Driving in Neutral

by Sandra Antonelli

  “Zupeenie!” Suzanne squealed.

  She glanced up as Justine tittered and sloshed peach slush on the floral patterned rug. She blinked when Ella flounced into the room with the ice bucket full of brilliant, diamond-like cubes. Olivia took another deep breath as the bride asked, “What’s so funny?”

  “Uncircumcised penises,” Addie sniggered. “Mimi said they look like zucchinis.”

  Ella’s lips pursed for a moment. “I’d say they look more like sea anemones.”

  “Anemopeens!” Suzanne shouted.

  Laughing, Ella put the ice bucket on table beside Olivia. She stopped laughing as she gazed over the table setting and the way the room had been decorated. A hand flew to her cheek. “Oh, Olivia, this is lovely! When you’re done workin’ for Pete you should start a wedding planning business.”

  “Zupeenies!” Suzanne squealed again.

  And the air Olivia expelled from her lungs came out in a loud “Ha!” A smoldering lump rose in her throat as she struggled once more to take another breath. Understanding her reaction was irrational didn’t matter. Logic made no difference, trying to breathe was not an option because she was screwed.

  The job for Pete was only temporary.

  I am so screwed.

  “Well, what do circumcised ones look like, mushrooms?” Justine twittered, spilling more daiquiri onto the rug. “Oops. Hey, maid of honor, you gonna clean this up?”

  Ella spun, angry. “Justine!”

  “Justpeen!” Suzanne shrieked.

  Suffocating, Olivia moved with as much speed as she could, tripping over the curled edge of the Persian rug, which of course drew laughter from the inebriated bridesmaids. She stumbled out of the sunroom, hurried through the large lounge room and out into the main hall, nearly making it to the front staircase when a moan forced its way out. With one foot on the bottom step, she clamped a hand over her mouth to try to stifle the rasping noise in her throat. She started up the steps and stopped dead.

  The bachelor party had finished early. Tex and Martin stood at the top of the upstairs landing, tumblers of amber alcohol in their hands, and they barred the way to her room.

  Fuck. Oh, fuck.

  The remaining voice of reason in her head reminded her that crying would solve nothing nor change a single item from her past, but the urge to bawl was shouting louder than that rational voice. She executed a hasty right turn and hurried through the hallway, forgetting there was a soundproof telephone alcove under the steps. Instead, she rushed past to the back of the house, aiming for the rear service staircase in the kitchen. A single recessed light above the stove illuminated a small circle on the kitchen tiles. She got as far as the front of the narrow, walk-in butler’s pantry and knew there was no way she’d make it upstairs.

  She yanked open the pantry door, her hand grinding her lips into her teeth, her body shuddering as she tried to regulate her breathing, to regain composure, to keep herself together. She knocked against the old key rack before she closed the door and faced a dark wall of shelves stacked with glasses, condiments, and folded table linens. In an attempt to find some shred of inner peace, she squeezed her eyes shut, keeping in the tears while she gasped and choked on every breath she counted.

  Small pot in his hand, Emerson rose from the low cupboard as a figure darted into the walk-in and pulled the door shut. Curious, he set the pot next to the carton of milk he’d left on the countertop and moved to the little storeroom. He turned the knob, opening the door. Olivia, a hand at her throat, stood in the near dark, trying to gulp in air. She looked at him, eyes wide with…panic?

  Emerson hesitated, inspecting the narrow room for a moment. He moved into the pantry, taking care to ensure the door remained opened. Faint light painted the space in a dull glow. “Olivia, are you choking?” He grabbed her arm to turn her, preparing to deliver a few sharp blows between her shoulder blades.

  Teeth together, she sucked in a breath. “Go away,” she warbled. “Please.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, which was a mistake because it seemed to cue the waterworks. She went still for the barest moment and then her tears tumbled out copiously and hotly. Emerson stared at her in surprise as she crumbled. She gripped the edge of a shelf, her fingernails bending slightly on the white painted wood. He touched her shoulder. “Hey, uhh…it’s okay. Yeah, it’s okay,” he said, patting her upper arm. “Whatever it is, you’ll…uh…you’ll be…um…fine.”

