by Elley Arden
Nel closed her eyes, melting into him, listening to his heart beating. Trying to make sense of what was happening. “I always thought you hated this house.” The words muffled with her mouth pressed into the crook of his arm.
“You changed my mind.”
She looked up, meeting his shining, smiling eyes, surprised to see colossal joy there, despite all he faced. She supposed love was to blame. It had a way of blocking out the bad and building up the good, of making people feel invincible.
“Well, would you look at that,” he said.
“What?” She turned her head to see what he was referring to.
“The clock on the wall says you’re on your lunch break.”
“It’s Sunday, and I’m off,” she said laughing.
“Shhh.” He dropped his mouth to within a mere heartbeat of hers. “Let’s pretend it’s Monday.”
And they did.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Elley Arden is a born and bred Pennsylvanian who has lived as far west as Utah and as far north as Wisconsin. She drinks wine like it’s water (a slight exaggeration), prefers a night at the ballpark to a night on the town, and believes almond English toffee is the key to happiness. Elley writes provocative, contemporary, series romance for Crimson Romance. For a complete list of Elley’s books visit http://www.elleyarden.com.
More from This Author
(From Save My Soul: Book One in the Kemmon Brothers Baseball Series by Elley Arden)
Maggie blinked at the picture she held in her hand. She rubbed her eyes. She tilted her head. She even squinted. No matter how she studied the tattered square, the image didn’t make sense.
Her date reached across the bistro table and flicked the back of the photo. “That’s my wife and kids.”
Maggie counted eight children. A PhD in counseling psychology couldn’t guide her reaction. Years of embracing Buddhist dharma couldn’t ease her shock.
“I’m sorry.” She shook the fog from her brain. “You said ex-wife, right? I must’ve misheard you.” Which wasn’t likely. Psychotherapists knew how to listen.
A smile warmed Paul’s brown eyes and brought out a dimple in his cheek. Maggie hadn’t noticed the deep dip a week ago when he grinned from behind a farmer’s market herb stand. She hadn’t noticed a wedding ring, either. Glancing at his naked left hand, she felt relieved. There had to be a rational explanation for this irrational conversation.
“Katherine is my wife. We’ve been married for twenty years.” The words leaped from his lips and pinned Maggie to her chair, snapping her bare back against the metal with enough force to sting.
She folded her arms over her chest and breathed, trying to plot a graceful exit from the alternative universe disguised as a coffee shop she must have landed in.
“It’s time for another wife.”
This was where desperation had led her. But as much as she loathed being a twenty-eight-year-old PhD living at home with her mother, Maggie wasn’t desperate enough to escape by way of a married man. She might be liberal, forward-thinking, and even a little off-the-proverbial-wall, but she wasn’t a home wrecker.
Drawing a shaky breath, she cursed the crowded location and leaned forward. “I’m sorry. You seem nice enough, but I can’t be with a married man. Tonight was a mistake.”
She reached into her patchwork purse, but before she fished out keys, Paul wrapped a clammy hand around her wrist. “Don’t go. Let me explain. I have Katherine’s blessing to pursue you.”
“You don’t have my permission,” Maggie said, uninterested in the details.
He released her and slinked back in his chair, looking very much the misunderstood martyr with glassy eyes and tight lips.
A bolt of pity wrapped in sensibility struck her brain. Deep breath, Maggie. Calm down. After all, the evening was innocent. They hadn’t even held hands. What harm had been done on a platonic first date?
Compassion caused her to smile. “Good night, Paul. Go home to your wife and kids.”
“But I’m a polygamist. I want another wife, and Katherine wants a sister wife.”
Maggie widened her eyes. Though rumor had it Salt Lake City overflowed with plural marriages, in the year since she’d moved home with Crystal, Maggie had yet to meet one. Until tonight.
