by James, Sandy
“Sorry.” Mark had that naughty boy twinkle in his eye. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
I opened one of the upper cupboards and found the instant tea.
His hand was on me again, rubbing circles from my shoulder blades to the small of my back. He was making it impossible to do something as simple as measure a couple of tablespoons of powder into the carafe. Because of Mark’s touch, I was turning into a dimwit.
I hadn’t felt this rattled since the junior high school dance when Pete McKinnon had slipped his hand under my arm to brush my boob.
When Mark’s hand slid up to my neck, I spilled the spoonful of instant mix on the counter. “Shit.”
I tried to reach past Mark to get the wet dishcloth that was hanging over the faucet. He must have realized my train of thought because he picked it up and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, feeling clumsy and awkward.
I actually managed to make the tea without any other significant problems. When his fingers weren’t touching me, his eyes smoldered enough to have the same disconcerting effect. I poured two glasses, added some sweetener to mine, and offered some pink packets to him. He declined, picked up both the glasses, and led me to the sofa. I flopped a couple of coasters on the coffee table, and he set the drinks down. Then I ran out of things to keep my hands busy.
Mark sat on the sofa and reached up for my hand. I let him tug me down next to him, thigh to thigh. Jeans and all, I could feel the heat of him against me, could feel every inch of where we touched.
Scooting a little farther away, I turned and put a bent knee between us. “Um... I think we should talk.”
He sighed before he moved to face me, put his arm over mine where it rested on the back of the couch, and let his fingers stroke mine. “I still owe you an apology.”
“For?” It probably wasn’t wise to allow his caresses because they were horribly distracting and this was supposed to be a sober conversation about—
Shit. What were we talking about?
“For letting you believe that I didn’t care.”
Ah ha! We were talking about him not calling. I had trouble forming a coherent thought when Mark touched me. “Yeah, well...I’m over it.”
“No. You’re not.” His hand covered mine. Warm, slightly calloused, and all male.
“I’m not?”
“No, you’re not. I need to make it up to you. How about dinner next weekend?” Those warm fingers wrapped around my hand, making me feel comforted. And horribly giddy.
“That would be nice. It’s Fall Break. I’m off on Thursday and Friday.” Two days of sleep and peace, and now dinner with Mark Brennan. What more could a thirty-twelve-year old woman ask?
How about some hot, sweaty sex? my stupid and entirely immature thoughts suggested.
“Not yet,” I said before realizing I was speaking aloud.
“Not yet what?” Mark scooted even closer.
“Never mind,” I replied, feeling entirely stupid.
Pulling my hand away, I moved forward and reached for my tea. Perhaps a few sips of a cold drink would settle my scattered nerves.
I sat on the edge of the sofa, nursing my tea. Mark faced forward again and grabbed his own glass. We just sat there sipping iced tea, and I wondered if he felt as uncomfortable as I did.
“I’m really sorry, Jackie.”
I nodded, not sure what to say.
Mark set his tea back on his coaster. Then he turned back to me and grabbed both my hands to pull me to face him. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. I forgive you.”
Good heavens, this man could sure change my perception of reality. In slow motion, he sat back, pushed a hand under my knees, and lifted me onto his lap. He cupped my face with his palms and stared into my eyes. “Do you? Do you really forgive me? Because I almost made the worst mistake of my life.” He closed his eyes for a moment and rested his forehead against mine. When he opened his eyes and pulled back, I could see his pain. “I can’t believe I almost let you go.”
“I really forgive you.”
Mark touched his lips to mine. It was such a gentle kiss, so incredibly tender it brought tears to my eyes.
“Thank you,” he whispered as he ended the kiss and rested his forehead against mine again. “I’ll make it up to you.”
I couldn’t leave it at that, not with him thinking I was going to hold this over his head. “No need.”
He kissed me again, a little longer, a little deeper. I felt like my blood had turned to liquid heat. This time, when he eased away, I groaned in frustration.
