Missed Connections Box Set

by Jeffe Kennedy

  “Hey.” He snagged me around the waist and pulled me in. “No kiss hello?”

  I gave him a fast peck. “There.”

  “Oh, not even.” He got that mischievous cant to his brows and didn’t let me go. With a long look at my mouth, he slowly lowered his head, settled his lips on mine and then deepened it. I totally melted. Over the last thirty hours or so, I’d pretty much convinced myself that it wasn’t anything in particular about Damien—I’d just been ready to burst with my own untried sexuality.

  But this. Oh.

  Oh yeah, there was something about this guy. He tasted of salt and mint, with a lovely sweet scent of…

  “Why do I smell cinnamon buns?” I asked, then sniffed. “And chocolate.”

  He burst out laughing. “You’re like a bloodhound. And it’s a surprise.”

  “But—”

  “Well, hello, you two.” Amy trilled out the greeting, her voice full of delight. Shit. I’d forgotten all about her. In the space of less than two minutes. So much for that sharp brain I was supposed to have. Damien had a knack for melting it away.

  “Ugh,” I muttered.

  “What?” Damien asked, just as quietly. “Who is she?”

  “Hi, I’m Amy. Marcia’s housemate.”

  “Damien,” he replied, shaking the hand she extended.

  “So I see.” She held his hand a moment, slid a look brimming with amusement at me, and shook his hand again. “I definitely see. And you wore the snazzy boots. Good girl.”

  “Well,” I said, “we were just going. Goodbye, Amy.”

  “Bye! Have fun. Not too late. It’s a school night, dontcha know.”

  “Let’s go,” I told Damien, grabbing “my” helmet, and putting my foot on the brace. Getting me on and in place took up enough attention that I could ignore Amy, still standing there with keen interest. Damien gave her a little wave, and we zoomed off. Down the block and then to a stop sign on the next corner.

  “I think it’s safe to at least get your helmet tightened properly,” he said. “Let us see.” He turned in the seat to look at me, fixing the strap I still hadn’t quite figured out, and studying my face as he did. “Are you ashamed of me, luv?”

  “What?” His bright eyes flicked to mine in slight alarm at the volume of my question. “No,” I hurried to add. “It’s just… Amy is one of my housemates.”

  “Yeah, I got that bit.”

  “And we’ve all been friends forever. Since college, anyway. Freshman year.”

  “Okay?” He sounded puzzled and I didn’t blame him. I was a babbling idiot. Even I didn’t understand me.

  “It’s just that, ah, I don’t see that many guys. I mean, date. Like this, and all.”

  “Yeah, I figured that much out.”

  He had? Well, of course he had. I was an open book. One full of spinsterish cray.

  “I don’t know how to explain,” I said, feeling more than a little miserable. “I’m sorry.”

  “No big deal, luv. Just checking.” He tapped my nose, smiling, but there was something kind of sad behind it.

  “It is a big deal. I didn’t mean to—” hurt your feelings. But that seemed presumptuous.

  “Tell you what. Think about it on the ride and you can tell me the story when we get there.”

  “Where?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Surprise, remember? Hang on.”

  I did, and good thing, because he took off with a burst of speed that snapped my neck back. He might be more annoyed than he’d let on. This was what came of trying not to be too clingy—I ended up sounding like I didn’t care. No wonder my mom had never wanted to date, as hard as it was.

  Until she did want to.

  Like I suddenly wanted to. Because Damien had changed that. For the first time I experienced a twinge of curiosity about this George. Who was this guy who got my mom out of her determined hermitage?

  Damien took us down Lakeshore Drive, the lake a surging, restless mass of all shades of gray. I even put down my visor, to cut the chill wind. He turned into Millennium Park, then to the ice rink. I couldn’t figure out how to undo the visor piece to put it up again, but Damien simply unlatched my strap and pulled off my helmet.

  “Ice skating?” I asked, when I got my hair out of my face.

  “They just opened yesterday, with the tree-lighting. Too bad we couldn’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  He gave me a funny look. “Because it would have been fun. Romantic. Don’t you like a little romance?”

