She smiles. Lifts her glass. Sips at her wine. “I bet you had a band.”
I grin. “We called it Passport.” She looks puzzled. “We wanted to be Journey or Foreigner, but both names were already taken, so we settled on—”
“Passport. Of course.” She laughs. Then she sighs. “That all seems long ago, doesn’t it? High school. Worrying about getting A’s. Football.” She makes a face. “Proms.”
“I bet you never had to worry about getting A’s.”
She shakes her head. “No. Not really.”
“And I bet you were never much for going to football games.”
“I never understood the fuss.”
I nod. “And proms. Never my thing. I mean, renting a tux? Buying a corsage? Drinking spiked punch and puking your guts up in the rented limo on the way to Lookout Point?”
“Did you? Puke in the limo?”
I laugh. “No. I made it out before it happened.”
We both laugh. Then her laughter fades. Did she not go to her prom? I don’t want to ask. Instead, I tell her that football is one of the greatest things we have in America.
It works. She gives one of those eye rolls, the kind she gave the last time we discussed the game.
“No way.”
I get what seems like a brilliant idea. “You know what?”
“What?”
“We should have something we can share. Something we can talk about in public so people will believe we spend a lot of time together.”
“For instance?”
“Football.”
Bailey looks at me like I’m crazy. “Matthew. I just told you—”
“You don’t like football. Yeah, I know. But that’s because you don’t know anything about it. And that’s what makes it perfect. I mean, I’m assuming Cousin Violet knows you don’t like football.”
“She knows,” Bailey says grimly. “Violet was a cheerleader.”
Right. Violet was a cheerleader.
“Ah. And you didn’t go to the games. Well—”
“I went,” Bailey says, even more grimly. “Attendance was mandatory. School spirit stuff. You know?”
Of course I know. Villainous Vi twirled her pompoms while my girl sat in the stands.
“Well, that’s good.”
“It is?”
“Of course.” I look around, catch our waiter’s eye and nod. He nods back and heads for our table with the check. “Violet hears you talking football with me and any possible doubts she might have about our relationship will go up in smoke.”
“They will?”
I hand the waiter my credit card. He whisks it away.
“Of course. It’s proof, if she needs it, that you and I are an item. That we’re close. I’ve got you liking football. That’s the kind of sacrifice a woman makes for a man she—a man she cares for.”
Bailey blinks. “It is?”
“It absolutely is,” I say firmly, even as I suddenly remember that my mom, who adores my dad, has never learned to like what he considers, same as me, THE American pastime.
The waiter returns my credit card.
“Thank you, sir.”
I add a tip to the bill, scrawl my name, and I’m already on my feet. I pull back Bailey’s chair even as she starts pushing back from the table.
“Your date’s job,” I say.
She nods. “Got it.”
I smile, ask the waiter to thank James for us, and we head into the night.
It’s chilly. Bailey’s new scarf isn’t enough. I take off my tweed jacket and wrap it around her.
“Oh,” she says, “you don’t have to—”
But I do. For starters, it’s the right thing. Besides that, I get a kick out of how she looks in it. She’s so small and I’m so big. Even with her wearing those heels I’m taller than she is by six, seven inches. The result is that she’s lost in my jacket and, damned if I know why, but seeing her looking so delicately female in something that I know is still warm from my body is…
Christ!
I put my hand lightly in the small of her back and we head for the curb where I hail a taxi. We get in, and I give the driver my address.
“Isn’t that your place?” Bailey asks.
“It is.”
“Why are we going there?”
“I’ve seen your apartment. Now you have to see mine so you can talk about it with some authority.”
“If the subject should come up,” she says.
“If it should,” I say in agreement. “Plus, you get to meet Walter so you can talk about him too.”
She thinks about that. “I guess that makes sense.”
“And,” I say, “so we can watch a football game.”
She swings towards me. “Watch a what?”
I grin. “I TiVo the Monday night games so I can watch them whenever I have the chance. And this past Monday was an exceptional game.”
“Because?”
“Because the Patriots played the Bills. In Buffalo.”
“And the Patriots won?”
“Damn right.”
“So if you already know that, why watch a boring game?”
“Boring?” I chuckle. “How little you know, woman,” I say, and mostly because I can’t help it, I lean close and kiss her gently on the mouth.
* * *
Walter greets me the way he always does. I know it looks as if he’s going to devour me whole, but his enthusiasm is slightly lessened by the presence of a new person in his life.
He takes his massive paws off my shoulders, drops to all fours and cocks his head at Bailey.
“He won’t hurt you,” I start to say, but my PA is already squatting down, holding out her hand and crooning Who’s a beautiful boy? to my behemoth.
He approaches her slowly.
He doesn’t see that many strangers. The truth is, I can’t remember the last time I had someone here he didn’t already know. See, the thing is, the guys I hang out with stop by for—what else?—football and occasional let’s-just-bullshit sessions, but I don’t make a habit of bringing women home with me.
Why would I?
