by Lisa Plumley
Sometimes people needed reminders to stay strong. She needed a reminder that her own judgment could be flawed. She’d trusted Paul. He’d betrayed her by scampering off to be with his alluring “muse” full-time (strictly for the sake of his art), leaving Natasha to raise their toddler, Milo, on her own (with a little help from hands-on Super Grandma, Carol), and Natasha had realized, too late, that her heart could feel as broken as her poor beat-up car did. If she ever felt sure she could trust herself again, she’d promised herself after that, she would fix that dent. In the meantime … she was getting by okay.
Like her life, her Civic was imperfect. But she’d worked a lot of hours—at a variety of part-time retail wage-slave jobs—to pay for that car, Natasha reminded herself as she crouched beside it to work the jack. She’d been proud to put down her own money on it. She’d been proud to slip behind the wheel, inhale that new-car smell, and know she’d accomplished buying it all by herself.
No one in her family had ever owned anything but used cars; Natasha had blazed the new-car trail. Her parents, who still lived in the nearby working-class community of El Cajon, had been beside themselves with pride. They’d even taken snapshots of her striking a cheesy pose beside her Civic like an auto show model. Just the memory of those pictures made her smile.
As much as her beleaguered marriage did, her Civic proved that Natasha didn’t give up on things easily. Her car had taken her to classes at UCSD, to friends’ houses, and to the mall, she reflected as she finished changing the tire while cars whizzed past a few feet away. It had taken her on road trips, on beach runs, and all the way to her life-changing interview with Jimmy Torrance. Today, she remembered wryly, it was supposed to have taken her to the launch of the hot new Apple gadget, the iPhone.
Damon was dying for an iPhone. But since he was in Italy working on the Bandini Espresso deal, and the gadget was only available in the U.S. for now, Natasha had volunteered to stay behind—which she tried to do as often as possible, for Milo’s sake—and score one for him. As she gave the last lug nut a final spin, then jacked down her Civic, she kind of regretted doing so. Most likely, Damon was enjoying himself right now. He usually was. And she … well, she just needed to get on with it.
Natasha’s second clue that her day might be less than spectacular occurred when she finally arrived at the Fashion Valley Mall, made her way toward the Apple Store, and realized, with a sinking heart, that she could barely see the Apple Store.
The whole mall was thronged with lined-up customers, gadget devotees, gawkers, and even local media. She spotted a B-Man Media crew getting the scoop on the regular networks. She saw bystanders filming with camcorders. She heard … was that cheering?
It was. Following the sound, Natasha looked across the open-air mall. To the delighted shouts of the people waiting—some of whom looked as though they might have slept in line last night in sleeping bags, like those Star Wars fans on the news—dozens of Apple employees marched over to open the store.
It was mayhem—ridiculous mayhem. Being there was like being a wallflower at the prom, standing on the sidelines, then seeing the king and queen and their court making their grand entrances. No one else mattered. With their clean-cut looks, minimalist Tshirts and pants, and ID badges, the Apple Store employees had the only keys to the candy store. All eyes were locked on them.
People surged forward. Suddenly in real danger of being trampled, Natasha stepped back. Damon had warned her that it might be tricky getting one of the launch-day iPhones, but this was absurd.
“I thought you were kidding,” Natasha murmured as she was pushed back a little farther. Far, far beyond her position, the store’s doors opened at last. The crowd literally went wild.
Oh boy. If she was supposed to cope with this, she needed coffee first. She, unlike Damon, wasn’t typically surrounded by eager yes-men—not to mention willing yes-women—who wanted to serve coffee to her in fine china with biscotti on the side.
Groaning in resignation, Natasha beelined toward Starbucks. By the time she got a little more caffeinated, things would probably have settled down somewhat. If not, then at least she’d be better able to cope with it than she was right now.
But then, digging in her laptop bag for cash to pay the barista, Natasha encountered the bundle of mail she’d stuffed inside to sort through. She had, at a minimum, expected to kill some time at the Apple Store. As a single mother, she’d mastered the art of being prepared, too. But as she browsed through her bills, junky postcards, and magazine subscription offers while waiting for her extra-hot, no-foam, triple soy latte, she spotted one particular envelope … and her whole body went still.