Grabbing the edge of the cold table, she breathed through her nose and exhaled relief. Paul wasn’t risking the wrath of karma by proposing an illicit affair. He was explaining an alternative lifestyle. While Maggie had no desire to be Wife Two, she owed him civility and the opportunity to communicate without humiliation. After all, she was an expert in interpersonal communication.
She nodded in understanding. “Please tell Katherine I’m sorry, but I’m not sister wife material. Thank you for the coffee.”
Maggie lifted from the seat with as much grace as she could muster and scurried across the tile floor. Her feet wobbled in too-high heels, and her knees knocked below the hem of her flowing skirt. When she finally reached the exit, a cool rush of late October air layered her skin with goose pimples.
She’d been in a lot of ridiculous situations, but this may have topped them all.
Slamming the door of her Aquarius blue VW convertible, Maggie faced the fact that her date was a bust, and now she was going to have to drive home. Face her mother. Rehash the story when all she wanted to do was climb into bed.
This was not the life she expected to be living at twenty-eight. Then again, her entire life had been beyond normal expectations. When most mothers were teaching their daughters to read books, Maggie’s mother was teaching her how to read auras. Inside their circle of friends, inside the safe haven of their bungalow, it was a skill no different than rolling her tongue. But out here, in mainstream society, it made Maggie weird, an outcast. She couldn’t seem to fit in. Even the men she attracted were … different.
Maggie dropped her head to the steering wheel and groaned. Where was the balance? The ying and the yang? She’d worked hard to gain academic success and respect, in the process, hiding a big portion of herself and her upbringing. And where did that get her? Barely able to pay her student loan interest, car expenses and rent for her office space. This was “failure to launch” wasn’t it? She was doomed to grow old, at home, alongside her aura-reading, spell-chanting mother.
But right now, Maggie couldn’t go home. She couldn’t face the woman who’d be waiting in the rocking chair. Sometimes a girl didn’t need her mother.
She turned the key, firing the engine, not knowing where she was going. Her friends were polar opposites — spiritual seekers vs. mental health professionals — and yet both groups would agree Maggie was struggling with self-discovery. What Maggie really wanted was a single friend who would line up shots and drink with her to oblivion.
She drove without direction, listening to the pathetic thoughts in her head until she tired of the wallowing and replaced her thoughts with a mantra. She whispered the words over and over again as she traveled tree-lined streets.
Eventually, her mouth stopped moving and thoughts started forming. The first? She had a decision to make. She couldn’t live in both worlds. Either she embraced her mother’s way of life or she moved out and carved life on her own. But between student loans, car expenses, and rent for her mostly unused office space, Maggie had only managed to save five hundred dollars since she moved back home. It wasn’t enough money for a security deposit, let alone a down payment.
Passing her street, needing more time to think, Maggie guided the car down South Temple and stopped to let a ghost and goblin cross. In the chaos of the evening, she’d forgotten about Halloween. Glancing at her white knuckles, she wished she was younger, with hands wrapped around a pillowcase bursting with candy instead of strangling a steering wheel. Kids didn’t know how hard life would get. They couldn’t imagine there would ever come a time when they wanted to move ou
t of the house and live life on their own. But Maggie knew, and knowing sucked.
With no other place to go, Maggie parked her Volkswagen in the driveway of a historic Victorian, disarmed security features at the back door and reset the system on the other side. She switched on a chandelier in the main hall and blinked at the brightness. Crystal always said, look for the bright side, but Maggie couldn’t find a bright side when she was in the middle of an existential crisis.
She growled as she pounded her heels against the hardwoods and took the wool-covered stairs by two. At the east end of the wallpapered hall, she ducked into her office, shutting the six-panel door and driving a bolt lock into place. For a moment, she froze against the thick wood, but then an exhale carried her lanky body to a purple couch. She collapsed, face down on the purple velvet.
Reaching up without looking, Maggie switched on a glitzy lamp and turned her head. She opened her eyes to the Buddha that Crystal had placed against the far wall and the tapestry zafu that was a graduation present from Yogi Hajan. The pair would no doubt advise Maggie to meditate, but she couldn’t muster an ounce of spiritual motivation. She looked away before the inanimate objects could guilt her further.
