Blue Collar Romeo

by Jenny Gardiner

  She shrugged. “I shouldn’t have to think about that. I mean I am not into playing stupid games. I’m honest with people and I expect them to be honest with me too.”

  “I get that. And in an ideal world, that’s how the battle between the sexes would play out—in the bedroom, and everybody wins. But people are odd ducks sometimes. And occasionally it takes a bit of detective work to figure out if what they say is even what they mean. My guess is, given the state of his, er, state when you got down and dirty with him in Monaforte, he had it bad for you. If he didn’t, it’s not like you’d have had a chance to play with his ever-so-glorious cock. Am I right?” This time it was Sophie’s turn to fist-bump Justin after her little mother-daughteresque speech. Not that any real mom would actually speak so candidly to her girl, but still.

  Gisele paced back and forth, shaking her head. “I’m not even going there. Once burned, twice shy. Twice burned, shame on me.”

  “To mix a couple of overheated metaphors,” Justin said.

  “See, I’ve been driven to clichés by this man. It’s that bad.”

  “So why don’t you let things unfold organically, see where they lead.”

  Justin slapped Sophie on the back playfully. “I thought you were going to say unfold orgasmically. Which is what I’d vote for.”

  “That’s what I’d do because I like to have fun, but obviously Gisele is a little more tentative about this than you or me.”

  “So barring unforeseen orgasms, why don’t you chill out a little bit, give the guy some space, maybe even consider pressing the reset button, and let things go. The good news is you live in a big house. Technically you could avoid him.”

  “Yeah, if I schedule my meals when he’s not there or hide out in my bedroom instead of watching television in the living room like I normally would.”

  “Now, if you want to accelerate things, you could put on a sexy little French maid costume and in no time flat, you’ll have him eating out of your—”

  Gisele held up her hand. “Enough. No more visuals from you two. I’m going to have to grit my teeth and bare it for the next couple of months.”

  “And think of England,” Justin said, referring to the supposed advice mothers would give their daughters for their wedding night.

  Sophie stood up and waggled her finger. “Au contraire, my friend. I would think fondly of Monaforte.” She winked at Gisele as she left her friend to ponder that memory.

  Chapter Twelve

  Things had gotten off to such a rollicking start for poor Tomasso. He was more than happy to be alone at home during the day while his adversary toiled in the salt mines or wherever she was employed. She certainly wasn’t working in the sugar mills, because there wasn’t a hint of sweetness to her any longer. How frustrating—his attempts at honesty merely came across as nothing more than an enormous insult to her. But who was he to understand a woman’s mind?

  He’d finally started working with Grady O’Malley and was focused on fine-tuning his woodcarving skills. From the minute he stepped foot inside the man’s legendary warehouse in Brooklyn, he was completely mesmerized. Grady was an artistic genius, and his vast warehouse was filled to capacity with life-size woodcarvings and all sorts of works in progress he was creating for stately homes throughout the region: doorways, scrolls, wood panels, railings, balustrades, and statues.

  Grady had been one of the many artisans recruited to help make the Romeo wines corporate headquarters the most talked about building in Italy. It was there that Grady and Tomasso hit it off. The artisan had offered to mentor Tomasso, who had taken a great interest in antique figureheads—the large wooden figures that jutted out of the prow of old sailing ships.

  While working on any number of relief carvings—wooden carvings that appear to rise out of the wood as if they are coming alive—Tomasso hoped to create his very own figurehead. Indeed he had no sailing vessel on which to place it, but that was irrelevant. It was about the journey. He didn’t even know yet what he would carve. He was leaning toward a mermaid, but perhaps a sea nymph or some siren might call to him as well.

  Each day, Tomasso set about practicing his craft, starting with a long piece of Brazilian mahogany and a V-shaped gouge chisel to first carve his outline. Grady had him work on a floral panel that would be used in the library of a patron who was paying big money for fine work, which meant that Grady had complete faith that Tomasso could execute his carvings superbly. The work required intense concentration—a relief for Tomasso. It took his mind off the line-in-the-sand battleground that staying in Parker’s house had become. In fact, last night, Gisele quite literally took a piece of chalk and drew a demarcation down the center of the kitchen floor.

  “You stay on that side, and I stay on this side,” she said as she prepared to make dinner. It figured her side had the refrigerator and the cooktop as well as the sink, giving her a distinct advantage. Which, of course, was too bad for her, because Tomasso was a fabulous cook and would have happily shared his meals with her, had he been able to whip something up with ease rather than relegated to meal delivery.

