Welcome to Temptation/Bet Me

by Jennifer Crusie

  “Oh,” Min said, and turned back to the field to see a batter hit a wobbly shot into left field where a kid on Harry’s team bobbled the ball. Cal missed all of it, staring up into the bleachers at them.

  Then Cal began to turn away, and the kid in the outfield picked up the ball and threw it with desperation and an impossible force for an eight-year-old. It smacked Cal on the back of the head, knocking him off balance so that he fell to his knees and then to the ground.

  “No,” Min said and zapped down the bleachers and around the chain link fence. “Cal?” she said, going down on her knees beside him as he tried to sit up. “Cal?”

  He looked dazed, so she stared into his eyes, trying to see if the pupils were different sizes. They weren’t, his eyes were the same hot, dark depths they always were, and she fell into them again, growing breathless, as music swelled behind her, Elvis Costello singing his heart out on “She,” and the voice in her head said, THIS ONE.

  Then she heard Tony say, “Turn that damn thing off,” and when she looked up, she saw two girls with a radio next to the fence and Cynthie coming around it to kneel beside Cal, too.

  “Sorry,” one of the girls said, and the other said, “Is he dead?”

  “Go away,” Min said and they left, taking the music with them.

  “Cal, are you all right?” Cynthie said, and Min looked down at him again to see him still staring at her.

  “Cal?” she said.

  The assassin from the outfield came running up. “Did you see that, Mr. Capa? I really threw it.”

  “Yeah, you did, Bentley,” Tony said, looking down at Cal. “You okay, there, buddy?”

  “I knew I could do it,” Bentley said. “I saw Wyman getting close to third base, and something just told me I could do it, and I really threw that sucker, boy.”

  “Cal, say something,” Cynthie said, panic in her voice.

  “Boy, I really threw that sucker,” Bentley said.

  “Yeah,” Tony said. “Too bad you missed third base by a mile and took out Mr. Morrisey.” He crouched down next to Cal. “Say something or Min takes you to the ER now.”

  “Did you hear music?” Cal asked, still staring into Min’s eyes.

  “I really threw that sucker,” Bentley said.

  Tony handed Min his car keys. “Go. The Cherry Hill ER is up the road a mile.”

  “I know the way,” Cynthie said, standing. “I have a car.”

  Min helped Cal to his feet, trying to steady him as he lurched, and Tony took his other side.

  “I’ll take him,” Cynthie said. “My car is just—”

  “No,” Cal said as he righted himself. “If I’m going to throw up, it’ll be in Tony’s clunker.”

  “Drive fast,” Tony said to Min, and helped them both to the car.

  Cal lay on the table in the ER, trying to remember what had happened. He’d been staring at Min, watching the breeze flutter the ends of her blouse and tousle her curls, and he’d been telling himself that she was a pain in the ass and that he didn’t want anything to do with her, and then that ball had come out of nowhere and—

  “Cal?” Min said, leaning over him. The fluorescent light above backlit her hair and she looked like an angel again.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “The doctor said you’re going to be all right,” she said, trying to look cheerful. “I just filled your prescription.” She held up an amber plastic pill bottle. “For the pain. In case you have headaches. Do you have a headache?”

  His head felt like it was in a vise. “Yes.”

  She opened the bottle and dumped out two pills into her palm. “Here,” she said, handing them to him. “I’ll get water.”

  Cal thought about telling her that he’d already had a pain pill and then decided that since the damn thing wasn’t working, two more would be good.

  “You scared me,” she said, when she came back with the water. “You got hit in the head. People get killed that way. I don’t know how many a year. I haven’t had time to look it up.”

  Cal propped himself up to take the pills. “Bentley,” he said bitterly.

  “I’m sure he’ll be sorry,” Min said. “When he gets over how hard he threw the ball.”

  “Little bastard,” Cal said without heat. “Was there music? I could swear I heard—”

  “—Elvis Costello singing ‘She.’” Min nodded. “You did. Some kids had it on a radio. Which is weird because I don’t think it gets a lot of airplay. My sister’s using it in her wedding.” She sounded as if she were babbling, which was so unlike Min that Cal chalked it up to his general dizziness. “I called Bink on her cell and told her you were okay and I was taking you home.”