It’s easier to go to a woman’s place after a night out. If I’m going to sleep with her, I don’t really want to sleep with her. I want to fuck her. Too blunt for you? Maybe, but that’s one of the things about guys. We’re honest. We like sex. Remember when I said that before? Oh, sure, I’m into seduction, touching, kissing. I’m into holding a woman after sex. I don’t run out. Hell, I’m not a boor. But unless I take a babe away for the weekend—admittedly, a rare occurrence—I almost always end the night by going home to my own bed.
I have Walter to take care of.
Plus, why put wrong ideas in a woman’s head?
My space is my space, and I like to keep it that way.
So Walter’s not the only guy here who’s surprised to find a woman present. Truth is, he’s
more than surprised.
He’s making an ass of himself.
He’s on his back, all four legs in the air, drooling and making little woofing sounds as Bailey kneels next to him, rubbing his belly.
Man, I’d drool and woof too, if she were rubbing mine.
I clear my throat.
“So,” I say briskly, “how about some coffee? I mean, how about some tea? I don’t have the white stuff, but—”
Bailey looks up, her face all smiles. “What a great dog Walter is!”
“Yeah. He’s okay.”
“Oh, he’s wonderful!”
Walter moans with pleasure. Bailey laughs, rubs his belly a little more and says, “Don’t you have to walk him?”
Walk. The doggy version of a sexy four-letter word. Walter springs to his feet, laps Bailey’s face with his monstrous tongue, then turns his attention to me and jams his head into my balls.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll just let him out into the garden…”
“I bet he would rather walk,” Bailey croons. “Isn’t that right, you big, beautiful boy?”
She’s calling him sweet, intimate names—and I had to convince her to call me Matthew. I narrow my eyes at Walter as if this is all his fault.
Then I grab his lead and snap it to his collar.
Walter heads for the door. So does Bailey. Well, that’s something. She’s going to walk with us.
We make a circuit of the block. When we reach the corner, I start to turn back.
“It’s such a nice night,” Bailey says. “Can we walk a little further?”
“Well, sure. If that’s what you want.”
“Plus,” she adds with a little giggle, “I’m starting to get used to these heels.”
Yeah. So am I. I love the way the heels have changed her walk. Not that there was anything wrong with it before…But there’s definitely something about really, really high heels that makes a woman’s walk sexy.
We do the next block. And the next. We’re so busy talking that I don’t even realize that time is passing. As for Walter—he’s in doggie heaven and he leaves no tree, no fire hydrant un-watered. Every now and then he looks up at Bailey and I could swear he smiles.
I don’t blame him. I’m smiling too. At our conversation. We’re just passing the time, but it’s fun. Bailey comments on the wonderful old houses we pass. She admires the little shops. There’s one on the corner that stops her dead. It’s a bookshop, closed at this hour, of course, and there’s a display of signed first editions in the window.
“Fahrenheit 451,” Bailey says, her voice full of awe. “And Peter Pan! And, oh my, Green Mansions!”
I tell her that I never heard of Green Mansions and she gives me a quick rundown on the story of a sophisticated man who falls in love with a woman who is a creature of the rainforest. She makes the story sound exciting and beautiful, but what’s really exciting and beautiful is the way she keeps looking up at me, all that intensity directed at me and only me…
“Time to head back,” I say briskly.
A car suddenly speeds towards us as we step off the curb. I automatically grab Bailey’s wrist.
“Careful,” I say.
Somehow, our fingers entwine. They stay linked all the way back to my door.
Where she stops.
“It’s late,” she says.
I check my watch. “It’s midnight.”
“Exactly. It’s late. And tomorrow’s a work day.”
“I know the boss. He won’t mind if you come in late.”
She raises one eyebrow. “I know him too. And he’s a guy who believes in punctuality. It’s time I went home.”
She’s right. Not about punctuality. Well, yeah. I do believe in it, but I don’t want the evening to end. I don’t want her to leave…
Meaning, it’s time she did.
“Okay,” I say, with a little smile. “Let me get Walter set and then I’ll drive you home.”
She shakes her head. “I can take the subway.”
Spoken like a true New Yorker, but no way am I about to let her ride the subway at this hour. New York’s a civilized city, sure, but there are times not all its citizens remember that.
“No subway,” I tell her, and she makes a face.
“That’s foolish.”
“So is tempting the fates on the E train at this hour.”
“Fine. I’ll take a taxi and—”
“I’m driving you home.” She starts to argue. I put my index finger against her lips. “Uh uh. No arguing with the boss.”
She sighs and I unlock the door, undo Walter’s lead, get him a couple of biscuits while Bailey hugs him and plants a kiss on his enormous muzzle.
Then she and I head for the door in the kitchen that leads to the garage.
Did I mention that it’s a tight space?
She goes first and, being Bailey and being self-sufficient, she doesn’t wait for me to open the door. She reaches for the doorknob herself. The problem is that me being me, I reach for it at virtually the same instant.
Meaning that we both end up in the same six inches of space.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Sorry,” she says.
She steps back.
Bad idea.
Awful idea.
Jesus.
It’s a wonderful idea, because it puts her back against my front.
My dick against her ass. Her sweet, round ass.