Tired of being the passive player, I gave in for once to what I really wanted. I flipped to straddle him, put my hands to his face, and kissed him. The sexy growl he uttered when he opened his mouth to my insistent tongue sent fire straight to my core.
It had been far too long without feeling wanted, too long without that delicious visceral sensation of anticipation, too long without making love—really making love. I snaked my arms around his neck and leaned into the kiss.
No bells ringing in my head this time—at least no warning bells. There were, however, lots and lots of fireworks. Lights exploded in my brain. My heart pounded, begging for more. Sanity fled in a wash of warmth and primitive desire. My body screamed for him in a way I had never felt before, not even when David had actually taken the time to coax my response.
The kiss ended as we panted to breathe.
“God, Babe,” he whispered in my ear as he stroked my back. “I want you. I want to pick you up, carry you to your bed, and make love to you all night.” His hands settled on my hips, and he rocked his body up, leaving no question how much he meant what he said. The guy was hard as a rock, and I felt a luscious thrill knowing I had pulled that response from his body.
But my pride began to buzz at me like some annoying insect, prompted by years of strict Catholic upbringing. It might have been too long, but it was also too soon. “I want you too. I really do, but...”
He groaned. “But...”
“I’m not ready yet. I’m sorry, Mark. I am. This is all happening so—”
“Fast. I know, I know. But...”
He rocked his hips again, and the motion sent tremors ripping through me. If he did that again, I wasn’t sure I would be able to hold to my conviction.
“Do you like to hike?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you like to hike? To fish?” he asked with mischief clearly written all over his face.
“I love to hike. Fishing, sorry. Not my thing.” I waited to see what Mark had cooked up in that noggin of his.
“I have a really nice cabin in Munising, Michigan. It’s close to Hiawatha National Forest. Carly and I were heading up there for the break from school. I’d forgotten it was Fall Break this coming weekend.” He kissed my cheek. “Thanks for the reminder. We’ll have that dinner you agreed to at the cabin.”
“They say memory is the first thing to go when you get older.”
He shot me an irritated frown before he smiled with those incredibly white teeth. “My memory’s fine, thank you. Will you come with us to Michigan?”
“Really? You want me to go?”
“Yes, I want you to go. Why is that so hard to believe?”
I dismissed the notion with a wave of my hand.
He cupped my face with his hands. “Jackie, you’re incredible. You’re beautiful. You’re sexy. You’re smart. You’re funny. How can you not know that?”
He almost made me believe him. “Thank you.”
“If you don’t believe what I’m saying, I have other ways to convince you.” A sexy wink.
I decided it was time to move out of this entirely unladylike position. “I could really use some ice cream. You up for Dairy Queen?”
“I’m up for you.” He wiggled those gorgeous dark eyebrows.
Heavens, could I possibly blush any more than I already was? “I was thinking more about a banana split.”
Yeah, that was smart, Jacki
e. Why don’t you just set the innuendo opportunity up on a tee next time?
“I’ll let that one slide.”
“Thank you. That’s very gentlemanly of you.” I picked up the glasses, walked to the kitchen, and set them down by the sink. I fished my key chain out of my purse and jingled it. “You coming?”
Why did everything that came out of my mouth sound so dirty?
Mark snorted a laugh. “Not tonight—but I hope I don’t have to wait too long.” He came to stand by my side, put his index finger to my cheek, and made a noise that sounded like hamburger being seared on a grill. “Face a little warm? Let’s get some ice cream. It ought to cool you down.”
“Maybe it’ll cool you down too.” Take that, Mr. Double Entendre.
“Doubt it. Especially if you’re around.”
The man did wonders for my self-esteem.
He picked up my purse and slung it over my shoulder. “Will you go with us? Please?”
I nodded. “Sounds like fun. When do we leave?”
“Thursday morning. Bring your fishing pole.”
I groaned as I led him to my garage.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I stumbled across the bedroom grabbing for my robe and mumbling to myself.