  “Your sister likes Elvis Costello?” Cal said.

  “No,” Min said. “My sister likes music from Julia Roberts movies.”

  “Oh,” Cal said and focused on her. “You cut your hair.”

  “Diana took me to her stylist,” Min said. “To go with the new clothes. I did what you said.”

  “I didn’t tell you to cut your hair.” His eyes dropped to her blouse, looking through the thin fabric to the equally thin camisole underneath, and he almost fell off the table.

  “Easy,” Min said, breathless as she tried to prop up his weight, and he looked down the open neck of her blouse and saw pink lace under the camisole.

  “Pink,” he said.

  “Oh, good, you’re feeling better,” Min said, relief in her voice. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  “Okay,” Cal said. “I like your hair.”

  Half an hour later, Min pulled up in front of Cal’s apartment, having followed his increasingly groggy directions. “Let’s go,” she said, and opened the car door for him.

  “I can get up there myself,” Cal said, weaving a little as he got out. “Take the car—”

  “You’re not going up there alone.” Min pulled his arm across her shoulders. It felt good there, if heavy. “My mother raised me better than that.”

  “Well, then you’re going up first so you can’t look at my butt.”

  “There’s an elevator, Charm Boy,” Min said, kicking the door shut behind them. “Move it.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said, and she stopped so he could get his bearings, but he put his hand on her curls again, patting them. “Springy.”

  “Right,” Min said and herded him upstairs to a white, slightly battered apartment that looked like something he would have lived in during college. She steered him through a living room furnished with Danish modern furniture that would have made all of Denmark cringe, into an even bleaker, uglier bedroom. “How are you feeling?” she said as she guided him toward his headboardless bed.

  “Better,” he said, sounding groggy. “The drugs kicked in and I’m not coaching baseball.”

  “There you go,” she said, “Always a bright side.” She shouldered him toward the bed, and he bounced when he sat down.

  “You’re a lot more aggressive than I thought you’d be.” He fell back onto the pillows, but his feet still hung off the side.

  “You’re a lot heavier than I thought you’d be,” Min said, and realized that was probably because he moved so well when he was conscious. Semiconscious, he moved like a lurching glacier. She pulled off his Nikes, and her heart skipped a beat. “You’re an eleven-D.”

  “Yes,” Cal said, sleepily. “Tell me that proves I’m a beast. You haven’t said anything lousy to me all day.”

  “Elvis wore an eleven-D,” Min said, and Cal mumbled, “Good for him.”

  She picked up his feet and threw them on the bed, and then realized that he was way too close to the edge; if he rolled off in his sleep, he’d hit his head on the battered bedside table. She shoved at him to get him to the center of the bed.

  “What are you doing?” he said, half asleep as she tried to rock him over.

  “Trying to keep you safe,” she said between her teeth as she put one knee on the bed and shoved again. “Roll over, will you?”

  He
rolled just as she shoved and knocked them both off balance. She grabbed at him to save herself, and he pulled her down with him.

  “I should be awake in about eight hours,” he yawned into her hair. “Stick around.”

  “Fine,” she said into his chest. “Fall on the floor. Get a concussion. See if I care.” He didn’t say anything, so she shoved at him again, but it was like shoving at a wall. She stopped to consider the situation. There was something very protective in the way he held on to her. Thoughtful.

  He began to snore.

  Instinctive.

  “Okay,” she said, and squirmed around until she got one foot on the floor and shoved off, toppling him over onto his back in the middle of the bed, which stopped his snoring. Then she stood up and looked at him, sprawled out on an ugly, generic bedspread in a plain, cheap bedroom with lousy, awkward lighting. He looked like a god.

  “It is so unfair,” she said to him. “Couldn’t you at least drool or something?”

  He began to snore again.

  “Thank you.” She opened his closet door and found a blanket folded on the top shelf, over a tasteful collection of expensive suits. “You are so weird,” she said to him as she snapped the blanket over him. “This place does not look like you at all.”

