Blame it on Cupid

by Jennifer Greene

  “It’s nothing, Merry. We’re neighbors. No big deal.”

  Maybe it wasn’t, but that odd edgy, itchy tone of his was back. She hated being such a pain in the butt. She edged closer another step, until her shadow joined his on the far kitchen wall. “I just can’t tell you how sorry I am to be such a bother. I promise not to make a habit of this. I feel really badly about messing up your Saturday night—”

  “It’s nothing, Merry. Forget it.” He slugged down a good gulp of scotch.

  “It’s not nothing.” Again she took a step forward and a big breath at the same time. “Jack, I can see you’re irritated with me. It’s in your voice. And I totally don’t blame you. I realize I’ve been a complete imposition. But—”

  “It’s not about that.”

  She stopped. He’d the same as admitted he was irritated. “It’s about what then?”

  He plunked the glass down on the counter. “Nothing.”

  She cocked her head, confused. “I realize you’ve kind of been looking after me. I never meant to put you in that position. And I’d like to be a better neighbor, a decent friend—”

  That last word alone seemed to set off another scowl. “Merry, this is just going to work way, way better if I stay irritated with you. Get it?”

  “Um…no.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Maybe you think of me as a friend. As a neighbor. As a guy too old to have a hot date on a Saturday night.”

  She moved from confused to downright flabbergasted. She tried to think of anything she’d said that could have been construed as an insult, because that was how he sounded. Insulted. “I never thought any such thing,” she started to say.

  “So it’d just be better if I stayed on the miffed side.”

  And they said women were unfathomable. She peered into his eyes, trying to somehow translate this testosterone-speak. “I don’t want you miffed at me,” she assured him.

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “No, I really, really don’t.”

  “Damn it, Merry.” He reached out and roped her close faster than a cowboy with a lasso.

  She saw him lift his arms. Saw his scowl. Felt a wild whoosh of shock when he folded her into him, when his soft, whiskey-sharp mouth took hold of hers.

  How could she possibly have guessed this was coming? Yeah, of course she’d kissed him before, but those had been thank-you kisses. Maybe she’d felt more. Maybe she’d felt so thoroughly swept under that her entire body had suffered a pizzazz alert. But even if he was a good-looking guy with an unprecedented high-tingle factor, she’d never communicated a come-on. She knew she hadn’t. For one thing, she had no business adding a complication to her life right now. And for another, darn it, she needed him to be what he was, a good neighbor next door, and she couldn’t afford to mess with that.

  Besides which, it hadn’t crossed her mind that he felt That Way toward her.

  Until now. Now changed things, but this was sure as Sam-Hill a come-on.

  And a darn good one.

  Slowly she slid her arms around his neck and hung on. She’d been kissing men who were way too young, she realized abruptly. Because there was a world of difference between a man of experience and a guy in his twenties who was just hot to get his rocks off. Not that there was anything wrong with the rocks thing. But she’d never felt remotely in danger with a man before.

  She sure did now.

  It was the difference between taking a commercial flight and skydiving.

  Jack was the skydive. Heaven knew what primed his trigger, but she felt swooshed into his field of gravity at a mighty fast velocity. The scotch on his breath added just enough heat to make his kisses sting. His hands slid down her spine, down to the swell of her bottom, tugged her into him.

  Danger whispered through her pulse like a promise. Not “fear” kind of danger, but the other kind. The delicious kind. The kind where a woman felt sucked under by someone stronger than she was, someone who made her feel vulnerable…and vulnerably desired.

  He groaned against her lips, a sound that sounded frustrated and hungry both. He went back for another kiss, this one involving tongue and teeth, this one that rocked him back against the counter and laid her against his splayed thighs. Faster than lightning, she felt his rough palms on the backs of her bare thighs, as if his hands had suddenly remembered she was only wearing the giant sized sweatshirt—although that wasn’t true.

  She’d put on her underpants after the shower. Which he abruptly discovered, because his palms cupped her bare cheeks, his thumb discovering the teensy strip of her thong. Another sound erupted from the way-back of his throat. This one was a sound of suffering. The sound of deep pain from a lost soul. Or a soul that was claiming to be lost.