It’s one in the morning. Who’s ringing the stupid doorbell at one in the morning?
Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I followed the strategically placed nightlights as if they were airport runway lights to the front door. The doorbell hadn’t stopped ringing.
“Hold your horses. I’m coming.” Pulling aside the curtain, I looked out the transom. “David?”
For a second, I considered not opening the door. There was no good reason for my ex-husband to be spastically ringing my doorbell at such a ridiculous hour.
Then I sighed in resignation. He was still the father of my kids, and I couldn’t leave him just standing there on my doorstep. Flipping the deadbolt, I jerked the door open. I smelled the alcohol before he even walked in the house. The odor surrounded him like a thick cloud.
“Phew.” I fanned my face. “I sure hope you weren’t driving.”
“Took a cab.” His slurred words.
“I suppose I have to pay for it.”
“I paid.” His brows knit in thought. “I leasht I think I paid. Geesh, Jackie. I can’t remember. Can you take care of it?” He had evidently pickled his short-term memory.
With a disgusted huff, I leaned my head out the door. No disgruntled cabbie was waiting, so I assumed David had taken care of that detail. I shut the door and locked it mostly out a habit. I’d be unlocking it to let him out as soon as I called Ashley to come get her Romeo.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
He stumbled into the great room and sprawled out on my couch, staring at the ceiling. “I need to talk to you.”
“At one in the morning? What could you possibly need to talk to me about that couldn’t wait until a decent hour?” I sniffed the air again and wrinkled my nose. “And why would you need to talk to me about it while you’re drunk?”
“I’m leaving Ashley.”
So... There was trouble with wife number two. Morbid curiosity was definitely getting the better of me, but I pushed it aside. Deep down I supposed I would always believe that marriage was supposed to be a lasting union. Even if most people—translate, everyone—had predicted a rocky road to happily ever after, the fact that David and Miss Hamilton County Fair were having problems was really kind of sad.
I arched an eyebrow. “That’s my problem because?”
“She hates you,” he drawled as he rolled from his back to his side and pushed himself to a semi-upright position. “Shesh jealous of you.”
“You’re drunk. You’ve got no idea what you’re saying.”
I took a couple of steps toward the phone, thinking the ex was delirious.
Ashley is jealous of me?
That was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard.
I grabbed the handset and began to punch numbers. “I’m calling your wife to come get you.”
For somebody so drunk, he moved awfully fast. He snatched the phone from my hands, clicked it off, and then threw it on the sofa. “I don’t wantcha to call...her.”
I glared at him, growing angrier by the second. “Just because you and Ashley are fighting doesn’t mean I’m the Holiday Inn. Go home, David. I’ll call your wife, or I’ll call a cab. Doesn’t matter to me which.”
“She hates you.”
“The feeling is mutual.”
“She knows I schtill love you.” He took a couple of awkward steps toward me.
I had to fight the uncomfortable urge to take a step back. “You’re drunk.” And you’re entirely full of shit.
David was close enough to run a wobbly hand down my arm. That used to be the extent of foreplay the last year or so of our marriage. “Jackie...I made a big mischtake.”
I swatted his hand away, thinking how utterly absurd this whole situation was. When David had come home and announced that he had knocked up Ashley and “owed it to her and the baby” to marry her, I’d harbored all sorts of elaborate fantasies. I’d even admit to some of them involving David’s violent and bloody mutilation, but the most frequent storyline was a version of exactly what was happening now.
Well, not exactly. He wasn’t drunk as a skunk in my musings.
He would come back, preferably crawling on hands and knees, to tell me he’d been horribly wrong. He didn’t want infantile Ashley and her perky boobs and flat stomach. He still wanted me—just good ole me. I would welcome him back with open arms. We would have sex that, for once, was satisfying enough I didn’t have to fake an orgasm. Then we’d live happily ever after.
