by Unknown
Francine had begun reading romance novels, not just every now and then, but all the time. And it seemed the more she read, the meaner she became to him. By the time they were ready to open the Bed and Breakfast for business, Francine had become a shrew and super critical of everything he had tried to do for her—both in the bedroom and out of it. At times Ethan had blamed Francine and at other times he truly doubted his prowess as a lover. That was why he struggled between the cold, harsh reality that had been his wife and the hot, sensuous memories of his time with Lise.
The words Francine had thrown at him still ate at his very soul. She had hit him with words no man wanted to hear from a woman he has made love to. He could still hear her, “You are a disappointing lover, Ethan. I have never been able to come with you inside me; I can do a better job with a vibrator and a romance novel.”
Over and over again, she compared him to heroes in those silly books she read. He could do nothing right, he was never able to please her. If he ever had the opportunity to meet that damned romance novelist face to face, he would cheerfully wring her neck. Francine had a favorite author, she bought every book the woman had published and she had tortured him with the ways he fell short of the heroes that came from the poison pen of Ann Pace.
Ethan laid alone in his king size bed and dreamed of rolling over and finding a warm, willing body he could cuddle up against. He would throw his long, hair-roughened leg over her smooth ones and then nuzzle her neck from behind, while cupping her beautiful, soft breasts with his hungry hands. He knew his cock would rise to the occasion and begin to lift and nudge the back of her luscious buttocks. “Oh Lise, I want you so badly,” he groaned.
Deep in the throes of the dangerous mind play, he realized his engorged member had created its own big top under the sheets. With a snarl of frustration, he finally gave into the temptation, desperate to assuage his out-of-hand ardor. Throwing off the sheet, he took matters into his own hands. Literally. Grasping his turgid penis, he immersed himself into one of the many hot memories he had of Lise. She had been soft and sweet and everything he had ever dreamed a woman should be, even now. Her body had been made for sex and she had learned quickly how to please him. And she had enjoyed it. He had to believe that she enjoyed it. As he stroked his cock, moving the skin up and down his shaft, he recalled the weight and shape of her breasts and the color of her nipples. Round, firm, soft, pliable—breasts that brought him to his knees more than once. Rosy, pink nipples that begged to be kissed, begged to be sucked. After he had spent countless minutes sucking and licking, they would be rosy red instead of pink. And how she had loved that! Ethan still remembered how she would cup her breasts and lift them up, offering them to him, begging him to suckle and tongue them both into a frenzy.
His Annalise had been so responsive, so giving and so positively uninhibited with her praise and delight at his touch. Her little cries of ecstasy still echoed through his heart. Ethan’s hips dug into the mattress, his pelvis lifting alternately, blindly searching for the warmth and wetness that he was starved for. “Lise!” He bellowed his release, sprays of his cum jetting into the air and all over his flat, corrugated stomach. The jerking of his hips and the plumes of his essence kept coming, two years worth. He couldn’t believe it had been two years since he had ejaculated. Well, not exactly. A few times, he had woken up as he had climaxed, feverishly making love to Annalise in his wet dreams.
Shit! Checking out the sheet for stains, he climbed from his bed. He still slept naked, even though he slept alone—so there was no need to slow down before diving under a painful, cold spray. The harsh temperature wasn’t meant to cool his ardor, it was meant to awaken his spirit. Ethan watched as his once turgid penis relaxed and looked satisfied. So often he had used this same shower to calm his nerves and ratchet down his libido as he watched his cock fighting the inevitable and slowly conceding defeat. He leaned forward and rested his warm forehead on the cool ceramic tile. This was no way to live. What in the hell was he going to do?
His brother, Alex, kept pushing him to throw off Francine’s toxic influence and figuratively and literally climb back in the saddle. Maybe he would someday, but it wouldn’t be today.