  This man was the last person she ever wanted to see her unravel. Snot and mascara ran down her face, yet, instead of pulling away, the frustration of being so swooningly Victorian fed her tears and she sagged against him. Weirdly, she appreciated the comfort of his hard chest, the chest she knew was covered with dark hair, which for some unfathomable reason, made her cry even harder.

  Emerson hesitated for a moment before his arms went around her. “Hush, Olivia. Hush,” he cooed and swayed gently. “It’ll be all right. It’ll be all right. Hush.”

  Strangled by an attempt to contain her staccato breathing, she drew back and he wiped her face and nose with a napkin he’d tugged from an open shelf. Olivia gripped the front of his shirt and liked the fact he couldn’t seem to think of anything smart-assed or intelligent to say. She liked that he did the only thing that came to mind. As if he were a parent soothing a child’s nightmare he whispered shh, and dropped the napkin. His fingers skimmed her forehead to push away hair, his thumbs delicately brushed across her cheeks to wipe away tears.

  Gradually, her choking sobs turned to whimpering and her fingers strayed to his chin. Her breath, warm and sweet, tickled against his mouth and it was Emerson’s undoing. His lips skimmed over hers, whispery, grazing over the top Cupid’s bow, and then settling in. He closed the wee gap between their bodies, progressively deepening the kiss. The salty taste of tears was replaced by the sublime taste of her tongue when her lips parted beneath his, and suddenly he realized Olivia had been hiding a rather healthy appetite.

  “Eat me,” he breathed against her mouth.

  She answered by releasing his shirt. Her hands scuttled crab-like around his waist, and she hauled herself nearer to his heat. He pulled her closer. His palms pressed into her back, forming her shape to fit against his. Her ankle curled around his and she pushed him against a counter stacked with folded napery. The edge of her hip stirred against him sensually and she ate his kiss slowly, savoring every millimeter of his mouth.

  His fingers slid from the small of her back, curving around her hip to the edge of her slightly raised thigh while he drew her closer still. She ground into him and a low noise hummed from his throat.

  An overwhelming sense of desperation had clipped her and Olivia spun out of control again, only this time with an intoxicatingly slow sensuality. Spinning, spinning, spinning, a caress ran along the outside of her thigh and tugged aside the cloth of her dress to expose more skin. Skillful hands traveled along flesh and soft fabric, trekking upward over her hip and belly to her ribs, a thumb running beneath one breast before retracing the path back to settle on the curve of her bottom. His touch was beguiling and when he made those low, tiny sounds of pleasure as they kissed, she wanted to discover what he’d sound like if they went a little further, if he let his fingers sink into the slippery wetness collecting at the apex of her thighs.

  That single thought was all she needed to steer into the skid, to regain control and stop equating the confusion to test driving. Yet, rather than shove him away, she eased off slowly, dropping her ankle down and drawing her lips away before she moved out of his arms, and let go of his shirt. She’d rumpled the hell out of this shirt. Appalled and half amazed by what she’d done, she turned from him to face the shelf full of heavy cut glasses turned upside down, breathing just as rapidly as he was. “Copy cat,” she muttered, catching her breath.

  Emerson wrapped his arms around her, drawing her backward, pressing into her, wanting her to know how hard she’d made him. His hand drifted to her waist and the plunging front of her halter-neck
dress. She gasped when his fingertips skated between her breasts. “I guarantee what I have is no copy.” He laughed and his fingers traveled up along her clavicle, coming to rest on her shoulder.

  “You’re an idiot.” Olivia laughed too, but wasn’t sure what she found funnier, his stupid comment or her behavior. “You are such an idiot.”

  A grin bloomed on his mouth. “I know, but come on. Admit it. I’m an idiot and you like me.”

  “Of course I like you. You’re funny. You make me laugh, even when you’re yelling at Timmons.”

  He held her loosely now, his arms gently clasped around her waist and his cheek against her ear. “Oh boy, here it comes…but?”

  “I can’t get involved with you.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Because of work?”

