Switch and Bait

by Ricki Schultz

  I am kind of an idiot.

  But given this new information, something else begins to buzz in my ear. I cross to the railing that overlooks the Reflecting Pool. Take in the illuminated ripples that wrinkle the satin surface of the water below.

  And then I flip around.

  Say a little too loudly: “If that’s the case, then why didn’t you let me explain on New Year’s Eve? Why’d you leave?”

  A guard at the top of the steps shakes his head and steps farther back at his post.

  Henry gives off an infuriating chuckle and comes the rest of the way down the steps to join me. He holds on to the railing and stretches his arms, like this conversation is so exhausting it’s giving him back problems, and once he’s nice and limber again, he rounds on me.

  “Is this what you came here for? To reopen old wounds before you go?”

  “No—I—”

  “You weren’t interested in anything with me. I was good for a one-night stand, remember? Why the hell did you say that to your best friend if that wasn’t how you really felt? You didn’t want me. I was a joke. Hell no, I wasn’t going to listen to anything else you had to say.”

  His words tether me to my spot.

  It takes me a while to recover. I just blink away the moisture I don’t want him to see.

  “I’m sorry. I just—” I face him, my heart thudding inside my chest. “Of course I wanted you. I think…I’ve always wanted you.”

  “Then why’d you try to set me up with somebody else? Why’d you try to pass yourself off as Ansley?”

  “I—I didn’t know—”

  I turn away. I can’t look at him when I ask him this. I think it’s just going to intensify the anger in his stare and I’d rather not see it if I can help it.

  “Are you two…going on that date then?”

  He scoffs. “What the hell are you talking about, woman? No, despite your best efforts to force us to be together, Ansley bought me for you, you ass. It’s not her fault she didn’t know you were leaving town four seconds later. Things don’t work with Ansley because she isn’t who I want. She was never the one I wanted.”

  Silence presses upon me as I try to wrap my mind around everything he’s saying. He stares me down, a mixture of hurt and frustration and something else swirling through his rugged features.

  I’m shaking my head—tears threatening to spill from my eyes—because truthfully, I don’t know what else to say. I hate that I’m going.

  And then suddenly he grabs me. Shuts me up before I can say anything to screw this up.

  He crushes me to his solid chest, and it’s warm. He’s warm. His stubbly cheeks, his hands on my face, every inch of his body that touches mine.

  An explosion of everything we’ve apparently been wanting to say for—I don’t know, ten years?—sparks between our lips, and with every passing second, the strings deep down inside me pull tighter. Yearn more for him.

  “Take your shoes off,” he whispers and reaches for my hand. I fumble to oblige. Frantic and desperate to wrench off my heels and unsure of where he’s going with this, where he’s taking me, but suddenly we’re off running.

  Giggling like a couple of horny teenagers.

  Sprinting down another set of stairs, toes squishing across the lawn, the cool night air and the anticipation breathing life into my lungs.

  “Where are we going?” I giggle but just let him lead me—tug me—toward a little brick structure tucked away on the hillside.

  “The grotto” is all he says.

  I repeat it in my head. I’ve probably run past it a hundred times but never noticed it before.

  In the darkness, the greenery is hard to distinguish, but when we get up close, the unmistakable scent of tulips confirms that the blanket of flowers laid out in front are, in fact, my favorite spring flower.

  Once we arrive at the building, Henry offers a furtive glance then his expression becomes playful. A seductive little head jerk and he lures me inside. Ensnares me with his stare. We slip past the wrought iron gates, through the basket weave design of the red brick walls, and into the open hexagon.

  My mouth parts because, holy hell, is it gorgeous. How could I never have known it was here?

  I pace around the perimeter, running a finger along the brick fountain that sits at the center. The water rushes. Hastens. I can almost feel it flowing through me, and I’m about to say as much, but I glance up at Henry and his gaze, still burning, pulls the words right from my head. He makes his way over and rips the heels from my free hand. Tosses them aside, next to one of the stone benches, and I gasp.