Gradually, his blood pressure receded and as the water warmed, he was able to have a normal shower. The day ahead was already set to be hectic, so dawdling and feeling sorry for himself wasn’t going to do him any good. The Lost Maples offered a hot breakfast every morning and after Rachel, their cook, packed the baskets and trays—he, as the owner—carried each offering to the cabins himself. That way, he could make sure no one was in need of anything or had any complaints about their accommodations. The guests seemed to appreciate the personal touch.
Ethan Stewart dried himself with one of the B&B’s extra thick and fluffy, cream colored towels. He knew his body was in good shape and he had inherited above average good looks from his handsome parents. But if Ethan Stewart could have read the minds of the female guests populating the B&B, he would have had no doubts about the strength of his sex appeal or the extent of his masculine charms. In the minds and hearts of any woman who got the chance to feast their eyes on Ethan Stewart, he was a walking dream.
Ethan dressed in his ever present blue jeans and a crisp, button down, chambray shirt. His hair was thick and wavy and he wore it long over his collar. After brushing his teeth, he headed downstairs to carry twelve hungry women their breakfast. Just as soon as he got those trays delivered he had a date with an herb garden.
Running a Bed and Breakfast was not the fantasy life some people might think it was; Ethan had discovered it was a lot of work. Hot work at that. Soon the chambray shirt found its way over the handles of the wheelbarrow. The sun glinted off the sculpted muscles of his broad, tanned back and he could feel the heat as it warmed his body. There had been a time when he could not have imagined himself pulling weeds in a garden, but now he enjoyed working with his hands. He found there was a certain satisfaction to be found in keeping up the grounds of The Lost Maples, maybe because he had been so unsuccessful in maintaining his private life.
Francine had shown no interest in the yard and gardens. The only task she had taken to heart was picking out the paint and wallpaper. She hadn’t stayed long enough to see them installed, she had moved on to greener pastures and, he supposed, a lover who could satisfy her. Ethan hadn’t asked her to leave, but he could not deny he had been relieved to see her go. The only regret he had was that he was childless. He longed for a little boy or a little girl, but he had to admit—a child with Francine wouldn’t have been a good idea. Besides, every time he pictured his child, it bore an uncanny resemblance to Lise.
His mind so embroiled in his own private hell, Ethan was totally oblivious to the stares he was receiving from two middle age matrons who were drinking coffee and rocking in the massive chairs that sat on the front porch of The Bandera Cabin. He threw a handful of weeds in the wheelbarrow, wiped the sweat off his brow and pushed the ever present comma of jet black hair off of his forehead. Ever careful, he didn’t casually toss the clump of weeds in the grass, they were destined for the compost pile he tended behind the main house. He caught the eye of one of the Bandera ladies and casually waved at the pair. Delightful giggles reached his ears. That was as far as they got, however. Ethan Stewart was in no mood for flirtation.
He stood up, dusted off his jeans and looked at the planting bed. Reaching for the water hose, he flipped on the spray nozzle and cool water flowed out. He watered the basil, rosemary and thyme he grew for his own kitchen use. After moving home and buying the B&B, Ethan discovered he enjoyed cooking. Before that, he had only been successful at grilling or frying. At first, he manned the kitchen out of necessity; later on, he had been lucky enough to find Rachel, a sweet widow lady who lived less than five miles away and cooked like a dream. She worked five days a week and made all of the morning pastries and muffins. Ethan and Alex cooked on weekends and since this was Saturday, the kitchen was beckoning. Francine had been hopeless in the
kitchen; in fact, she had been helpless about almost everything except shopping and pointing out his shortcomings. In his mind, he could still her voice, “I’m sorry, Ethan, but your lovemaking just leaves me cold. I can barely tolerate the feel of your hands on my body.” When she said those things to him, something in him died.
After Francine left, he had loaded up all of those damned romance novels she constantly referred to and put them in a trash bag. He had been on his way to the dumpster when Alex stopped him. His brother, the environmentalist, had taken the books and distributed them among the cabins for the guests to read. Lost Maples attracted a lot of women of all ages and Alex said they enjoyed reading that kind of thing. In fact, several of them had stopped to thank him for the ‘thoughtful reading material’. Bullshit! Those books probably destroyed more marriages than alcohol and infidelity combined.