Her orange Macbook sat on the desk where she’d left it hours ago after a virtual therapy session. Maybe one of “her girls” needed help. Somehow it was easier helping other people face their emotional, spiritual, and familial crises than it was helping herself.
Maggie booted the computer and headed straight for Facebook. No new messages. Nothing lurked in her inbox either. Of course not. What sort of college kid stayed in and chatted with her therapist on Halloween night when there were fraternity mixers and costume parties to attend?
She typed a quick email to the small group of clients, detailing her open availability tomorrow. Via email, chat room, webcam or old-fashioned telephone, Maggie would listen to stories of binge-eating peanut butter cups and the bouts of purging that kept the troubled young women up all night.
Pain twisted her heart, and this time the hurt wasn’t because of her own screwy life. Virtual therapy allowed Maggie to guide eight clients, battling eating disorders in different corners of the country. The technique was her focus in graduate school, earning her name recognition in scholarly journals near and far. Her avant-garde approach to therapy was something to be proud of, the one and only time she was able to mesh her alternative side with her professional side, resulting in vigorous accolades.
Maggie ran shaky fingers through her spiky hair and considered meditating again, but her thoughts were hijacked by a ringing cell phone. She blinked at the touch screen, expecting to see Crystal or even Polygamist Paul, not an unknown number. The twist of her stomach told her not to answer, but her brain overrode the unexplained nervousness. What if someone was in trouble?
“Maggie Collins,” she answered.
There was a brief pause, followed by the deep rumble of a throat clearing. “Dr. Collins, this is Jordon Kemmons. I’m not sure if you remember me.”
Her core temperature plunged and then skyrocketed. The skin on her arms pimpled, and tingles spread across her chest. “I remember.”
How could she forget? Six months ago, his tan skin, black hair, towering stature, and ominous aura haunted her from behind the podium, where he addressed the graduating class of his alma mater — now her alma mater, too. He stirred such strong feelings in Maggie, she worried the neo-gothic buildings surrounding the commons would crumble after more than one hundred years of steadfast footing. But that was nothing compared to the unsettling jolt of their shared handshake when Maggie was awarded recognition for her research. Something about the darkly handsome man strangled her breath and drained her soul.
“I hope it’s not too late to call. I work all hours and pay little attention to clocks and time zones. Can you talk or should we set another time?”
He didn’t sound the least bit remorseful for the intrusion, and she had the intuitive feeling that he intended to have the discussion whether she was busy or not. A burst of nervous energy fluttered between her ribs.
“I happen to be at the office, so it’s the perfect time to talk.” About anything other than late-twenties life crises or polygamists and sister wives.
Maggie ditched her red heels and folded her long legs in the shape of a pretzel.
“You see patients on Halloween night?”
“Clients.” How many times had Maggie explained to the layperson about the importance of choosing words wisely when it came to mental health? She sighed and reached for a rote explanation. “The word patient denotes sickness, and my clients aren’t sick. They need options and guidance. And no, I’m not seeing clients. I’m doing … inner work.”
Silence. She leaned forward, carrying goose-pimpled arms to her knees where her eyes caught the movement of a nickel-sized spider suspended from the blade of a ceiling fan.
“Dr. Collins, I have a proposition for you.”
The spider plummeted toward her bare leg. She screamed and leaped across the room, panting into the phone.
“What?” he barked. “Are you all right?” His yelling vibrated her eardrum and flooded her body with foolishness.
She kept her eyes on the spider and one hand over her throbbing heart. “I’m fine. It’s a spider.” She drew a deep, cleansing breath. “I apologize for my skittishness tonight.”
“Let me guess. You believe portals to the other dimension open at midnight on All Hallows Eve, populating the earth with immortals hungry for human souls.”