Staring at the letterhead on the envelope, Natasha felt the world around her receding. The other customers turned invisible. The hubbub in the mall went mute. The cutesy slang employed by the baristas fell away, replaced by an indecipherable hum. Everything blurred into nothingness as Natasha’s third clue that her day wasn’t going to go well invaded her consciousness.
No, Natasha realized as her fingers started to shake. It didn’t just invade her consciousness. It didn’t simply make the world seem unreal and far away and inconsequential. This time, her burgeoning bad day reared back, gave her a nasty smile, then kicked her in the teeth. Because inside that envelope could be only one thing: Natasha’s official, fully finalized, now-it’s-really-happening set of divorce papers.
Numbly, she clutched them. Somehow she’d expected this to feel different. She’d expected … something other than this.
“Triple latte?” the barista said. “Is this one yours?”
Startled, Natasha glanced at the friendly redheaded woman across the bar. Nothing was hers anymore, she thought in a daze. Not the future she’d expected, not the predictable day she’d had planned … nothing. She shook herself. “Um, yes. I guess so.”
“I have an extra shot back here if you want it.” Sympathetically, the barista nodded toward her espresso machine. “You look as though you could use it. Tough day already?”
Trying to rally, Natasha raised her envelope. “I just got my divorce papers. We’ve been separated for a while now, but … I guess everything’s finally finalized. It’s really official.”
“Oh. Wow.” The barista peered at her. Decisively, she took back her latte, added an extra shot of inky, crema-topped coffee, then replaced the lid. She nudged it toward Natasha, then shook her head. “Sorry. Not exactly your lucky day, huh?”
Natasha gave a helpless laugh. If Damon had been born under a lucky star, she’d been born under a gloomy, gray, rain-spitting, thunder-crackling, cartoony cloud of misfortune. Her “lucky” lottery-ticket numbers never won. Her Civic broke down at the worst possible times. Her excursions to the beach brought rain, her surfing forays meant wipeouts (no matter how many lessons she took), and her bad-hair days were legendary. It probably wasn’t possible that she was genuinely unlucky and doomed to haplessness. But sometimes it sure felt that way.
The best part of her life was Milo. Her son, as adorable as he was, didn’t officially qualify as a lucky charm.
“If one lucky day is all we get, I think I missed mine,” Natasha said wryly. “It must have sneaked past when I wasn’t looking.”
“Well, maybe it’ll come around again. You never know.” The barista grinned encouragingly. She nodded at Natasha’s envelope. “Besides, you’re probably better off without the bastard anyway. Right?”
Better off without Paul? Truthfully, Natasha had never thought of it that way before. She’d spent so long putting his needs first, tending to their relationship the way her neighbor, Kurt, looked after his prizewinning begonias, making sure her husband felt valued and respected and loved. Even after they’d separated, she’d considered Paul’s feelings and needs.
In fact, Natasha reflected, she’d done more caretaking of Paul than his own mother had lately. Carol, after years of giving her “artsy” son a pass for his misbehavior, had quit making excuses for him. In the interest of making sure she coul
d see Milo—and help Natasha with babysitting—Carol had given her a standout deal on rent and a lot of support, too. They’d worked out a really friendly, mutually caring relationship.
Staring again at her divorce papers, Natasha reconsidered.
Better off without Paul? Could it be true?
“Maybe I am!” Natasha said with a sudden burst of defiance.
This wasn’t the fifties. She wasn’t a hopeless housewife with no job, no future, and no prospects for fun. She could date again. She could find someone new. She could be happy!
It wasn’t as if her divorce finalization had come as a surprise. Technically speaking, Natasha had known those papers were on their way. She just hadn’t wanted to think about them.
She’d had a lot of good reasons not to think about them.
But now … “Thanks for the coffee. And the pep talk!” Mustering a smile, Natasha stuffed away her divorce papers. She dropped a generous tip in the jar, then used her amped-up latte to salute the barista. “Today, that was just what I needed.”