He hung up the hose and wheeled the load of clippings and weeds across the yard. Ethan had forgotten—no, more correctly—was totally oblivious to the fact he was absolutely gorgeous. At four inches over six feet, he was a striking, powerful figure. His body was broad and muscular, but still lean and taut. The work at the inn and his love of rock climbing and riding dirt bikes kept him in great shape. His eyes were cobalt blue and the lashes framing them were thick and dark. As he passed the other cabins that comprised The Lost Maples complex, he was unaware of twelve pairs of female eyes following his every move, devouring him.
When he reached the back of the main house, Ethan saw his brother Alex drive up in his burnt orange Hummer. Alex never passed up an opportunity to flaunt the colors or the reputation of their alma mater, The University of Texas. It was a good thing the price of gas had gone down, because Alex had refused to part with the monster gas-guzzler. This was the only non-green item Alex allowed himself—he did love his Hummer. He exited the vehicle with his arms full of groceries.
Once a week, Ethan or one of his brothers headed into Austin to buy produce and fresh meat from the organic food market or from one the of the city’s famous farmer’s markets. After Francine left him, Ethan offered his two brothers a working partnership in Lost Maples. A trio of men running a B&B might be odd, but somehow, it was working. Alex had gone through his own divorce and lived in the main house with Ethan. Their younger brother, Bobby, was a senior at their beloved UT. He had an apartment in Austin, but stayed at Lost Maples at least three nights a week, except during football season. Bobby played tight-end for the Longhorns and Ethan and Alex never missed a game.
“You will never guess who I ran into in town,” Alex spoke with an exaggerated drawl. He always did that when he was talking about a female. There were differences between Ethan and Alex. Ethan was taller. Alex was darker. Ethan had blue eyes and Alex’s were brown. Both were good looking—and Alex knew it—but Ethan had allowed himself to be so manipulated by Francine’s viper tongue that now, he had very little self-confidence left.
“Who?” Ethan asked with no curiosity in his voice. He dumped the load in the compost pile, propped the wheelbarrow up against a nearby tree and walked to the Hummer to get the remaining bags. He followed his brother up the back stairs into the large kitchen and as Alex unpacked the bags, Ethan began chopping vegetables.
“Shelley Thompson.” Alex said the name with relish. His words conjured up an image in Ethan’s head of the sleek, blonde Theta driving her red Audi convertible down Guadalupe, with him sitting beside her, hoping she stopped before she scooped up the gaggle of freshmen crossing the street in front of the University Co-op.
Ethan did not reply for a few moments. He knew what his brother was up to. “Where did you see Shelley?” There was no tell in his voice that the news was anything other than a polite question because that is all it was. The name of Shelley Thompson held no interest for him whatsoever. There was a long list of women Alex could run into in Austin, all of them sharing the category of eligible, beautiful past girlfriend. Ethan was just not ready to reconnect with them. Maybe, if Lise was there…but she wasn’t.
* * * *
The fact Ethan was not ready to start dating again worried Alex to death. He didn’t want Ethan to remarry, but he did want him to have a normal, healthy sex life. So, every day or two, Alex launched another attempt at setting him up with some woman or another. Alex was really concerned about his brother. That airhead Francine had really done a number on him. He could still remember the day Francine had casually announced to everyone at a family dinner, that she and Ethan’s marriage was on the rocks because Ethan was having trouble in bed. Alex could have cheerfully killed the woman, he had watched his brother withdraw into himself and turn from an outgoing fun-loving guy to a depressed introvert. Alex kept trying to tell Ethan the only thing wrong with his sexual performance was having a cold, frigid bitch for a wife.
Back to Shelley, “I ran into her at The Sour Pickle.” Alex named a quaint little restaurant a block off the drag, across from UT. Ethan had always liked the restaurant because they let him bring Mojo onto the patio. Mojo was Ethan’s dog, a miniature dachshund and the only female Ethan allowed into his bedroom these days.
