Wishes and Stitches

by Rachael Herron

  Anna looked at Naomi questioningly. “I’m not sure . . . What else needs doing?”

  “You can leave, that’s fine.” What else was Naomi supposed to say? Be careful? Anna was already knocked up—how much more trouble could she get into?

  Jake gestured at his uniform. “I might look a little official for a burger, but as long as I stay within running distance of the firehouse in case the siren goes off, I can go. Rig, you coming?”

  Rig also declined. “Naomi and I have to go over plans for the contra dance. We’re hosting.” He sounded proud, and Naomi’s toes curled happily.

  “Oh, great, you’re doing that?” Jake looked pleased. “The whole department always goes and passes the boot for donations.”

  Anna came around the desk slowly, a hand on the top of her stomach. “I’m ready, then.”

  “Guess we’ll catch you later,” said Jake.

  “Hey, why did you come by?” said Rig as Jake held open the door for Anna. The noise of cars passing on Main Street poured in like water.

  Jake leaned in and spoke so that Anna, already outside, couldn’t hear. “Was going to ask you about Dad’s medication. But then something more important came up. Catch you later.” The smile took over his whole face before he ducked out and the door shut. It was quiet again.

  Naomi straightened the magazines on the low table, just to give herself something to do. Was she going to go through with this? Could she? Should she? The idea had taken root, and she couldn’t think of anything else.

  Yes. She would. Do it and get over it. Once and for all.

  “So, great idea,” Rig said. He was too close, suddenly right behind her. She hadn’t heard his footsteps moving across the carpet.

  “What?” She pushed a curl out of her face.

  “Hosting the dance.” He was just an inch too close.

  Naomi stood straight and looked at him. Yep. He was with her on this one. She’d take the lead. That way, maybe she’d be able to keep it.

  “We should talk about it some more.”

  He smiled, easily. He had no idea how easy it was going to be. “Over dinner?”

  “What about at your house? Can you cook for me there?”

  Rig blinked. Yep. She knew he hadn’t seen that coming.

  “Sure,” he said. “I make a mean take-out pizza.”

  Even better. She would get laid and get fed, because she hadn’t been planning on letting him have too much time to cook.

  “I’ll be there in an hour,” she said.

  “You eat meat?”

  “Do I ever,” she said. Was that a blush creeping onto his face? Good. She would not go red. She would do this. God, her heart was beating triple time. Making the shift from office mate to object of desire was something people did all the time, right? No reason for these nerves.

  “You’re different,” he said. “What’s changed in you?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Just looking forward to our . . . dinner.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Cheating on your knitting, casting on when you shouldn’t, is illicit, delicious, and very hard to resist.

  —E.C.

  In the drugstore, Naomi stood in the aisle that thoughtfully provided a one-stop shopping experience for every nether-region over-the-counter experience possible. Condoms, spermicide, jelly for before. Pregnancy tests for the oops after. For in between, douches (Naomi shook her head in disapproval), yeast infection treatments, and a whole range of sanitary supplies—pads, pantiliners, and tampons. All the down there corralled right here.

  She looked over her shoulder in each direction. Naomi knew Zonker, the pharmacist, pretty well from phoning in prescriptions. She’d overheard a rumor once that his unfortunate nickname came from an ill-fated college experiment with psychotropic drugs, but had never known whether to believe it or not. He always looked presentable at work in his scrub whites, but she had seen him once at Tillie’s on a Saturday morning wearing a Deadhead shirt, so there might be something to it. He did seem a little dizzy, but then again, he was married to Margie, who staffed the counter and was a well-respected member of the Baptist church. She never wore anything lower cut than a turtleneck. Naomi certainly couldn’t see her taking anything more than an ibuprofen every once in a while, let alone allowing Zonker to listen to Jerry in her house.