  “Well, yeah, but I didn’t think—” I cut myself off. Too late, though.

  “Didn’t think I did?” He raked his asymmetrical fall of hair back, then took my mittened hand. “Fair enough, I guess. So far this has been more about sex than romance. Go figure.”

  “Go figure?” I echoed.

  “Yeah. You seem like a chick who usually does things in the reverse order.”

  I supposed I was. Or had been. “That was good Marcia,” I said, in a flip tone, rewarded by his laugh.

  People already swirled about on the ice. Little kids falling on their butts while their parents laughed and bent to lift them again by the armpits. Teenagers hanging on the wall, trying to look cool. An older couple in tailored boiled wool trench coats glided arm in arm, their silver hair a perfect match, steps perfectly in sync.

  Damien was renting skates for us and raised a brow at me. “Size…six?”

  “Yes,” I answered, surprised.

  “Used to work in a shoe shop,” he confided. “Would madam like me to fit her skates?”

  “She would,” I replied in an arch tone, plopping myself on the bench.

  He ran his hands over the electric-blue heeled boots, massaging my calves and ankles in that inexplicably erotic way. “The snazzy boots.”

  I blushed. Of course. “Amy talked me into buying them, that’s why she said something. She’s in fashion design.”

  “She has a good eye. These are amazing on you.”

  “Too bad I’m just taking them off,” I breathed.

  “Maybe later you can take everything else off and just wear these.” His eyes sparkled with that wicked lust I liked so well and I relaxed inside, grateful I hadn’t ruined things, even though the image he conjured seemed scandalously indecent.

  “Okay,” I said. There. He grinned back and pulled off my boot.

  “Aw, no sparkles today,” he commented.

  I wiggled my toes in my basic black wool socks. “I thought I’d be a grown-up.”

  “What’s the fun in that?”

  He quickly laced up my skates. They were white leather and pretty with their gleaming silver blades. Very Little Women. If only I had a white fur muff and a blue velvet skating gown. But after Damien had his skates on and helped me hobble to the rink, steadying me with athletic ease, there was romance aplenty.

  Dusk had fallen and the golden lamps lit everything with a gentle glow, the shining arch of the Bean reflecting them back from over the Park Grill. Fog misted over the gray skyscrapers, their lights much dimmer, the business end of the city sleeping for the time being. I’d done my share of ice-skating during the dull midwestern winters on the pond in Spring Creek, and it came back to me fairly quickly.

  True to his nature, Damien tried some tricks, showing off for me. Laughing both when I applauded and when he fell. Then we just skated for a while, the music making it like a dance. A little girl skated by, more toddling than gliding, holding onto her dad’s hand with a fierce grip. A purple parka was zipped over a gauzy princess gown that stood out around her baggy tights like dandelion tufts on a crumpled stem. Her face, though, was alight with the thrill, and I remembered that feeling, of truly believing I looked like a real princess.

  “That’s you,” Damien said, indicating with his chin. “I picture you just like that.”

  “Only without the dad,” I replied, without thinking.

  “Sorry—I didn’t mean to be callous. Must have been really hard that he died.”

 
Ugh. The wages of sin. Lies beget more lies. “I don’t know why I said that.” My voice was surprisingly smooth, surprising that I was telling him this at all. “Except that it’s kind of a shortcut. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. He didn’t stay around long enough to see me born. Probably never knew my mom got pregnant.”

  “Wow.” He mulled that over. “Do you always tell people he’s dead?”

  “Not really? It doesn’t come up much. And, who knows, he could be.”

  “So he never tried to contact you at all?”

  “I don’t think he even knows about me.”

  “Ah, luv, I’m sorry.”

  Unexpectedly, his sympathy got to me, making me a little misty. “I wrote him a letter once, asking him to come get us.”

  “You did? Ballsy of you.”

  “I don’t know about that. I was five and I addressed it to “Daddy,” of all things, and put it in the mailbox on the corner, with a stamp even.” I laughed, thinking back to all that girlish hopefulness. “Who knew where that thing ended up? Probably some postal worker put it in the file of wherever undeliverable mail goes. Or shredded it. It never came back, even though I’d painstakingly printed our return address on it. And inside, too. Five times, to make sure he knew where to find us.” It made me cringe to think of it. Good thing it never came back for my mom to see. She would have killed me.