  She almost laughed, and instead just shivered down into the next chain of kisses. There were lots of places she could entice, invite, or just take a bit of initiative herself. Teeth, tongue, throat, ear nips. Then back to the throat. She lifted her hands, slivering her fingers through his thick dark hair, luxuriating in the feel of him, the textures, the sounds, the tastes. She snugged her pelvis in tight, delighted at the hardness she provoked, savoring the feeling of girl power. This was a luge of it. A slick, rich, fast slide into sensation.

  He pushed up the sweatshirt, just a little, carving the shape of her hips, the nip of her waist. She didn’t fight him.

  “You’re not,” he murmured painfully, “a good girl.”

  “God, I hope not.”

  She’d never been shy. But this was different. It was a yearning so fierce it took her breath, a feeling of fragility in a way she’d never felt fragile. Something about Jack’s touch, his kisses, made her feel peeled like a grape. It was as if he’d skimmed the skin off her defenses and got straight down to the juice.

  Lonely. Who’d guess he was so lonely? He seemed so into his life, so contained, so settled. Yet he seemed to need the nurturing of her kisses, her touch. He seemed to need…connection. She told herself to be careful, that this was crazy and unexpected…but those were just token instincts raising a few feeble objections.

  She’d never been one to listen to caution. When something felt right, it usually was. And the rare times she felt drawn—deep-down really drawn—to another human being, she couldn’t imagine regretting giving in to it.

  “Hey,” he murmured suddenly. She wasn’t sure where the caution in his voice came from. Until that instant, his hand had been sliding up, one rib at a time, aiming to circle and cup her bare breast. Her breast had already tightened in anticipation. Tightened and ached with waiting, wanting.

  Her eyes felt narrowed to slits, her body engulfed in the unexpected, intense wave of surrender. The wanting, the needing, to surrender. She’d never experienced an aching this fierce, compelling. It wasn’t an easy sensation. She not only felt vulnerable, but too vulnerable, too laid bare.

  “Merry,” he murmured again, in the same forced-caution tone he’d used before. “I don’t know what’s going on here—”

  “I sure do.”

  He smiled, but it was a raw smile. Unwilling. A clear struggle for control.

  The kitchen came into focus again, the intimacy of their joined shadows against the far wall, the thrum of the refrigerator, the lone sink light. The oven clock claimed the time was nearly three in the morning. As far as she could tell, the two of them were the only ones awake in the universe.

  At least in her immediate universe. And Jack looked so worried, so…guilty. She touched his cheek, easing back. “So…we’re calling this off, are we?”

  “I’m not sure how things went so far, so fast.”

  “I’m pretty sure you kissed me. Then A followed B. Although I’m not sure why you started this to begin with. If I remember right, you said something about wanting to stay annoyed with me.”

  “Because of this. I meant…if we’re annoyed with each other, we wouldn’t be inclined to—”

  “Snuggle up? But I’m not annoyed with you. I’ve just felt badly to be so much trouble,
Jack. You may not believe it, but I’ve been a good friend to other people.”

  “Of course I believe it.”

  “I’m just having a harder time being independent, strong right now. Everything is just so different. Charlie. Trying to climb into her life. Trying to uproot and reinvent mine. I’d be the first to admit I’m over my head right now, but I swear I’m not normally a dependent type. Or one to lean. You’ve just been…great.”

  “Merry?”

  “What?”

  “I’m not great. I’m not even a good guy. It’d be a really good idea if you quit thinking that.”

  He was so damned adorable that she forgave herself for starting to fall in love with him. “Jack?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t see what’s wrong about two people clicking together. Honestly, I’m not looking for trouble—and I’m not looking to cause you any, either. But I liked those kisses of yours. I liked the chemistry. And I just don’t see a problem here.”

  And so she wouldn’t stress him out any more, she clipped out of the room and climbed upstairs to bed.