  And dammit, if there was any other place to buy condoms within a thirty-mile radius, she would. But this was a rush job. She hadn’t been able to grab them from the supply cabinet before she left—Rig had been in there, and she’d rather have died than reach around him. She’d already been home to change, and now she was on her way to his place, and if she’d spent any time thinking about it, she’d have done those the other way around. It would have looked more innocuous to be caught buying condoms while wearing the street clothes she’d worn under her white coat than it did while wearing a low-cut red silk blouse, short skirt, and red high heels.

  She looked around again furtively. Good. Still no one in sight.

  God, there was a dizzying array of choices. Racks and racks of colors, types, and styles. Should she buy extra large, with the intention of flattery? She struggled to figure out how large was extra large. No way was she riding a horse with a loose saddle.

  But then again, Rig was above average. Naomi felt a rush of heat between her legs at the thought, and then the same rush hit her brain.

  She was going to sleep with Rig. Again.

  And Naomi didn’t think she’d ever been this nervous about sex before. What was wrong with her? She forced herself to pick up and examine a matte black box. Was this supposed to be the manly purchase? Black so no one would think he was buying tampons, which came in the pink and yellow boxes? Good grief.

  It was just sex. Enjoyable mutual stimulation, after which she’d grab her bag and head home, satisfied, primed for sleep.

  Right. She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she squeaked.

  Pick a box, any box. How about the one with the ribs? Naomi honestly couldn’t remember if she’d ever used condoms made “for her pleasure,” and her eyebrows lifted as she read the copy. Really? Now, she knew a woman’s insides were sensitive, but structurally speaking they didn’t have as great a number of nerves as did other places, like fingers. How on earth would a woman be able to feel minuscule ridges made of an uber-thin, flexible membrane?

  She picked up another, cheaper box, and held them together for comparison. The ribbed kind was four dollars more than the regular box. Screw that.

  She flushed. She was going to screw that.

  “Excuse me, do you have any idea where I’d find laxatives?”

  Naomi jumped and wheeled on her heel and, to her extreme horror, found herself face-to-face with Frank Keller, Rig’s father. While she was holding a box of condoms in each hand.

  To his credit, he also looked unnerved.

  “Well, dammit,” he said. “I thought you worked here. I don’t have many secrets, but talking about my bodily functions with pretty ladies is something I prefer to keep on the down low. But look at you.” Frank took a step back. “You’re all dressed up! Let’s forget what I asked you about. What are you here for? I thought Jake said you and Rig were hanging out tonight.”

  Dumbstruck, Naomi looked at her full hands. They might as well have been lit up with a flashing sign that read Sex Sex Sex!

  “Ah,” said Frank. “Well.”

  Naomi nodded, feeling as red as the fire extinguisher on the wall behind Frank’s head.

  “How ’bout we pretend that we never saw each other right here. But I do have a question for you.” He ducked his head. “How about we meet on aisle three? Nothing embarrassing about candy.”

  He turned his back, heading away, giving Naomi time to hang up both boxes and take a deep breath. Good God.

  In aisle three, Frank held up a bag of miniature Reese’s peanut butter cups. “I like ’em better tiny like this. More flavor.”

  “Ah,” said Naomi, still trying to figure out if there was a
ny way in hell she could just disappear. “So what was your question for me?”

  Rubbing his knuckles over the top of his bald head, Frank said, “Well, you see, I’ve got heart trouble. Nothing major, just a little ticker damage from a heart attack I had about five years ago. Had another one six months or so ago.”

  “How are you feeling right now?” Please, Lord, don’t let him fall out in the pharmacy right before she had a date with his son.

  “Nah, don’t worry about that. I’m fit as a fiddle. Scratch that, I don’t like fiddles. Screechy. I’m fit as a banjo.”

  “Are you under a doctor’s care? Your son’s? Do you carry nitroglycerin with you?” Naomi asked.

  “That’s the thing. Pederson was my doctor, and I never really liked the guy anyway. I refuse to let Rig treat me because then he’ll tell Jake, who worries like a little girl stuck on top of a jungle gym. My nitro’s expired. I need some more. Just to carry with me.”

  “And . . .” She was going to make him say it.

  “I thought maybe you’d write a ’scrip for me.”