  Then laugh as I catch my breath.

  “I’ve never heard of—”

  “It’s called the Summerhouse. You want a history lesson or do you want to pick up where we left off?”

  I laugh again and then silence him with my mouth. Start in on the buttons of his shirt. All but rip it open to get at that chest of his. Desperate to feel his flesh on mine.

  He scoops me right off the ground before I can finish the task, but he does it for me. A ribbed tank top below revealing such sinew in his trapezius muscles that I can’t seem to keep from sinking my teeth deep into one.

  This elicits a low groan from him, a rumble from somewhere in the depths, that vibrates me to my very core and sends a curl all the way down to my toes.

  Desire racing through my body as the fountain splashes. Courses on.

  His expression turns from playful to more serious now. He sets his jaw. His brow curves downward. He gazes down at me, determination emanating from his blue eyes. As though he’s been locked away for years—starved—and he’s about to devour every last inch of me.

  He steadies me with stalwart hands—one on each thigh.

  Squeeze.

  I tense at the sensation as it ripples through me and all but beg for more as he glides my dress up to expose my hot skin to the night air.

  I suck in a breath.

  Bite down on a quavering lip to keep quiet as he slides the soaked material of my thong aside, catching a bit of my delicate skin as he does so, moving the fabric out of the way of his destination.

  He’s inches away from where I need him, and I can’t take it much longer.

  He meets my gaze, eyes now ablaze, for a hitch of a moment. Mine plead with him and then slowly, mercifully, he drifts down my body and slips his tongue inside me.

  Hungry.

  Igniting me.

  Drinking in every last piece of my soul as he stops time.

  I cry out. And the hollow sound dissipates as it reaches the open ceiling, but I dare not do it again. My pulse wild at what he’s doing to me.

  At the thought that we could get caught.

  But then I reach for the back of his head and beseech him harder. Deeper. His lips soft and yielding against every part of me.

  He takes his time, no matter my insistence. His teeth grazing velvet as he swallows me whole. Kneading his thumbs into my flesh. Teasing my clit with the tip of his tongue.

  But as his own need increases, so does his urgency.

  I’m reaching for him. Imploring him.

  And finally he relents.

  Hovering over me, the heat radiating between us, I cast away his belt. Stretch my fingers as I delve beneath his boxer briefs and discover that the stone pressed at my back is no match for how hard he is.

  I steal the condom right from his fingers just as he’s about to put it on and I take over. Begin its slow, deliciously torturous descent down the length of him.

  He struggles against my grip. Biceps all but popping—straining—as he holds himself up. A desperate attempt to keep it together as I roll it all the way, pitilessly. Mercilessly. He shivers as I smooth it down, the latex taut and cool.

  And, the eager look in his eyes, I know we must give in.

  One hand at the small of my back, he guides me to a seated position. Twists my legs on either side of him in a straddle that yanks at muscles I didn’t know I had. Sends sparks down my legs, and the
sweet pain gives me life.

  He relinquishes control of my hips and eases me down slowly—unforgivingly—onto his swollen cock, and I can’t escape a sharp intake of breath as he enters me all the way.

  Our gazes meet, a touch crazed. A fire blazing behind them.

  There’s nothing else but this, but now. And suddenly I crave his mouth so I can tell him everything with every inch of me possible as he fills me up with every bit of him.

  Raw, he gives me everything he has—and there’s no more care for the noises we make. For how loud we are or who might discover us.

  There’s no room for thought.

  No room for anxiety, for holding back.

  Nothing but our two bodies struggling against the coils tightening inside. Tightening past the point of all sense. Of all judgment.

  Until finally

  At last

  they break free.

  He holds me there, still sitting, still enduring every last undulation until the shockwaves burn out. Cradles my head against his chest, his skin caught in the glow from the moonlight that spills in through the open ceiling.

