Thrill Me

by Isabel Sharpe

  There. She dared a glance up at Beck and found him staring at her with a look of satisfaction, as if he’d just solved a puzzle that had been tormenting him. Which he undoubtedly had concerning her fake Veronica act. Women like Veronica wouldn’t have needed Clarissa to spell out in block letters that Trevor was married. Nor would they rush to justify a scheduled sexathon as a reaction to their boyfriend dumping them.

  “Sounds like you needed to get away.”

  “I guess. But it was pretty cowardly.”

  He cocked his head questioningly. “Why?”

  Wasn’t it obvious? “I was running away from the pain instead of dealing with it.”

  “Seems to me you were taking steps to start over.”

  “With a married man?”

  “You didn’t know he was married.”

  “I should have.”

  “Why are you being so hard on yourself?” He took her champagne from her and put it on the table, next to his, then took both of her hands and held them. “You were hurt, badly. Instead of staying home, collapsed and sniffling, you took a risk, jumped at what you hoped was a chance for new happiness, even temporary. I’d say that’s pretty brave.”

  “I’d say it was irresponsible.”

  “Only because of how it ended up. What if you’d come to New York to meet me?”

  She smiled, a champagne-assisted warm glow lighting her up at the mere thought. “That would have been much smarter.”

  “See?”

  “But still out of character.”

  “Hmm.” He studied her as if he was testing a mind-reading device. “Then what is your character?”

  “I’m not impulsive. Not a risk-taker. Not particularly daring sexually.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Um…”

  She blushed as if it were her last chance ever to blush again and she wanted to do it up right. “I mean usually. This week was definitely not usual. In Oshkosh, I’m pretty…normal and predictable and—”

  “Then why do I think you’re the most exciting woman I’ve ever met?”

  May’s jaw opened and shut. The most what? “Because…this week I haven’t been myself.”

  “Who have you been?”

  When she didn’t answer, his fingers tightened on her hands; he leaned forward, his gaze so focused on her he looked almost angry. “The things I’ve seen you do this week are not things an average predictable woman would do. And if you go back to Wisconsin and to this boyfriend who has made you feel average and predictable, you’ll be committing a major crime.”

  His wink took some of the intensity out of his words and May chuckled, more nervous than amused. What made him and Clarissa assume Dan had kept some kind of lid on her real self? She’d never felt that way with him. Just protected and safe and…loved. “That sounds pretty dire.”

  “It would be dire. A damn waste of a fabulous woman.” He let go of her hands and before she could feel the loss of physical contact, he tangled his ankles with hers and leaned in so close she could see the tiny feathery patterns of his iris. “I know I won’t be able to convince you to stay now, May. So I’ll leave it until you have more champagne in you and I get you alone. Then I’ll make you so hot and so breathless I’ll be able to extract all kinds of promises you wouldn’t make to me now in a million years.”

  She wanted to laugh again, to keep the moment light, but the idea of him driving her so crazy she’d promise to stay was making her hot and breathless already. “I can’t move here.”

  “Why? Forget the practical stuff. Concentrate on the big picture.”

  She studied the crinkled edges of her napkin, unable to figure out how to respond to that. Right now he thought she was the most exciting woman he’d ever met. She did feel exciting around him, and the circumstances and the wonderful freeing atmosphere at HUSH had made it easier for her to cut loose. But how long before that thrill wore off? How long would he hang around once he realized she was just a normal nice person, with a love of routine and home and family? A woman who felt that most of the time sex should be part of a love relationship, and that a love relationship should lead to marriage and family.

  “I don’t know if I can handle New York.”

  “Why not?”

  She paused, considering her answer even though her statement had been designed only to throw him off the real trail. But the crowds hadn’t seemed too bad today, maybe even energizing. And the lack of green—she’d found bits of it where she could escape and she hadn’t even explored Central Park yet. Rude behavior had alternated with friendly and helpful. Weird people today seemed less like threats and more like the spice of life variety gives. And it wasn’t as if Oshkosh was exclusively stocked with saints.