They had been comforting fantasies meant to salvage my shredded self-esteem for being pushed aside for a younger, prettier woman. But that was all those thoughts had ever really been. Fantasies. Because I had to live in the real world where Ashley had married David and had given him a son, fantasies were all they could be.
After the first few months, those silly fantasies faded. Don’t get me wrong. I still wanted the man hobbled and brought to his knees. Doesn’t any woman who feels discarded ultimately wish all sorts of bad karma for the guy who threw her away?
But it didn’t take long to realize I was happier without David than I’d ever been with him, and the dreams no longer involved him coming back. They mostly revolved around winning the lottery and rubbing his nose in it.
I might have been sleeping alone every night, and I might have missed being in love—but I’d come to recognize that a one-sided relationship wasn’t really a relationship. David might have loved me in his own warped way, but he wasn’t in love with me. If he had been, Ashley would never have been the irresistible temptation that she was.
A part of me would always love David Ryan, and a part of me would always hate him.
But not a single part of me wanted him back.
“C’mon, schweetheart.” He reached for me again. “I mished you so much. Ashley doesn’t get me.”
“David, I don’t think you should be telling me about your wife.” I moved around him, got to the sofa, and bent over trying to reach the phone.
He grabbed my shoulders, spun me around, and tackled me to the couch. The stupid cordless was pressing hard into my back, David’s sour alcohol breath was in my face, and it took all my self-control not to bring my knee up hard into his groin. “Get off me!”
“Jackie, I’ve mished you so much.” He tried to kiss me.
I turned my head fast enough so all he got was a cheek, which he proceeded to slobber on. “David, so help me... If you don’t get off me...” I squirmed and thrashed, trying to throw him.
My ex started to sob. He rolled off me and landed on the floor. Well, partly on the floor and partly on the coffee table. It sure didn’t look very comfortable, and he was still crying.
“For the love of...” I sat up and tugged at his arm. “Get up here and sit down.”
He s
lowly worked his way up to sit on the couch, still weeping. “What am I gonna do? Ashley doeshn’t love me anymore. I think shesh got a boyfriend.”
“Who do I look like? Dr. Phil?” With a heavy sigh, I patted the hands he had clenched in his lap. “Let’s go in the kitchen. I’ll make a pot of coffee, and we can talk.”
***
“Feeling any better?” I asked after David had finished his third cup of coffee.
My ex shrugged from his chair on the opposite side of my small kitchen table. I could tell he was sobering because he was reverting to his normal stoic personality. I could also tell he was embarrassed at the little dog and pony show he’d put on in the other room.
“Do you want to talk about it now?”
“Ashley doesn’t understand me.” He nervously shifted his coffee cup between his hands.
“Isn’t that cliché? Boo hoo. My wife doesn’t understand me.”
He just glared at me, his usual response to my chastising sarcasm. “I swear, Jackie, the woman’s downright stupid. She’s not like you at all.”
I tried not to smile, but my ego needed to know I possessed some quality that disgustingly perfect Ashley didn’t. “Stupid?”
He nodded. Enthusiastically. “We were watching Seinfeld re-runs, and she didn’t even know what they were making fun of. Remember that episode where the baseball player spits on Kramer and they slow it down like the Zapruder film where Kennedy got shot?”
“Duh.”
“Sorry. Forgot you were named for Jackie Kennedy. But do you see what I mean? She didn’t even know anything about the grassy knoll or the single bullet.” His heavy sigh floated in the air. “She doesn’t get anything I talk about. She hates my music. She hates my TV shows. She hates that I’m...losing my hair.” He sighed again as he splayed his fingers through his salt and pepper hair.
It was getting a bit sparse in places. I tried not to smile.
“What exactly did you expect? She’s twenty years younger than you.” I neglected to add that she was only one year older than Patrick, no longer feeling the need to rub salt in David’s wounds. The poor guy was suffering enough.
“I’m tired of people asking if Duncan is my grandson.”