  Damien squeezed my hand. “We believe in all kinds of dreams when we’re little.”

  “Yeah. I had this whole fantasy of how it would go. We’d be at home, maybe sitting on the wooden front porch—I don’t know why as we never did that kind of thing—and this big white limousine would glide up the street. My dad would be handsome, wearing a tuxedo. He’d be hanging out the sun roof in the top, with two enormous bouquets of roses—red for my mom and pink for me—and he’d be calling our names. The letter had gone astray, but he’d finally gotten it, and as soon as he’d read it, he’d come for us. All the neighbors would come out, pointing and gasping, including Caitlin Diver, who was always so mean to me. My dad would leap out of the limo and sweep my mother into his arms while I did perfect pirouettes around them. And then he’d take us to his castle to live happily ever after.”

  “To Neuschwanstein castle.”

  I laughed. “You pay attention.”

  “It makes sense. And that’s a great story. Detailed.”

  “Well, I had an active imagination. And maybe watched Pretty Woman too many times.”

  “Kind of adult themes for a five-year-old.”

  “I was on my own a lot, with mom working extra hours and jobs. And I embroidered on this fantasy for years until I got old enough to get a grip on what likely happened.”

  Damien slid me a look. “I hope it’s not what I’m thinking.”

  “No, though when I took women’s studies, the thought definitely crossed my mind. But the signs aren’t there. I don’t think he raped my mother, and I doubt it was sexual abuse within the family, even if she was only sixteen. She won’t talk about him but I think they were just young, horny, and careless. And she was a good Catholic girl, so she kept me and did her best.”

  “She must be a helluva woman, doing all that on her own.”

  I guess I hadn’t seen it that way, always fuming over her many failures. “She is. She really is.”

  “Did she remarry? Any knitting stepparents in your world?”

  I laughed. “No. She never even dated anyone. Until…”

  “Until?”

  “Well—remember my shitty day?”

  “How could I forget?” He cocked a wry smile at me. “Your shitty day was the best I’d had in ages.”

  “Charmer. The fight I had with her—that day she’d told me that she’s dating some guy. George. She wanted me to come for Thanksgiving to meet his kids. Adult kids, that is. In Minneapolis, of all places.”

  “Ah. And what was the fight about?”

  “What do you mean?” But even as I said it, I realized I couldn’t remember exactly what all the anger and misery had been about. I’d been so mad at her for not telling me, but I hadn’t said anything to her about meeting Damien. Because it was so new. And precious in this way that didn’t feel like it could withstand examination.

  That’s how she’d felt.

  “I was being an idiot.” I sighed, and he squeezed my hand. The older couple skated by again, exchanging some observation they both smiled at.

  “Not really,” Damien said. “I hear Minneapolis is brutally cold.”

  “Right?” I laughed. “So, I’m not going with them, but she wants me to meet George. Lunch on Tuesday.”

  “Ah.” He nodded sagely. “Meeting the future stepparent. Always weird. I don’t blame you for dreading it.”

  Dreading it. Was I? Okay, that wasn’t far off. “Any pro tips?”

  He shrugged a little. “The usual, I guess. Be polite. Don’t sweat the small shit. It’s not like this guy will have the power to ground you or bitch about your marks, so you can afford to be generous.”

  “That makes sense.” Which, too, came as a relief.

  “I’m free Tuesday at lunch. If you want, bring me along for comic relief,” he suggested, spinning and taking both my hands, skating backwards with enviable ease.

  “You’ll run into someone.”

  “Nah—you won’t let me. What do you say?”

  “That there’s someone—ack, look out!”

  He glanced over his shoulder, navigating around the group. “See? We make a good team.”

  “You seriously want me to introduce you to my mother?”

  Damien’s smile faded. “Are we back to you being weird about anyone knowing you’re seeing me?”