  SHE KEPT THINKING ABOUT Jack’s words, even midafternoon the next day, as she tackled the horrendous painting mess back at home. Charlene had worked beside her nonstop, but somehow even that didn’t clear Jack from her mind—or heart. It seemed so odd, how and why he’d insisted that he wasn’t a good guy. How he’d seemed to be warning her away from something. Him? But why?

  “I don’t think this paint is ever coming out,” Charlene announced.

  Merry knee-walked over to the spot in question, where an unbelievable blend of colors now stained the grout Charlie was scrubbing. The wax was back in the hair. The ironed fatigues were back on. “Charlie, you’ve been cleaning with me for two hours.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “It isn’t normal. You should be complaining. You should be calling me names. You shouldn’t be volunteering. You should be stomping around, screaming that I’m a creep to make you help.” Merry shouldn’t have to explain to an eleven-year-old how an eleven-year-old was supposed to behave. Five-year-olds worked at being good. Middle-schoolers practiced the art of back talk and rebellion and incessant complaining. Everyone knew that. “We’re both beat, had a short night’s sleep. You should be whining big-time.”

  Charlie had to hear her, but just circled back to the original problem. “What if the paint doesn’t come out?”

  “Well then, several things could happen. One is that we could have red-and-purple grout in this spot until kingdom come. Another is that somebody at Lowe’s or Home Depot will know what product to use to make it come out. Another is that we panic and take out the whole floor and put in a whole new one. Maybe one without grout. Whether we choose A, B, or C, I suspect life’ll go on okay.”

  The kid smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

  Merry only wished the smile were a real one, but it seemed today they were back to the status quo. Charlie didn’t fight her about anything. She was trying hard to be as good as a saint, unless some emotional buttons were unexpectedly pushed—like accidentally bringing up the Dougall boy and the fight in school.

  But her niceness was starting to scare Merry. Cripes, with Jack, Charlie’d been natural, babbling on through the blood-and-guts movie, gulping down that pizza, sprawled all over the floor. With her, Charlie acted polite as a duchess. Maybe not that bad. But close.

  She couldn’t keep it up, Merry thought. You could keep a face on with strangers, or with people you worked with indefinitely. But where you lived, you had to know you could let down your hair. You had to have a place where you felt safe.

  Merry understood the problem. She just didn’t know how to inspire trust in Charlie, and the worry preyed on her mind the whole next day, as she waited for the arrival of June Innes. While Charlie was in school, she prepped for the meeting as zealously as for a job interview. Vacuumed. Hid their cheerful new paintings in a closet, made socks and smelly shoes disappear from sight, hid the cookies in a tall cupboard and put fresh fruit in sight. Then redid herself, starting with tweezing her eyebrows and shaving her legs, and then getting serious. Using all her makeup pots, she went for the matronly look, no eyes, no shiny lip gloss. She swooshed up her hair and tidied it into a clip, chose a jeans skirt, clunky shoes, a clunky watch.

  She was pacing the living room windows by three, waiting for June Innes’s car to pull up, fretting her stomach into knots. Four weeks ago, she’d been the Pollyanna of Minnesota, always singing the live-for-today mantra, always ready to take off at a moment’s notice for the next interesting adventure. The bank knew she’d occasionally overdraw. The clerks at BCBG knew her by name. She’d never had a job where absenteeism didn’t rear its annoying little head. She couldn’t remember a Saturday night that didn’t include music and going out and a guy.

  She’d been happy.

  Nonstop happy.

  Thoughtlessly, mindlessly, happy. A bopper. Delighted to just bop through every day, wringing every ounce of sunshine, every chuckle, every hug she could.

  Now…now Merry caught her pale reflection in the living room window and didn’t recognize herself. It was June Cleaver’s granddaughter in the window. All the color wiped out of her. Hand-wringing whether the house was clean enough—in a house that felt like an alien cage, besides.

  It was tough enough to be living in a stranger’s life, but to be flunking the job of guardian was the real killer. A dark blue sedan pulled in the drive behind her Mini, and Merry hurried toward the door with her company smile on. So it was fake, so? What was wrong with being June Cleaver’s granddaughter for a few minutes, anyway? Darn it, she needed Mrs. Innes to be a true ally for Charlene, and hopefully a good source of advice for her.