“Is she still working at Taylor and Lawson?” Ethan named one of the prominent law firms in town. Shelley was a top-notch lawyer and quickly making a name for herself. Alex saw Ethan’s attempt at conversation as a sign of interest. He folded the last paper bag and poured himself a drink from a pitcher of margaritas stored in the refrigerator. His brown eyes twinkled with levity. “She asked about you.” Ethan turned the blender to high speed. He was making a batch of marinara sauce from tomatoes and herbs he had grown himself. The whirr of the small appliance made the curse words Ethan murmured unintelligible. Blending marinara only took so long, unfortunately.
“She said she and some of her friends may drop by one night for drinks,” Alex informed his brother, slowly backing away as he did so, just in case Ethan decided to throw something at him. Ethan turned around and looked at his brother.
“That’s nice,” Ethan said evenly. Not at all the response Alex had been expecting. He sat down on the stool and looked at his brother thoughtfully.
“When are you going to let go of what that bitch did to you?” Alex attempted to console his brother.
Ethan smiled crookedly. “Look, I don’t mind Shelley and some friends coming over. We can talk Longhorn football and how glad we are that Tom Craddick is no longer in charge of the House down at the capitol building.” Ethan loved to talk politics. “Just don’t expect anything else from me just yet and don’t encourage Shelley to expect anything either. You, on the other hand, can have all the fun you want to. Maybe Bobby will be here with his crowd and we can make it a real party. Just tell me when and where and I’ll make it happen.”
“Crap, Ethan! You’ve got a way of making a party sound like a damn wake! I can remember—”
Ethan cut him off. “I can, too, brother, but I am not the same man I used to be, or rather, I am not the same man I thought I was.”
Alex slapped the granite counter top so hard he hurt his own hand. He was about to come back with a few choice words when the phone rang. “Stir my sauce.” Ethan instructed Alex, but Alex beat him to the phone. He was afraid it was Shelley Thompson calling to confirm and Ethan would stop the party before it ever got off the ground.
* * * *
Annalise thought she had followed the directions precisely, but apparently she was lost. She waited for the B&B to answer so she could make sure she was on the right track.
“Lost Maples, may I help you?” What a nice voice. She was immediately intrigued and was imagining what the face that went with the drawl looked like. She was no longer in the market for male companionship, but she still enjoyed looking.
“Hello, this is Annalise Ramsey. I’m on my way in and I have just turned on Lonely Street and the street is not on my iPhone map. Am I lost?” She internally chuckled at the name, Lonely Street—they had to be kidding. What was this, the Heartbreak Hotel?
“No, in fact you’ve almost mad
e it, just keep coming down Lonely Street and you’ll be here before you know it. Oh, and by the way, it’s not Lonely Street—it’s pronounced Lo-nelly, a family that used to own the property. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression of our happy establishment.”
“Good to know and thanks. See you in a minute.”
Annalise hung up and kept going. She was glad Lonely Street wasn’t indicative of the atmosphere, she was looking for inspiration—not depression. She was weeks behind her own self-set deadline and desperately needed to churn out a few chapters. Thinking of deadlines, she decided to give Cecile a call, her secretary answered, “Passion Publishing, Cecile Rogers’ office. May I help you?”
“Lily, this is Annalise. May I speak to Cecile?” She wasn’t on hold but a few seconds, before Cecile picked up.
“Where are you?”
“I’m on Lonely Street, headed for The Heartbreak Hotel.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just kidding. I’m within shouting distance of the B&B, I think. I just wanted to thank you for your concern and assure you that I will have the first three chapters on your desk in three weeks.”
“Perfect. I just know The Lost Maples will have the right atmosphere to put you back in the writing mode. Listen, while I have you on the phone I wanted to let you know your publicist called and she has put an article about you in all of the Houston area papers. I gave her a blurb on the book you’re doing now and apparently it has generated some excitement.”
“Okay. I don’t really want a lot of excitement, but I know you want to sell books, so I better get to writing. I’ll call you in a couple of days.” Excitement—great, that’s all she needed.