  He breathed deeper, and she looked down at the beautiful strong bones of his face, his lashes like smudges on his cheeks as he slept, and thought, I could love you.

  Then she straightened and returned to reality. Every woman in the city thought that when she looked at him so it wasn’t as if . . . Oh, the hell with it, she thought, and put his shoes where he wouldn’t trip over them, got him a glass of water for his bedside table, made sure his pills were within reach, and pulled the blanket up so he wouldn’t get chilled. Then, at a loss as to what to do next, she patted his shoulder and left.

  On Monday, David picked up the phone and heard Cynthie say, “I talked to Cal. He thinks she smells like lavender. He noticed she cut her hair. His nephew loves her. There was a copulatory gaze in the park.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Don’t make fun, David. This isn’t amusing. We could lose them.” He heard her take a deep breath over the phone. “The best thing for you to do right now is to ask her to lunch. Evoke joy. Did you even call her?”

  “She’s not returning my calls,” David said, trying not to sound annoyed.

  “How do you feel about that?” Cynthie said. “A little angry?”

  “A little,” David said. “But—”

  “And you’re angry that she never let you pay for dinner, too. She was rejecting your sexual advances, just as she’s now rejecting your phone calls. So now—”

  “This is ridiculous,” David said, moving beyond annoyed.

  “Your problem is that you’re angry with her and she can sense that, so you’re going to have to get over it. Now.”

  “I’m not angry, damn it,” David snapped.

  “Ask her to lunch and insist on paying. You’ll feel much better, the anger will go away, she’ll see you as a potential mate, and then you can make your move.”

  “This is such crap,” David said.

  “I don’t care,” Cynthie said. “Do it. Or she’s going to end up with Cal.”

  Cal. Cal was going to win that damn bet. He always won, the bastard. “I’ll call her,” David said. “We’ll have lunch. I’ll play it by ear.”

  “Don’t screw this up, David,” Cynthie said. “My life is riding on it. My career is riding on it. I need that wedding picture on my book cover!’

  “You know—” David began, but Cynthie had already hung up. “Wonderful,” he said, and began to dial Min.

  Min was sitting at her desk, trying to be sensible, when the phone rang. Cal, she thought, and then kicked herself. They had a good sensible plan that would prevent either one of them from getting hurt, they were logical, rational people, so that certainly wasn’t him calling. The phone rang again, and she picked it up and said, “Minerva Dobbs,” and waited for Cal to say, “Hi, Minnie, how’s the cat?”

  “Min,” David said. “Have lunch with me. We need to talk.”

  “No, we don’t,” Min said, trying hard not to be disappointed. “But I do need lunch. We can go Dutch.”

  “No, I’ll pay” David said. “I mean, I’d like to pay.”

  “Sure, fine,” Min said, confused.

  “I’ll meet you at Serafino’s at noon then?” David said.

  “Is that the place where the chef is trying to make a statement with food?”

  “It’s the hottest place in town,” David said.

  “This should be good,” Min said and hung up, chalking the whole thing up to the general weirdness of her life lately.

  When she got to the restaurant, David was waiting. He stood and smiled when he saw her, and then he stared. Min looked down and realized he was focusing on the blue gauze top beneath her gray-checked jacket.

  “You look wonderful,” he said.

  “I’m evolving,” Min said, sitting down at the inlaid table. “I’m also starving. What’s good here?” She looked around at the silver and blue. “Besides the decorating.”

  “I already ordered,” David said. “I didn’t want you to have to wait.”

  “Thoughtful of you.” Min called the waiter back and changed her order to salad and chicken marsala. Might as well see what Emilio’s competition was doing.

  “I think I made a mistake,” David said, when the waiter had placed his bowl of chilled chestnut watercress soup in front of him.

  “I think so, too,” Min said, looking at the beautifully garnished sludge in his bowl. “You’re going to hate that soup. There’s a hot dog vendor outside. Maybe we should—”

  “Not the order.” David took a deep breath and smiled. “Min, I want you back.”