  Naomi didn’t say anything. It was an outrageous suggestion. She didn’t just prescribe medicine that a patient said he needed without seeing a chart, a history, without running tests.

  “Come on. It’s not like I need OxyContin or something. Cypress Hollow doesn’t have a big black market for nitro. And I’m just a little worried.” He patted his shirt pocket. “The pills I carry here have been expired for more than a year.”

  “But . . .”

  Frank shrugged expressively. “Eh. I know. They’re probably just fine still, huh? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Thanks, kid.”

  Naomi drew in a heavy sigh. “You’re something else, you know that?” She rummaged in her purse for the emergency prescription pad she always kept with her. She’d never had to use it before.

  Frank perked up, his shoulders going back. He ripped open the bag of Reese’s and took out a mini wrapped chocolate. As if she’d heard it from across the store, Naomi saw Margie’s head peek around the end of the aisle. She stared disapprovingly at Frank, who ignored her while Naomi finished scribbling her signature.

  His mouth full, he said, “You’re the bee’s knees, kiddo.”

  She pulled off the sheet and waved it under his nose. “I’m only giving you this if you promise to come see me this week.”

  He snatched the paper and kept chewing. “Gotta be a time when Rig’s not there. I’m not going to worry him, or worse, Jakey.”

  “Give back the prescription.”

  Sticking it in his pocket, he nodded. “Fine, fine. I’ll come in.”

  Naomi shook her finger, feeling like an ineffective schoolteacher as she did so. “You better. Or I’m going to tell on you to Rig.”

  Frank’s grin swept over his gray stubble, brightening the dark eyes that reminded her suddenly of Rig’s. “You might be good for him, you know that?”

  “Wh-what?”

  “I saw you two in your house that night he knocked your father all over the ground. I saw something there. You both got some loneliness, I think.”

  Naomi would bet she’d been lonely longer than Rig had. And if she didn’t get rid of Frank, that wouldn’t change anytime soon. She needed those condoms. Any condoms. She waved her hands as if shooing a chicken. “Go on, take that to Zonker.”

  He held out the bag of chocolate. “Want one?”

  She couldn’t help laughing. “You haven’t even paid for that yet.”

  “Planning ahead. I’m always planning ahead. By the way, those ribbed ones are for crap. Don’t bother.” Naomi gasped as he trundled down the aisle. “Have fun, Doc!”

  Five minutes later, her plain old vanilla condoms purchased from a scowling Margie, Naomi had planned ahead, too. Her heart pounded so hard she wondered if she shouldn’t have picked up some nitro herself.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Knitters have an instant connection in the same way readers of the same author do: “Oh, yes, you know about that, too? Oh, you understand me!” Revel in it.

  —E.C.

  As Rig slid the take-and-bake meat lover’s special into his oven, he wondered what the hell had gotten into Naomi.

  Not that he was complaining. Any woman who looked at him like she did, well, that was okay by him. The way she’d shaken down her hair in reception—he’d gotten hard just looking at her. And then, when she’d looked down at the front of his jeans . . . That was the confident Naomi he’d met in Portland. Gone was the tongue-tiedness, gone were the nerves and the impression that she was hiding something, keeping a secret that he didn’t understand.

  Hell, if she wanted to play, he’d play. He’d had dalliances with women in the workplace before, and while they hadn’t been anything really special, he knew he could handle it. Lisa, the lab tech who did most of his processing when he was on the rigs, she’d been nice. And after it was over, they’d still been friends. And Patty, at the hospital during his internship—well, they’d made good use of the broom closet when the janitors were off cleaning. The women in his past were nice. Simple. He’d been lucky, he knew. Well, Rosie had been uber-complicated, but that might have been the problem with her.

  Rig didn’t know if anything was simple with Naomi. She sometimes seemed nervous as a cat in the rain, and other times, with her patients, she came across as assured, calm. Friendly. In control.