  We tremble against each other there for a long while, wrapped in each other’s arms, the delicate sheen of sweat chilling us from a cruel breeze, and I have never felt more at peace. More at home.

  More me.

  “Holy fuck,” he finally says.

  A chuckle returning us both back to Earth.

  “Holy fuck indeed.”

  November

  I don’t know where Gordon found this giant pair of scissors, but they’re heavier than I thought they’d be.

  “Can you give me a hand with this?” I ask as he flutters around the front window, arranging and rearranging the display for the fifty-seventh time.

  “There’s a nice little crowd waiting,” he says, and I’m afraid to look outside. Afraid to open my eyes at all today because this is like a dream and I’m afraid, once I start my spiel, once reality sets in, I’m going to realize that’s exactly what it should have stayed.

  “Come on, girl.” He tugs at my wrist. “Your adoring public awaits.”

  When we get outside, a brisk wind whips through my hair as I duck under the ribbon stretched across the entryway. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck while a modest popcorn of applause greets me on the other side of the door.

  One last breath.

  And then I step out a little bit farther on the pavement. Gaze out over a sea of faces who’ve had my back from the very beginning. Whether I always knew I needed it or not.

  A new kind of tightness wraps its way around my throat as I see Graham and Isla. Her in her wheelchair, Livvy in her lap—him standing behind his beaming wife, Ella in his arms. They’re a new kind of Rockwell painting, there on the sidewalk. Each smile giant, genuine, and nothing short of catching.

  Gordon, who keeps looking at his watch like Get on with it already—we need to open.

  The handful of my former employees, some of whom have asked if they can join us here, once we get cooking to the point where Gordon and I can hire some extra help.

  Ansley, who, despite the unconventional way we met, made me break my rules and who, because of it, has become a true friend.

  And then there’s Henry.

  Who, regardless of my naysaying, my negativity, my inability to see how I could possibly Do This, showed patience and love every step of the way. He who helped me see that it wasn’t Impossible. Who assisted in laying it out, just what I’d need to do. How long (or how short, as it were) I’d have to stay at corporate to set aside the cash needed to open this little bookstore of mine.

  He’s leaned up against the brick storefront with a bouquet of tulips dangling from one hand. Where the hell he imported those from in November? I’ll never know.

  I snag his smile, and I know I’m ready.

  “I want to thank you all for being here today to support me in this crazy endeavor. It’s been a pretty wild six months, but with a lot of convincing from you all, standing here, I finally think maybe this can be real.”

  I turn to G.

  “Gordon, thank you for allowing me back into our home after I left you for the Big City. I couldn’t ask for a better business partner, and friend.”

  “Traitor!” He laughs, and amusement ripples through the crowd.

  “And to my wonderful boyfriend.” The word still sets fireflies loose beneath my skin. “Henry. Who pushes me to get out of my own way and to be less of a pain in the ass. I thank you, and—” I cut my stare to Isla because what I’m about to say might actually knock her over, and then back to him.

  It might knock him over too.

  “I love you.”

  The phrase takes wing, and I feel like I’m floating above the sidewalk right along with it.

  There are excited titters from the group, and I choose not to look Henry in the face because this is a first admission for me, for us, and maybe I should have kept my stupid trap shut, but I’m filled with so much Happiness at the moment, I couldn’t possibly have contained it.

  “G?” I throw it to Gordon, who clomps over with the big scissors.

  “And now, I’m ecstatic to bring you—” Model presenter pose. “Books, Booze & Banter.”

  * * *

  The next two hours go by in the turn of a page.

  I do my interview with the reporter Ansley arranged to have meet us and watch her beam from across the room as she chats up a guy—who dribbles coffee down the front of his shirt when she approaches. She returns his embarrassment with a warm smile and, although they’ll probably never be able to visit the Smithsonian, I’m thinking they’re going to be just fine.