As if punctuating her statement, her cell phone rang. At the sound of her saucy new Beyoncé ringtone, Natasha smiled a little more widely. Paul wasn’t “Irreplaceable.” Not to her. Not anymore. Just like Beyoncé had in the video, she could move on.
But first … “Hello?”
“Tasha?” Amy Huerta’s panicky-sounding voice crackled over the connection. “Thank God you’re there! I’m freaking out.”
“Amy?” Instantly concerned, Natasha cradled her cell phone. Balancing all her things, she moved to a quieter corner of the coffee shop. She set down her belongings. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s Jason. And Damon.” Amy gulped back a sob. “And Wes and Giada and the Tifosi girl! It would have been me, too, if I hadn’t been in the bathroom when it happened, but I was, so—”
“Amy, slow down.” Reflexively, Natasha drew in a deep breath. “Everything’s going to be all right. What happened?”
Amy inhaled, too. “They’re all in jail. Everyone’s in jail, Tasha! You’ve got to get them out. Please!” Wherever Amy was, a loud buzz came over the line. Then voices. A door slammed. “Wes’s assistant tried to pull some strings, but he only made it worse. Even Giada’s best people couldn’t help—”
“Bandini is involved in this?”
“—and the Tifosi girl is too drunk to be any use—”
Natasha frowned. “What’s a Tifosi?”
“A Ferrari racing team fan.” Amy sounded a little calmer now. “We were celebrating the close of the partnership deal—”
“It went through? That’s great!”
“—at a local nightclub, and, um, things got out of hand.” More clanging came from Amy’s end of the conversation. And more talking. “I didn’t know what else to do except call you.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” Natasha assured her. She’d liked Amy from the moment they’d met, a few years into Natasha’s tenure at Torrance Chocolates. Amy had come in to visit Jason—another of Natasha’s favorite people—and Natasha had given her a personal tasting tour of the chocolate selections while they’d waited for her then-fiancé to arrive. “Just sit tight.”
“The police haven’t been very cooperative—especially since Wes threw that punch,” Amy said. “The language barrier isn’t exactly facilitating things, either. Are you sure you can help?”
“I’m sure.” With a welcome sense of being useful and needed, Natasha set down her latte. She pulled out her trusty PDA full of important contacts. Like Damon, she had a thing for technology. Unlike him, she didn’t usually indulge her whims for the latest gadget. “I bail out Damon all the time. Believe me, this is not the diciest situation I’ve ever scraped him out of.”
Chapter 5
Thirty-nine and a half laborious hours later, Natasha stood expectantly in the baggage claim area of San Diego International Airport. Harried travelers rushed past. Prerecorded announcements droned over the sound system. The greasy smells of stale pizza and french fries lingered in the air. But as Natasha stood waiting, none of that mattered … and the reason was Damon.
Natasha wasn’t sure why, but being around him just made her feel better. It always had. Damon was like the fun-loving yin to her more studious yang. They were two halves of a better whole. Because where she was practical, Damon was fun. Where she was organized, he was spontaneous. Where she was dependable, he was …
Well, he was late, actually. Standing on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of her sexy, trouble-attracting boss and his undoubtedly weary travel companions, Natasha felt her heartbeat kick up a notch with anticipation. Or maybe with concern. Sure. It was probably concern. Because he’d been through a lot in Italy.
She’d been through a lot here. After all, bailing him out hadn’t been easy. But she’d done it. She was proud of that.
At long last, Damon came into view—broad shouldered, slim hipped, and smudgy under the eyes. He wore perfectly fitting jeans, a white shirt, and an expensively distressed jacket. None of those items could have looked any better than they did on him. Just glimpsing him made Natasha’s breath catch in her throat. She felt so relieved he was okay—so relieved he was home.
Once again, he’d been lucky. Excessive partying hadn’t caught up to Damon in the same way it would have to anyone else.
He spotted her. As a greeting, Natasha held up the coveted iPhone she’d practically had to kick and claw to get. Damon’s face brightened. Then she held up another iPhone—this one a gift to herself, from Damon, as a thank-you for rescuing him.