  Which was the real Naomi? Who was she when she closed her bedroom door? When she was really, truly alone? Why was it that he suspected that somewhere, under those jangled nerves of hers, there was a roaring fire in a hearth banked against winter? That was the danger of her. Rig wanted to uncover that heat, but at the same time he was terrified of finding it, terrified that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to walk away. Not that he was going to get hung up on her, he reminded himself. Just the opposite. Type A was Rig’s blood type, and that’s about all he understood about it. She was too driven to be with, he could see that a mile out, not that he was looking. For anyone.

  The doorbell rang, and he set the timer quickly. Fifteen minutes, and they’d eat.

  “Hey, you,” he said as he opened the door and let her in. “Come in,” he tried to say, but his voice choked on the words.

  Damn. Naomi wore a loose red shirt cut with a low V that flowed when she moved, showing off a nice little peek at the top of her cleavage, and a black short skirt that moved with her in the best way. And red fuck-me heels. He’d known those legs were under there, but now that he saw them again, all naked like that . . . Rig wanted to put both hands on either side of her face, draw her in for a white-hot kiss, then run his hands down . . .

  He had to get a grip.

  Naomi smelled perfect, too, of a sweet, light perfume, something that went right to his head and made him dizzy.

  “Welcome,” Rig said as she looked around. He saw it with new eyes—he was tidy most of the time, but he’d never quite gotten around to unpacking all the way. His table and chairs were out, so there was somewhere to sit, but the tiny one-bedroom apartment didn’t have room for much more than a small, two-seater couch that his brother had stored in the garage, and a TV that he never watched. Boxes were still stacked in the small hallway, full of stuff that he’d packed away before he went on the rigs, junk that had been in storage all these years. Finally he could start going through them, but he hadn’t been motivated to start yet. He’d lived without whatever was in there for this long, so why bother now?

  “Still settling in?” she asked.

  “Sort of. Pizza should be ready soon.”

  “Smells good in here.” She brushed the top of a stack of books with her fingertips.

  It did smell great, the scent of the pizza warming had just filled the room. This was going to be a good night, even if he wasn’t quite sure what was going to happen.

  “So,” she said, turning to face him. If he got a little closer to her, he might be able to look down that awesome shirt, just the tiniest bit.

  And that’s all i
t took to feel thirteen years old again. Cool your jets, man.

  “Come sit in the kitchen. I’ve got a table in there. You want a beer?”

  “Do you have wine?”

  Shit. He should have thought of that. “No, I’m sorry. Fresh out.”

  “Beer’s fine, then.”

  Rig handed her a bottle, and she drank from the neck, a long pull. He loved looking at the line of her throat.

  “So,” he said. What was this feeling? Was it really nervousness? Rig was both amused with himself and chagrined. Nervous. Sheesh. The metal table legs wobbled as she put her bottle down, and he straightened one so that it wouldn’t collapse altogether. “Sorry about this. It’s old. It was my dad’s, but my brother didn’t have room for it at his house.”

  “I like it. It’s kitschy.” Her smile was more familiar as she said it—she looked more like the woman he’d taken out on his bike.

  “About the dance . . . ,” he started.

  “Thank you for backing me on it,” Naomi said. “I can’t believe I’m going to do something with the town. Something real.”

  He shook his head and took a swig of his beer. “It’ll be a better way to get people into your center than putting out those dusty old brochures, those ones that tell people how to wash their hands. Why do you have those in there, anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I agree that they’re boring,” She met his eyes, and his gut knotted in that way that kept happening when she was around. “And I hate boring. That’s not me.”

  “Yeah, I’ve already picked up on that,” he said. “I wouldn’t call you that.”

  “What would you call me, then?” It sounded so much like a line a girl would say in a bar that he almost laughed. But she was serious. Naomi gave the smallest, sexiest smile he’d ever seen. She leaned forward infinitesimally and he felt himself drawn to her like iron to her magnet. Her green eyes were flecked with bits of hazel brown and tiny sparks of yellow. He wanted to lose himself in them. And the way her mouth was tilted up like that . . . He was going to kiss her and embarrass them both if she kept this up.