  Tipping her head back against his chest, she sighed, “Okay, you got me. Work has nothing to do with it.”

  “It never did, did it?”

  “A little, but mostly no.”

  “Then why? What is it? There’s been something going on here with us from that day in the elevator, and it feels pretty good to me. I’m sure you think it does too. You like kissing me. You liked it before and you like it now. You want to tell me I’m wrong?”

  Olivia turned in his arms, surveying every angle of his face, from the scar at the edge of his right eyebrow to the tucked corner where his lips came together to grin. Running a finger over the mouth she couldn’t deny she wanted to kiss again, she looked into his eyes. “I do like kissing you and you’re not wrong. There is something here, something really basic, and if things were some other way, if I was some other way, I’d still be kissing you instead of explaining myself. I’d unzip you, wrap my legs around you and screw you right here standing up. And it would probably be great.”

  Emerson swallowed and felt his Adam’s apple bob. His hands pressed her closer, sliding down over her bottom.

  “But I’m not like that. I’m not looking for anything right now or maybe ever. I just got divorced last December and I’m not a one-night stand or a weekend fling kind of woman. I never have been. Let’s face it; I’m an awful judge of character. I can’t trust myself, I can’t trust my own judgment when it comes to men. I’ve been married twice. I’ve had those two big mistakes life allows people before drawing comparisons to Elizabeth Taylor and Zsa-Zsa Gabor.”

  “So the quest for happily ever after is an illusion for everyone but you? That’s sad.”

  “If I believed that, I never would have married a second time. I never would have agreed to plan Ella’s wedding. Jesus, you think you’d reach an age where you have this all figured out.”

  “All what figured out?”

  “This.’ She gestured between them. “This crap.”

  “What crap?”

  “This crap. It’s the same damn crap at eighteen and thirty, forty and beyond.”

  “Ah, okay, I see. Why would you ever want to figure this out? Where’s the fun in that?”

  “Oh, please.” She tossed up her hands. “Don’t get me wrong, Maxwell, you’re enormously attractive, like a boyish, reckless, kinda nerdy Keanu Reeves in a great suit, but you’re not going to convince me to sleep with you just because you look good, smell wonderful and curl my toes because you kiss so well. I like my privacy and nothing about you is private. I don’t care if you…get my revs up. It takes a lot more than laughing, simple chemistry, and a finely tuned engine for something to work.”

  “Whoa.” To his ears, Emerson sounded a hell of a lot like Keanu, but he went on anyway. “Did you ever think I wasn’t just interested in having you sleep with me? It could be something else entirely.”

  “Uh-huh. What is it you had in mind?”

  “I was thinking we could be friends. Not boss and employee, not boyfriend and girlfriend, or lovers, or a weekend fling, just friends like you and Pete are. Ever think of that?”

  “Friends?”

  Emerson nodded. “Yes. I think we could be great friends.”

  “You know you would be a whole lot more convincing if your hands weren’t on my ass.”

  “All right. Look Ma, no hands.” Still pressed against her, he held his palms up for her to see.

  Olivia snorted a laugh and said, “Okay David Cop-a-feel, what sort of magic trick can you do with that thing you’ve got back there?”

  Emerson ran his tongue inside his bottom lip, his head cocking to the side for a moment, and he put a hands-breadth of space between them. “I know you didn’t mean it to come out that way.”

  “And I know the smartass in you is just dying to say something.”

  “Wouldn’t you if you were in my shoes?”

  “I don’t like your shoes.”

  “What’s wrong with my shoes?” Emerson looked down at his feet. “These are great shoes. They’re Italian.”

  “They’re also ugly.”

  “Oh you feel a lot better now, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do, and I’m sure Ella is wondering where I raced off to.”

  “She probably thinks you’re taking care of some other minute detail she sees as a major crisis. So you want to tell your friend why you were bawling?”

  “What were you doing in the kitchen?”

  “I was thinking about having some warm milk to help me sleep. Let’s get back to my question. Why were you crying?”

  “I think I’d better get back to the sunroom.” She took two steps out of the pantry before his hand snaked out to grab her wrist. “Maxwell, please.” She looked at him with a frown. “Let me go.”