  “I don’t think…I…”

  “Tell me about a typical day for you in Wisconsin—where in Wisconsin, by the way?”

  “Oshkosh.”

  “Tell me about a typical day in Oshkosh.”

  She nodded. Good idea. Now he’d see what she was talking about. “I wake up and go to work—”

  “Breakfast?”

  “You want to know what I have for breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “O-kay. I have cereal.”

  “Sweet cereal? Marshmallow-y cereal?”

  She made a face. “No way. Shredded wheat or cornflakes or Cheerios. With milk—”

  “Skim? Two percent?”

  She laughed. “Skim. And wheat germ. Bananas in the winter and strawberries or blueberries in the summer. I shower. I make my lunch—” She held up a hand to stave off his question.

  “Sandwich or salad, fruit and a cookie. I drive to work. I work. I swim at the college pool either on my lunch hour or after work. I come home, I eat dinner, read, sometimes rent a movie and go to bed. The next day I do it again. On weekends I clean or read or go out with friends.”

  There. She waited for him to start spewing champagne in disgust.

  “Okay.” He drained his glass and set it down, rubbed his hands together, as if he was accepting a challenge. “Here’s my day as a wild and worldly sophisticated New Yorker. I get up. I shower. I eat whole-grain toast with peanut butter and jam, sometimes pancakes or eggs. On Sundays I have a croissant from a bakery a few blocks over. I write in the mornings. I take a walk. I buy a sandwich at the corner deli, chips and a pickle and a candy bar or brownie or oatmeal raisin cookie. I come home, write in the afternoon, work out at the gym, cook my dinner, read, watch TV and go to bed. Occasionally I eat with my family or go see a movie with a friend. Sound familiar?”

  She nodded, playing with her glass, tipping it one way and the other, watching the bubbles chase each other to get to the surface.

  His hand covered her free one. “We live in different cities, but we don’t live different lives. I have no doubt you could handle New York.”

  She looked up and met his eyes and something much more than lust passed between them. His confidence in her made her feel powerful and capable and…well, as if she was Veronica for real. Even as she was admitting she was May.

  “I squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom.”

  He winced. “Middle.”

  “Toilet paper over the top.”

  “Agreed.”

  She exhaled exaggerated relief. “Hate soap scum in the shower, but leave shoes lying around.”

  “Obsessively scrub countertops but let the kitchen floor get gray before I’ll mop it.”

  “Don’t vacuum under the couch more than a few times a year.”

  “Keep leftovers in little containers until they get moldy, then I throw them away.”

  She started to giggle. “Rarely wash windows.”

  “Obsessive about uncluttered work space.”

  “Obsessive about neat dresser drawers.”

  “Pay bills on time.”

  “Pay bills on time.”

  “Never talk to women about how I feel about them.”

  May frowned. “I generally—”

  “May, don’t leave New York until
we’ve figured out what’s going on between us. This is different from anything I’ve felt before and I want to know why.”

  She blinked. “You just said you never talk to women about—”

  “I know.” He tugged gently on a lock of her hair. “That’s why I don’t want you to go.”

  Her mouth fell open a little before she noticed and closed it. He was serious about wanting her to move? Even now, when she’d taken off the Veronica veil and revealed what lay beneath? Did this mean…what did this mean? “I…don’t know what to say.”

  “Just think about it, that’s all I ask.”

  She nodded. The waiter showed up; Beck squeezed May’s hand, glanced at his watch, then paid over her protests, and led them back out into the street.

  They walked the few blocks to Nobu, down West Broadway. Everywhere May looked there were specialty food shops, bakeries, ethnic restaurants, delis, how did everyone in the city stay so thin? How did anyone keep from spending all his money just walking around during lunch hour? She wanted to go into every single store and restaurant, try everything, compare, pick favorites. Then move on to another neighborhood and do it again. Maybe Beck was right. Maybe she could handle New York.