  So she answered the door and started bubbling before she’d even had a chance to take a good look. “Mrs. Innes, I’m so glad to meet you! Charlene’s due home from school in the next few minutes, but I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee on. Come on in!”

  “I don’t do coffee, but thanks. You’ve got quite a mess outside.”

  “Yes, we had a tree come down in the storm on Saturday night. Thankfully, the insurance guy was wonderful. A roofer’s already been here, and the tree guys came this afternoon with chain saws, but unfortunately, there’s no way we could get it all cleaned up quite this fast—”

  The woman seemed to pick up that she was capable of babbling on indefinitely. “So you’re Merry,” she said, and gave her an up-and-down as if examining a bolt of fabric.

  Merry gulped. Oh God, oh God. It was a good thing she’d done the JC thing, because June Innes looked like a vintage version of June Cleaver herself. Shoes with a little heel. Hair that didn’t move. A knee-covering skirt, with a navy pea coat and navy gloves. A tired smile. One of those you’ll-never-know-how-much-I-do martyr smiles—but that was all right with Merry. She knew plenty of martyr types—who didn’t? She could get along with a martyr. Cripes, she wanted this meeting to go so well that she’d have tried to get along with Attila the Hun.

  She trailed June into the kitchen, since June seemed to naturally lead.

  “I met with Charlene after her father died, of course. I’m sure Mr. Oxford explained my role. The court appointed me as Charlene’s guardian ad litem. I’m an active member of the Virginia State Bar, as well as having met all the other state requirements.”

  “I never doubted that for a second,” Merry said warmly, but apparently her opinion wasn’t really required.

  “My responsibility is to be the child’s advocate. That means I’ll regularly be talking to Charlene, and to yourself, and to others in her life, such as teachers and neighbors. I’ll also be making some impromptu visits to the home. But this time I wanted to tell you about in advance, because I wanted to see both you and Charlene in her home environment. How are the two of you getting along?”

  “Just fine. May I take your coat?”

  “You’re younger than I expected. Or you look younger.”

  June pronounced every word crispl
y, as if she’d studied diction, or as if she’d gotten a degree in spike-up-the-behind stiltedness. By the time Merry had her settled at the kitchen table—which seemed wiser than letting her sit in the living room with the dog-bone-shaped-couch and Red Dominance picture, Merry was trying to keep up a perky conversation about homework and preteen stories and healthy nutrition.

  When the back door slammed open, though, she jumped.

  Charlie clipped in, plopped her school bag on the counter and then suddenly turned carefully, dead quiet, shooting Merry a stricken look. “Hello, Mrs. Innes,” she said.

  For several seconds, June seemed to have lost her voice. Apparently she hadn’t seen Charlie before in the army fatigues and brush cut. She shot a disapproving look at Merry.

  “How’s it going?” Charlie said, opening the cupboard—the one that was supposed to have the cookies—and finding nothing. She reached for an apple on the table instead.

  “Just fine. How was school today?”

  “Frantic,” Charlie said, making June Innes blink again. “For a while I wasn’t sure if I was going to like the eighth grade math class. I mean, everybody’s two grades ahead of me. But it’s working out. Of course, I have to put up with Dougall. But the computer work and stuff is effing zingy. Hey. Do I have to sit here with you two, or can I go get my homework done?”

  “I need to talk to you for a few minutes alone, Charlene.” The older woman promptly stood up. The two went off to Charlie’s bedroom. Charlie gave Merry a look, as if to say: how could you make me do this alone?

  So Merry went back to pacing by the living room windows, stressed she couldn’t save Charlie from the private interview she obviously didn’t want, and even more stressed that the woman appointed by the court to be on Charlie’s side seemed such a rigid, old-school type.

  When June emerged from Charlene’s bedroom, she pointedly closed the door. Without a word, she implied that what she wanted to discuss was not meant to be overheard by the child. Merry felt the lead-clunk in her pulse as she led her back into the kitchen. It was impossible not to notice that the older woman’s lips looked as if they’d been Miracle-Glued into a thin line.