Instantly, Damon recognized as much. Because despite his playboy image, he was much cleverer than he let on. He was also capable of intuiting a lot; he’d always had a talent for that. His knowing smile beamed at her to prove it. Then, moving a little faster, Damon reached her. He dropped his carry-on bag on the airport floor, then pulled her into an embrace.
Tears actually sprang to her eyes. Feeling him all warm and real and safe against her, Natasha laughed. Damon squeezed her.
“I was worried you wouldn’t be here,” he said as he pulled back. “You told me you’d leave if I pushed you too far. I was afraid I’d finally made you bail me out one too many times.”
“Nah.” Wow, he looked wonderful. His eyes were all smoky brown, his jaw was all shadowy with beard stubble, and his hair defied gravity in places. But his sought-after smile was just for her, and that was all Natasha needed. “That’s what the second iPhone was for. It’s a bribe from you to me. So … thanks!”
Damon laughed. She loved that sound. When she had to go without it for too long—because he was traveling or she was busy or they were being pulled in separate directions by their separate lives—Natasha got undeniably cranky. She might not be Damon’s girlfriend, and he was definitely not the kind of man she needed in her life right now, but they cared about one another. They connected on a deeper level. What she and Damon shared couldn’t be replicated.
It couldn’t quite be quantified or defined, either, Natasha mused as she inhaled the familiar piney aroma of his fancy shaving soap and smiled all over again. She and Damon had forged a close-knit working relationship—a relationship she believed they both treasured. They’d never tried taking that relationship to another, more personal, much sexier level. But as Damon hugged her again, then reared back to drink in the sight of her, Natasha began wondering, for the first time in years …
Did Damon ever think of her as anything other than his trusty gal Friday? Did he even know she had a finalized divorce to cope with, a cutie-pie son to raise, and a broken-down car?
She’d always been scrupulous about keeping her private life separate from her work life. At first, it had been a matter of simple self-preservation: Natasha didn’t trust Damon enough to let loose about anything that really mattered. Later, she’d kept her boundaries in place as a matter of routine. But now, here …
Well, now, in that moment, with Damon’s touch still making her feel vaguely tingly all over, Natasha couldn’
t help wondering … could there ever be something more between them?
Damon’s voice, husky and assured, broke into her thoughts.
“Natasha, I want you to meet someone.” Wearing a uniquely vivid smile, he urged forward a curvaceous woman with dark hair, glasses, and a fashionable ensemble that fit her statuesque figure to a tee. He touched her arm. “This is Giada Bandini.”
“Oh, hello, Ms. Bandini!” Surprised to see the espresso company exec, Natasha held out her hand. “I didn’t expect you.”
“There’s something else you didn’t expect.” Like a kid with a secret, Damon grinned. He hugged Ms. Bandini closer. “Giada and I got married! We eloped in Milan. Isn’t that fantastic?”
Married? When said by Damon, the word didn’t compute.
“You’re joking.” Natasha gawked at him. She’d thought he’d looked so happy because he was glad to see her—not because he’d impetuously gotten married. This couldn’t be happening. “You can’t have gotten married. This is … it’s a joke, right?”
“Nope.” Exuberantly, Damon kissed Giada. “I know it sounds crazy, but I’m finally in love. Real, true, forever love.”
Love. Natasha couldn’t argue with that. She wanted Damon to be happy. She did. She cared about him. Of course. But … this?
It was too soon. It was too reckless, even for Damon.
“So, are we going to ditch this place or what?” he asked.
Natasha blinked at him. “What?”
“I’m dying for a hot shower, a gigantic sandwich”—Damon held apart his hands to show its approximate monster dimensions—“and about fifteen hours of uninterrupted sleep.” With cheerful relish, he rubbed together his palms. “I can only get two out of three of those things here at the airport.”
“At least legally.” Unexpectedly sidetracked by the idea of Damon indulging himself in a steamy, soapy, naked, non-airport-provided shower, Natasha looked away. That would be … so hot.