  Min stopped fishing overly artistic vegetable flourishes out of her salad. “What?”

  “I was hasty,” David said, and went on while Min thought, The bet. That damn bet. You’re afraid you’re going to lose the bet.

  She sat back and considered the situation as David rambled on. Somehow, David had gotten the idea she was going to sleep with Cal. Now where would that have come from? The thought that it might be Cal gloating to him made her ill for a moment, but then common sense came back. Cal wasn’t a gloater. Also, he wasn’t dumb, and it would take somebody really dumb to tip off an opponent that he was about to lose. And anyway, Cal wouldn’t.

  “Are you listening to me?” David said.

  “No,” Min said. “Why are you doing this?”

  “That’s what I was just telling you—”

  “No,” Min said, “you were telling me about you. You were hasty, you were thoughtless, you were stupid—”

  “I didn’t say stupid,” David said, sounding testy.

  “Where am I in all of this?” Min said.

  “In my life, I hope,” David said, and he sounded so sincere, Min was taken aback. “I asked you out in the beginning because I thought you’d make a good wife, and I still think that, but what I missed was how . . .” He stopped and took her hand and Min let him, just to see what would happen next. “ . . . how sweet you are.”

  “No, I’m not,” Min said, trying to take her hand back.

  “And how . . .” He looked at her gauze blouse. “ . . . sexy you are. You’ve changed.”

  Min yanked her hand back. “David, this is buyer’s remorse, or the opposite of buyer’s remorse. If you got me back, you’d dump me again. Go date one of those skinny women you like to look at.”

  David started to say something but stopped as the waiter brought his veal whatever and her chicken marsala. Min sliced into the chicken and tasted it. “Bacon. And tomato. What kind of fool puts bacon and tomato in chicken marsala?”

  “Min . . .”

  “You can even see the bacon pieces in the sauce. Emilio would spit.”

  “You’re not taking me seriously,” David said.

  “I know,” Min said, puttin
g down her fork. “Honest to God, what were they thinking!”

  “What I’m trying to tell you,” David said, “is that I think we should date again.”

  “No, you don’t,” Min said. “You’re panicking because I’m dating somebody else. Taste your soup.”

  “I’m not—”

  “The soup,” Min said.

  David tasted the soup and made a face. “What the hell?”

  “I told you.” Min pushed her plate away. “Never go anyplace the chef is trying to talk with food. You’ll end up paying for his ego. Sort of like dating.” She picked up her purse. “I’m sorry, David, but we have no future. We’re not even going to finish this lunch, although I do appreciate you paying for it. Thank you.”

  “Where are you going?” David said, outraged as she stood up.

  “To get a hot dog,” Min said. “I think that vendor had brats.”

  Emilio called Cal on Tuesday night at six. “Min ordered takeout again,” he said. “You taking it to her?”

  “Yes,” Cal said automatically and then remembered they weren’t seeing each other. “No.” Which didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. “Yes.” Which was a huge rationalization. “No.”

  “Uh huh,” Emilio said. “So that’s a no?”

  On the other hand, he had to eat. And he should thank her for taking care of him on Saturday. And he wanted to see her. “No,” Cal said. “That’s a yes. I’ll take it to her.”

  Chapter Eight

  Min answered the door in her godawful sweats again, no makeup and her curly hair going every which way. She looked wonderful. “Hi,” she said, sounding surprised, and then she grinned. “Emilio shanghaied you, huh?”

  “He said you were starving,” Cal said, smiling back in spite of himself. “You took me to the ER. You put a glass of water by my bed. I owe you.”

  “That’s lame,” she said, but she stood back and he walked in, glad to see her ugly cat staring one-eyed at him from the back of her ugly couch.

  “I can’t believe you still have that cat,” Cal said, unpacking the bag onto the table. “What did you name it?”

  “I can’t believe you brought me that cat,” Min said, heading for her kitchen alcove. “And I haven’t named it anything yet. We’re still trying to decide if we want to make a commitment. Although he does come home every night and sleep with me.”