  I nearly sputtered, having too many things to wrestle there. We were “seeing each other”? I wasn’t being weird. No more than usual. I wasn’t ashamed of him, even if Damien wasn’t exactly the guy I’d imagined showing off to my friends and family. That guy…I’d kind of lost the image I’d had of him. Square-jawed, blond, stalwart and inclined to buy diamond engagement rings. Kind of Richard Gere, now that I thought about it. Past time to let that go.

  Skating to a stop, I guided him over to an empty spot on the wall. I couldn’t skate, keep him from hitting people, and think about this all at the same time. “Sure, if you want to come to lunch, then great. I can’t imagine why you’d want to.” My mother would maybe burst an artery, but what the hell.

  “Will you be weird about it?”

  “I’m pretty much always weird,” I admitted. “But particularly around my mother and this…unusual event will not bring out the best in me. And she’s…probably not going to be nice to you. I advise you to run.”

  Instead, he kissed me. Nudging me back against the barrier and sliding his lean thigh between mine, taking the kiss deep enough to have me flashing wet and hot and needy in a breathless instant. “I think I’m sticking,” he murmured. “Weird has always worked for me.”

  Okay then.

  “Ready for a picnic?” he asked.

  “Cinnamon rolls and hot chocolate? Yes, please.”

  “Can’t get anything by you, luv.”

  We turned in our skates and walked over to stake out a spot at one of the fire pits. Damien ran to fetch the goodies from his panniers, bringing back the insulated bag and thermos. The cinnamon rolls were meltingly warm and sweet, redolent of all the best spices, crispy shells giving way to gooey centers. Damien produced a folding cup for my hot chocolate, drinking out of the lid himself.

  “So, what all jobs have you had?” I asked him. “Besides delivery guy, shoe salesman, waiter.” I ticked them off on my fingers.

  He cocked the pierced brow at me. “How did you know I’d been a waiter?”

  “When we went to dinner—you called the table a two-top. Waiter.”

  “You, too?”

  “All through high school, at the Busy Bee diner.”

  “Did you wear one of those blue-checked dresses with the frilly white apron?”

 
; I giggled. “No. Not even close.”

  He sighed dramatically. “Damn. You’d be sexy in an outfit like that.”

  I elbowed him. “You think I’m sexy in everything.” I’d meant it as a joke, but the truth of that hit me with enough force to take my breath.

  “Yes.” He caught my chin and kissed me, the grip turning into his hand cupping my cheek and sliding back behind my neck to stroke the tender nape. “Speaking of…back to your place?”

  It was early yet and they’d all likely be home. Maybe even Charley. “How about yours?”

  He shook his head with a grimace. “I am a slob, and I haven’t done laundry. My sheets—you don’t want to see that.”

  I squelched the urge to offer to wash his stuff for him. The path to picking out wedding china. Chill and enjoy.

  “Wait,” he said. “I know a place we can go.”

  “Not an old-style-inn?” I teased as he dragged me along, fired up with his idea.

  He tossed me a wicked grin over his shoulder. “Not even close.”

  ~ 11 ~

  Well, okay—but I didn’t expect a warehouse.

  I handed Damien my helmet, staring dubiously at the corrugated tin siding, relentlessly lit by a single caged bulb over the door. “Is this the part where you sell me into slavery in some brothel in South America and I’m never heard from again?”

  He unlocked the sliding doors, pocketed the keys and pushed his bike inside, pausing to elbow on the light. “Seems like I could have done that when I got you sick-drunk on whiskey.”

  “Point,” I replied, following him in. The place was stacked with packages, a forklift sitting in one corner, shadows looming in the rest. “This is where you work.”

  “The mother ship of all packages for delivery,” he agreed, carefully finding a spot and parking the bike. “Come here, luv.”

  “It’s cold in here,” I said, dubiously, but went to him, unable to resist that quirk of wickedness.

  “I’ll warm you up,” he murmured, leaning me against the bike and undoing my parka. “I’ve been thinking about doing this. Remembering all these curves.”

  Sure enough, I heated up plenty fast. He had his hands under my sweater, my bra undone, and me squirming and mewling against him in no time. Magic hands and mouth on this guy. No wonder he’d been the one.