he rubs my back. It feels so good I’d like to melt into a puddle at his feet. Then he sighs. “You regret it?”
I know what he means, surprised he hasn’t asked me sooner. For all my bitching and moaning he’s remained stoic, but he’s right. He always has been. He was always in this too, right with me.
I hug him, as tightly as my massive belly will allow. “No. Never. Not from day one, no matter how much I natter on about it.”
“Really?” he asks softly, still the skeptic.
I step away, throwing out my hands. “Isn’t this proof enough!”
He tosses a glance over his shoulder, pulling me back. “Shh! Pam! You’re making a scene. Can’t you see we’re in a public place?”
I arch a brow. “Oh, as if that’s ever stopped us before.”
“Or now,” he says, taking my mouth in one truly erotic kiss. “So you want to sneak into the back room then?”
“Roark!” I say, sotto voce, catching many a furtive snicker. “I’m big as a barn! What’ll these people think?”
He grins, tracing his finger over my lips. “Whatever they want, baby. Because at least for us, isn’t the reality of it always better?”
I can’t help smiling. That truth will trump fiction any day of the week.
The End
About Trudy Doyle
TRUDY DOYLE has worked as a newspaper reporter, advertising copywriter, mortgage loan officer, casino slot cashier, proofreader and bookseller, and is currently an Assistant Professor of English, all while writing some of the most cogent and incisive novels known to modern literature. Besides continually exceeding the bar, she believes 70% cacao chocolate should qualify for a tax deduction, James Carville and Rush Limbaugh ought to settle it once and for all in a naked Jell-O pit fight, and Maureen Dowd is the new Mark Twain. Trudy lives, writes and waxes political deep in the heart of Southern New Jersey.
Trudy welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email addresses on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Making a Scene
ISBN 9781419941023
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Making a Scene Copyright © 2013 Trudy Doyle
Edited by Jillian Bell
Cover design by Syneca and Fiona Jayde
Photos: RomanceNovelCovers.com, mrHasnson and Check35/Shutterstock.com
Electronic book publication February 2013
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