  I give each new patron a tour of the place, highlighting especially the Poetry and Pairings section, where Gordon used his wino skills to make suggestions about what you should be drinking when you’re reading your favorite lines; the juice bar slash kids’ section, complete with a bean bag chair reading nook; the coffee bar with high-top tables and plenty of room for students to settle in and get some work done; and the Chat Corner, which is just two cushy leather chairs right now, where we’ll host weekly discussions on What’s New and What’s Important in Lit.

  I stand back from the scene and enjoy the gentle murmur of people buzzing about the place. Everyone seems to be having a great time. Gordon’s singing as he rings up books, and I can’t keep the swell in my chest down anymore.

  Just as I enjoy my Proud Mama moment, Henry sidles up, a grin dancing on his lips.

  “Congrats, babe.” He gives me a small kiss on my cheek.

  I nod, still taking it all in. “Thank you. Yep, this is either going to be a fantastic thing, or a colossal failure.” I hold up my glass of pinot noir.

  “As with all things.” He chuckles and clinks my glass.

  “So, uh…”

  I glance at him over my drink.

  “Yes?” Like I don’t know what’s coming.

  “Did that just slip out? Caught in the moment? We haven’t said that yet.” His eyes are soft as they stare down into mine.

  I let out a guffaw. “Saying ‘I love you’? I mean, probably, yeah. But no. It wasn’t an accident. We haven’t said it yet, but I’ve felt it for a while now. So I’m saying it.” And then I get the urge again. “I love you.”

  Saying it terrifies and electrifies me all at once. I haven’t said it to anyone since I can remember. And I know there’s not a rule about it, but if there had been, it definitely would have gone something like this—Rule Number 14: Don’t tell someone you love them first. Especially not in front of a bunch of people.

  But I can’t help it.

  I do love him.

  “This is either going to be a fantastic thing, or a colossal failure,” I repeat with a laugh.

  He takes the wineglass from my fingers and wraps me into his arms, a warmth that radiates from the inside out.

  And then he shakes his head and entangles me in a kiss that tears down all the rest of the bricks I’d thought were permanentl
y cemented in place. Crushes them with a mallet.

  Reduces them to dust.

  “I love you too, you ass,” he whispers.

  And we laugh and laugh.

  Acknowledgments

  The process of creating a book, from writing to publication, can be like online dating. There’s the hope, the excitement, the disappointment, the peaks and valleys, the lies we tell ourselves—and the crippling self-doubt. We’re constantly judging ourselves and others, constantly being judged, and there are plenty of times we eat vats of cookie dough ice cream because we’re ready to hang it all up. But, in the end, we keep putting on that lipstick because we want to make a good impression. To come off as hot and fabulous. To say the right things. Be the perfect blend of cute and sexy, hilarious and charming, witty and kind. Hair flip.

  Even though a lot of writing and revision happens as the result of an individual author blocking out the world and putting pen to paper, fingertips to keyboard, the process itself is anything but a solitary endeavor. We all need our Blanches—a slew of them, really—to help us put our best foot forward. These are the people in our lives who say, DO YOU REALLY WANT TO WEAR THAT TOP?, who help us refine our ideas—the ones who help us get out of our own way by reminding us we’re perfect and that our asses look amazing in those jeans during the times we may forget. We need these people to keep us going. To help us be better. So that what the world sees in the finished product is superlative—that it represents us and our stories in the best way possible.

  That said, I couldn’t do any of this without the guidance, support, and friendship of my agent Barbara Poelle. From bad puns and dumb jokes I tell her to the inception of plot ideas (sometimes coming from those bad puns and dumb jokes), she is always there to put things in perspective and guide me in the right direction. Every time things get tough, as they often do in publishing, or when I’m a tense, stressed-out worry wart (so, always?), B is there, and I thank my lucky stars every day that someone as savvy, as professional, and as fantastically ruthless as she is (in the best of all possible ways!) has my back. Thank you for everything, B. I can never say that enough.