Maggie balked. Was this guy serious? He had no idea how scary real life could be. “Immortals haven’t even crossed my mind, Mr. Kemmons. I’m merely distracted with thoughts of polygamy, sister wives and the likelihood of nervous breakdowns in a person’s mid-twenties.”
More silence. Deeper silence. The kind that made a heartbeat echo.
The spider scurried up the arm of the sofa and then made a U-turn toward the floor. Maggie leaped onto a leopard print footstool.
“Dr. Collins, I’m the agent for a pitcher who flaked out during game six of the NLCS. My sports psychologists can’t break through. I don’t think he’s eating, and I’ve noticed unexplainable scars on his arms. Obviously this isn’t about pitching. The kid is crazy, but his high-profile image makes it difficult to seek inpatient treatment without career repercussions. Remembering your research, I thought maybe you could help.”
Maggie winced and dug emerald green toe nails into the cushion, once again taking on the role as champion for the misunderstood. “Mr. Kemmons, the terms ‘flaked out’ and ‘crazy’ are offensive. People on a tormented mental plane don’t deserve to have their temporary weaknesses belittled.”
“Call him whatever you want to call him. I’ll call it like I see it. And the way I see it, he isn’t focusing. He can’t throw a strike, and his fast ball dropped eight miles per hour. I can’t negotiate a case of bats for him at that speed.”
The spider disappeared under the sofa and reappeared on the woodwork. Maggie dropped her butt to the footstool and pinned her eyes on the eight-legged creature.
“I’ve exhausted all legitimate, medical treatments,” he said with a huff. “Next up is reiki and some cranial sacral voodoo that a team trainer suggested. Before I toss Carlos off the deep end and jump after him, I figured I’d give your brand of hocus pocus a try.”
Maggie winced. If he wanted the best hocus pocus money could buy, he’d have to call her mother.
Reaching up to calm a twitching vein in her forehead, Maggie rubbed her clammy skin. “I don’t even know where to start,” she said, releasing a sigh. “Reiki and cranial sacral therapy are legitimate treatments, neither of which do I practice. My brand of hocus pocus … ” she choked a little on the words, “ … is nothing more than tradition therapy offered in a non-traditional format. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but while I feel sorry for
this boy, and not because he isn’t pitching well enough but because he’s forced to deal with your spiritual retardation, I’m hardly the person to help him heal.”
Jordon snorted. “Did you just call me retarded?”
Maggie rolled her eyes, going over her words in her head. “Of course not. I simply meant your spiritual evolution is delayed.”
“Is it now?” He didn’t sound impressed.
She was beyond caring about impressions. Taking out the evening’s frustrations on this faceless man seemed infinitely more enjoyable than beating herself up about it.
With a noisy exhale, Maggie released the frustration that had been locked inside of her since her awkward date with Paul. “Mr. Kemmons, every other word that comes out of your mouth offends me, and that’s amazing, because I assure you, you won’t find a more open-minded individual than me.” She should’ve stopped there, but the emotional floodgate slammed open. “Just because I won’t participate in a polygamist marriage or engage in orgiastic relationships doesn’t mean I judge those who do.”
Deep laughter slithered through the phone, tickling her ears and neck until it shot off tiny sparks in her chest. She pounded a fist against her breastbone to stop the tingles.
“Orgiastic.” The way he said the word made her face burn. “I had no idea that was even a word.”
She raised her hand, fanning the heat. “Never mind. I … Good night, Mr. Kemmons.”
“Wait,” he yelled. “I’m prepared to double your salary.”
She didn’t have a salary. She worked off billing and sliding scales. It was “eat what you kill,” so to speak. And with her brand of therapy in low-demand, Maggie was starving.
“Dr. Collins, are you still there?”
Another shaky breath. “I am.”
“Carlos plays for Carolina, and he’s staying at my vacation home in Lake Norman. I’d like to pay you for a professional visit. Talk to him. See if you can help. Travel and hotel expenses will be covered.”