  They arrived at Nobu and went inside, changing places with a laughing couple just leaving. The interior of the restaurant resembled a geometric forest; regularly spaced “trees” with twin trunks spread upward into constructed branches that evoked inverted umbrellas. The floor, walls and ceilings were rosy blond wood, the chairs made a pretty, dark contrast. Heavenly smells permeated and every dish May peeked at on the wooden tables they passed looked both beautiful and delicious.

  They settled into their table and ordered more champagne—who could ever get enough? She’d have to stock her apartment in Oshkosh with a few cases to get her through the winter.

  The image appealed—briefly. Every time she drank it now she’d think of this week here with Beck. Maybe it wouldn’t taste quite the same. Undoubtedly it wouldn’t.

  Beck toasted her again, his blue-gray eyes starting to be so dear to her she wasn’t sure how she could say goodbye to them, let alone the rest of him. “I could make this a habit, how about you?”

  “Same.” She clinked her glass to his, trying to banish the touch of sadness creeping into her mood.

  He leaned across the table and kissed her, kissed her again, drew his tongue gently across her lower lip and sat back, looking at her as if she were the Mona Lisa or the Pietà, or the eighth wonder of the ancient world. Her sadness immediately succumbed to the wave of happiness and warmth flooding her. There just couldn’t be anything that felt better than this. Except maybe his naked body flush against hers in cotton sheets.

  Was she nuts to give up a chance at love with this man?

  “Middle name?”

  She blinked, then realized what he meant a second later. “Hope. Yours?”

  “Hope.”

  “Your middle name is Hope, too?”

  He laughed. “I was enjoying yours. May Hope Ellison. I like that.”

  “Thanks.” Not as much as she liked hearing it on his lips. She raised her brows expectantly. “Yours?”

  “Charles.”

  “Oh, a great name. My brother’s in fact.”

  “Really. Favorite movie kiss?”

  “That’s easy. Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn in Woman of the Year.”

  “The scene where she’s invited him to the airport?”

  May sighed dramatically and quoted. “‘I was sort of hoping that you’d kiss me goodbye.’”

  “And he shoots his arm out and grabs her to him.”

  “Yes.” May patted her heart. “Wonderful. What’s yours?”

  “In Witness, when Harrison Ford and Kelly McGinnis rush at each other. I was thirteen and thought she was totally hot.”

  May laughed, retroactively jealous of Kelly McGinnis. “Favorite food?”

  “Peanut butter. I could eat it every day. In fact I probably come close. Yours?”

  “Chocolate chip cookies.”

  “With nuts, I hope?”

  “Of course.”

  “Eat them every day?”

  She mimed a large stomach and shook her head. “Wish I could, though.”

  “Favorite sport.”

  “Packers football. You?”

  “Yankees baseball.”

  “Favorite thing to do when it rains.”

  “Hmm. That depends.” He lifted an eyebrow and gave her a lazy sex look. “Are you there?”

  “Let’s say yes.”

  He leaned forward, making the air between them buzz with intimacy. “Then I’d want to take your clothes off, slowly…one item at a time. Taste every inch of your skin and make love to you until you can no longer stand, make you come so many times you can’t anymore.”

  May swallowed the champagne she’d held in her mouth while listening, sure she’d be able to do no more than whisper a response. “That would be fine.”

  “I don’t know if I can wait through dinner before I’m inside you, May.”

  Oh, my word. She’d never ever, ever felt anything like this daring dangerous thrill. A thrill that went clear through to her heart. Did it touch his, as well? “Really?”

  “It’s going to be tough. My chances of survival are—”

  “Hello and welcome to Nobu.” The waitress bowed slightly. “Do you have any questions about the menu?”

  Beck snapped into polite charm over May’s barely suppressed giggle and ordered the tasting menu for both of them.