So now it’s my turn to step away. I know that. And it’s what I intend to do—but somehow, some way, I close the last millimeter of space between us instead
And Bailey—Bailey is turning towards me, lifting her face to me.
I dip my head. Just a little. I don’t kiss her. I just dip my head and her eyes widen and I slip my hand over her cheek, over her jaw, and then I gently run my thumb over her mouth.
I bend closer and now I can smell her.
She smells like lemons.
No. Like flowers.
I don’t know much about flowers, but I think of the delicacy of the scent of the wildflowers that grow on that piece of hilly land I walked today.
That’s what Bailey smells like.
Okay. Enough. I really will step back this time—but she’s swaying towards me.
It’s the shoes. It has to be the shoes. I’ll steady her by clasping her waist.
Her hips.
Better still, I’ll steady her by making sure she’s leaning on me all the way, God, all the way, and she is. She’s damn near plastered against me and I shift my weight and now there’s not any space between us at all, and it’s only logical that I slowly, slowly lower my head to hers. I can see that her eyes are half-shut, that her lips are slightly parted, and the next thing I know, my mouth is on hers.
Somebody groans. Is it me? It must be, because somebody else is making a sound that can only be described as a little moan—and that somebody is Bailey.
“Matthew,” she says in a broken whisper.
“Hush,” I tell her, and her hands rise, slip up my chest to my shoulders, and either I lift her into me or she raises herself into me, and when I kiss her this time, I don’t hold back.
I kiss her hard and deep.
And I am lost.
Her taste fills me.
Sugar. Cream. Strawberries. She’s the dessert we had a couple of hours ago, only twice as sweet, as smooth, as delicious.
You know those books where they talk about the earth shifting under your feet? No, I don’t read that stuff but my sister does, always did, and okay, maybe I took a peek at a couple of those books when we were in our teens and…
And, the point is, the earth shifts.
There’s never been a kiss like this before. I’m certain of it. It’s a kiss that starts off honeyed and then goes hot, but the honeyed taste is still there, still amazing, and I want more.
Bailey gives me more.
Her arms go around my neck.
She moves against me.
I press her back against the door.
I keep kissing her. She moans again and her jacket—my jacket—slips back on her shoulders, baring her lovely throat, the rise of her breasts.
I slip the tip of my tongue between her lips, and she shudders and sucks on it.
Light explodes behind my closed eyelids.
My hands lift.
I cup her breasts.
I can feel the heat of her skin through the dress.
She makes a soft little sobbing sound and the earth doesn’t just tilt. It spins.
And I am lost.
I want her. Here. Now. Against the door, her panties clinging to one of her ankles, my hands on her ass, her legs wound around my waist. I’ll make her come and come and come, and then I’ll scoop her up, carry her through the dark house to my bedroom, to my bed, to my possession…
Jesus H. Christ!
What the fuck am I doing?
This is Bailey. My PA. I’m with her tonight because I volunteered to help her get through the weekend ahead. I mean, this is all make-believe. It’s a charade. A game. None of it is real; none of it is supposed to be real�
�
She seems to come to that identical realization at the same moment I do.
Suddenly, her hands are on my chest. She’s pushing me away and, okay, I’m complying, I’m stepping back, putting some room between us, and then I clear my throat and I hear myself say, “Good. Very good. If we can pull off a kiss like that with Cousin Vi watching, you’ll score an A for the weekend.”
Bailey is breathing hard. Yeah, well, so am I. Her face is pink; her hair is disheveled. Her lipstick is all kissed away. She has the look of a woman who’s just stepped from her lover’s bed, and I get an instant mental picture of the bed, my bed, just one flight of stairs away…
“Is that why you…” Her voice is rusty. She takes a breath. “That’s why you—it’s why you and I—”
“Of course.” I force a smile. “I probably should have warned you first, but I, ah, I figured a natural approach would make for a more natural reaction because, you know, we’ll have to exhibit some affection this weekend if we expect to sell us as a package…”
I’m babbling.
I know it. I can only hope Bailey doesn’t know it.
At this point, I’m not sure what she knows because my brain is still in free-fall, but I keep talking and talking and after a while she nods and her breathing steadies and I figure it’s time to shut the hell up, get her into the garage, into the car, and out of my reach.
In other words, we need to get back to business—which is exactly what we do.
And when we get to her building, though she assures me it’s unnecessary, I pull into a space next to a hydrant, walk her upstairs, take her keys from her, unlock the door like any proper gentleman would. Then I shake hands with her, flash a smile and tell her I’ll see her in the morning.
After which I drive home, strip off my clothes…and take a shower so cold I figure it’s liable to turn my balls blue.
That solves the problem physically. But not mentally.
Because I end up spending most of the night tossing and turning, reliving the incredible feel of Bailey’s mouth under mine.
10
It starts raining at six a.m.
I know this because after finally getting a couple of hours of sleep, I am wide-awake at six.
I lie there for a couple of minutes. Then I toss back the covers and swing my feet to the floor. I need to do something. Something mindless that will burn up the energy buzzing inside me.
The F-Word: A Sexy Romantic Comedy Page 9