  “Trust me here. You don’t want to go back into the sunroom.”

  “Yes I do. I have a few things to finish.”

  “No, seriously, you don’t. With all that black mascara smeared under your eyes, Justine will crack jokes about you looking like a panda.”

  He dropped her wrist and Olivia touched the soft skin below her eyes. “Terrific.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I got pepperoni all over my shirt.”

  “You’ve also got something on your pants.”

  He glanced below the dark brown splotches that marred the herringbone weave of his celadon shirt to see irregularly shaped blobs of brown on his thigh. When he looked up, she was gone.

  Chapter 17

  Olivia stood at the bathroom mirror and surveyed the damage. Maxwell said the ruined mascara made her look like a panda. He was being kind. She looked as if she’d smudged on black zinc stick like a baseball player in the middle of summer.

  She removed the smeared eye makeup with a bit of baby oil. There was nothing she could do about the puffy redness that remained, except maybe lie quietly for a few minutes with a cold, damp cloth over her swollen eyes before she took the thank you gifts for the bridesmaids downstairs. As she ran a washcloth beneath the cold tap, she heard a rap against the other bathroom door leading to Maxwell’s room.

  “Yes?” she said, wringing excess water from the cloth.

  Half a second later, he stood shirtless, one hand on the doorknob, the other stretched out on the frame. She felt a few beads of water from the folded, cool washcloth trickle over her fingers and drip onto her bare feet.

  Holy hell. He wasn’t a skinny, almost hairless young man like Adam had been. Nor was he the blond, six-packed archetype of a professional sportsman Karl was. Maxwell was very fit, well toned, with everything defined. The spray of black hair on his well-built chest traveled down toward his navel, over a firm abdomen, and lower beneath the waist of his trousers.

  What was it about chest hair? Why was that such a massive turn-on?

  Holy hell, Ella had been bull’s-eye accurate. He was exceptionally erotic-fantasy-worthy. Dennis Quaid, John Cusack, and Keanu Reeves had nothing over him. Holy hell, Emerson Maxwell was probably the most unaffectedly attractive man she had ever seen this close up. Involuntarily, her hand tightened around the damp towel and squeezed out more water.

  “You going to be in he
re long?” He raised his eyebrows.

  “Um, no.”

  “You feel all right?”

  “My eyes are just a little puffy. I’m going to rest with a damp cloth over them for a while.”

  “Hang on. I have something better than a cold washcloth for your eyes.” He moved into the bathroom, to the tiled window ledge where he’d placed his toiletry bag and rummaged around for a moment before he fished out a green tube. “Here, try this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Cucumber eye gel.”

  “What are you doing with cucumber eye gel?”

  “It’s great for late night eyes and too much chlorine in the swimming pool eyes. Any metrosexual would tell you the same thing.”

  “Do people still use that word, metrosexual? Isn’t it passé?”

  “I don’t know. Do you want to use it or would you feel better insulting me?”

  Olivia yawned with the back of one hand at her mouth. “Did I insult you?”

  “You said metrosexual like it was a bad thing.”

  “Was it ever a good thing?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Here. Dab this on and go lie down.” He put the tube in her hand, pushed her toward the mirror and started stuffing things back into his bag.

  She patted gel under her eyes. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why didn’t you freak out in the little pantry?”

  “I left the door open.”

  She nodded. “I see.”

  “It makes a difference; air flow, light, space, movement. Can I ask you a question?”

  “I guess.”

  “Why were you crying?”

  When she stepped back from the mirror, he moved beside the sink and leaned his backside against it. His smile was soft and warm. She said, “It was something stupid and I was feeling sorry for myself, which isn’t anything a hairy-chested metrosexual-hipster-geek like you, or any man, can try to fix.”

  “I’m not offering to fix anything. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

  She sniffed a half laugh and moved past him, walking into her room, leaving the bathroom door ajar. She sank onto the side of the bed and rested on her back, letting her legs dangle over the edge. The gel was softly scented and admittedly soothing. She closed her eyes.