  The dinner was sublime. Course after perfect tiny course arrived, ingredients and combinations May had sometimes never even heard of let alone imagined. It was by far the best meal she’d ever had—and not just because of the food.

  Now that she didn’t have to pretend to be anything but who she was, she and Beck talked easily about everything. He told her about growing up in New York, about his family and their restaurant, about his struggles getting published, and his struggle writing earlier that day.

  She told him about her isolated childhood, her daydreams, how she watched old movies incessantly, how she met Dan and he became her world for so many years, about her mom’s adventure here in New York and her dad’s ensuing rescue. She couldn’t help a growing sense of awe that her life and childhood interested him so much, that stories Dan knew by heart found such entrancing new life.

  Maybe it was simply a new ear, but she felt as if Beck really heard, not just listened, really took the details into account in the picture of her he must be forming. And even as that picture formed, he showed no signs of pulling away, didn’t look at his watch, didn’t ogle the many more beautiful women around the restaurant, as Dan always did.

  Why had she held herself back for so long? Why had she had so little confidence that her true self would appeal to him? Seeing her real self, getting to know her better, would that deepen his feelings to where he could see a future for them out of bed as well as in it?

  “Now.” She pushed her cup of tea to the side and leaned her forearms on the otherwise empty table. “Tell me more about you. I’ve talked way too much.”

  “But it’s interesting.”

  “And you must be ten times more. Tell me about writing. The process.”

  His eyes lit up like those of a kid about to open his favorite present. “Writing fiction is the best job in the world.”

  “No downside?”

  “As in any job, there’s drudgery and frustration, like today, but those moments where you nail a scene, or the best part, when you turn in a completed manuscript you’re pleased with, those are incredibly satisfying highs. It’s so much a part of me, what emerges. And if it’s good, and people react favorably, then it’s a compliment about who I am as well as what I’ve done.”

  May nodded enthusiastically, thrilling to the emotional connection. “Yes. Yes. That’s how I feel about drawing.”

  “You draw?”

  “Oh. Well…yes. It’s not a big deal.” She
cringed. Why had she mentioned it? She wasn’t remotely on his level creatively speaking. “Did I tell you I went to visit Clarissa today?”

  He gave her that amused half grin which acknowledged her change of subject without objecting. “Yes, you mentioned it. She’s a fascinating person. I get the sense she was quite a femme fatale in her time.”

  “We had this fabulous tea.”

  “Where she told you to move here, and take her job.”

  “She wants to retire or go part-time for a while, and her assistant left to get married.”

  “It’s fate, May. Clarissa’s job. Me.” He winked. “It’s what you’re meant to do.”

  She rolled her eyes over a smile, but her stomach—besides being full of excellent food—was full of shivery excitement. The idea that this fantasy could go on longer… Was she really ready to go home tomorrow?

  But what would she be staying for? Wasn’t it better to leave while the infatuation was still shiny and perfect? Before any tarnish set in? What would she have to give up to move here and what would she be stuck with if Beck grew tired of her?

  “Say you’ll stay.”

  “Beck, I can’t.”

  “Then say you’d like to. At least in theory.”

  She smiled. That she could do. “I’d certainly like to in theory.”

  “I’ll take that for now.”

  The waitress brought the check and hovered, glancing nervously at Beck while he signed. “Excuse me. I saw your name. Could you…could I get your autograph for my boyfriend? To John?”

  Beck nodded graciously and held his pen up, at the ready. “What would you like me to sign?”

  “Oh.” She looked around blankly.

  “I have paper.” May reached into the bag for her sketch pad and pulled out a clean sheet. “Here.”

  She passed it to Beck; he signed with a flourish and handed the autograph to the nearly swooning waitress with a smile that faded after she left.

  “Okay, May. I let it go before, but no longer. Are those your sketches?”

  She nodded reluctantly. “Clarissa asked me to bring them along today.”

  “I see.” He beckoned with his hand, like a stern parent wanting a forbidden toy given up. “Hand them over.”