  This meant Tomasso would have to wait until Gisele was done in the kitchen for the night, and then he’d cook himself some dinner, crossing her damned chalk line with glee. And that was fine: he was European and used to dining late. It didn’t matter to him philosophically; rather it was just unfortunate to have this undeclared standoff festering between the two of them.

  But he wasn’t going to think about that. Nor was he going to think about that hair of hers, which she’d worn falling off her shoulders in soft curls last night. The very way he’d remembered it as he looked down at her when she swiped her soft, pink tongue across the tip of his hardened shaft. But he wasn’t going to think about that either, or how perfectly those yoga pants hugged her ass. Nor how he could see the outline of her nipples, clear as day when she wore only the jog bra with the yoga pants while cooking dinner, claiming she was overheated. He wanted badly to show her what overheated meant. But he wasn’t going to think about that. He closed his eyes for a minute to try to eradicate all thoughts of the woman from his mind and returned to his craft.

  He was acutely aware that each press of the gouge chisel pushed against delicate wood fibers, which ran the danger of splitting the wood and ruining the project, so he reminded himself constantly to cut in the opposite direction of the wood grain. Not that the press of the gouge brought to mind what it would be like to press into her body. That was nothing he would consider while taking such care not to ruin this expensive piece of wood entrusted to him.

  Each time he got to the apex of a curve, he had to reverse the cut again, always making sure all wood fibers were being supported. And not even once did thinking about a curve bring to mind the crest of her breast, the hardened tip of that nipple as he wrapped his lips around it. Because thinking about that would be professional suicide right now.

  He cut a trench around each new section of design to help reinforce the support. With each stop cut he made, he’d start digging out the background, creating the “relief” that made it appear as if the figures were rising from the wood. It was its own sort of magic. Maybe not the same type of magic that came with the merging of his body with hers, something he deeply regretted never having achieved when he had the chance. Because he couldn’t get that notion out of his head, and it made him hard just thinking about it.

  “Remember to visualize your design in three dimensions,” Grady said. “Understand what it will look like, that you will have figures layered on top or beneath each other, and plan accordingly. That means stepping down the image, one part at a time. Define the edges of a layer by making downward stop cuts around it, then lower the layer next to it. Creating realistic images is all about knowing what to lower and where to lower it.” Tomasso pondered that concept of figures on top or beneath each other: him lying on his back, Gisele on top, riding his hard cock, her breasts moving with the wild sexual thrash of her body. Jesus, he was going to need hypnosis to
clear his mind of that woman.

  Tomasso had actually had plenty of practice carving alongside Grady back home, but here he was refining his skills and committing it to such muscle memory that he hoped to be more fail-safe. Nothing worse than being halfway through carving a piece of wood only to have it split and ruined. Or halfway to climax with a beautiful woman’s mouth on your cock when you’re cut off.

  Finally legitimizing his gift helped Tomasso feel a kinship to his heritage. Throughout history, Italy was full of gifted artisans who sculpted in a variety of media, creating masterpieces that survive to this day. Not that he would ever be as great as Michelangelo, but he had a talent that he was finally able to nurture, and it pleased him to no end. If only he could exorcise that woman from his mind to clear away needless distractions.

  ~*~

  It was usually past dark when Tomasso finally left the warehouse and returned to the brownstone. One night he arrived home well after eight to an empty house. Which was a little bit sad, especially since he was accustomed back home to being in a large household filled with robust activity at all hours. At least it was preferable to Gisele’s palpable silence that had greeted him the past week or so.

  As he mounted the steps, he called out her name but there was no response, so he went into his room and took a quick shower to get the wood dust off of him. Only then did he remember he was out of clean underwear. Wrapping a towel around his hips, he went down the hall to the laundry room, where he’d left a load of clothes in the dryer. He noticed Gisele’s door was wide open, and her light was on. He poked his head in, only to find it empty. He’d never seen the inside of her room before and wondered if it would be void of mirrors—didn’t those things kill vampires?

  Standing in the doorway, he peered into what seemed a perfectly normal-looking girl’s bedroom. No human sacrifices lying around, no bubbling cauldron of eye of newt, nothing strange at all. To his left was a large bed with a bright orange and hot pink floral duvet, and at the head of it were about a thousand oversized pillows. He figured it would take her an hour to toss all those pillows down before she could even get into bed at night. Or if it were up to him, he’d toss her on top of them, to hell with moving them out of the way. A pillow beneath her lower back would give him much easier access anyway... Gah! He had to get that notion out of his head (make that both heads). It would only torment him.

  Despite himself and with great trepidation, he slowly entered the dead zone. Something about Gisele called to him in here. He had no clue what it was, but in this room, he sensed he could find the cure to whatever it was that ailed him or her or them. At least it might enable them to be friends while he lived here. At this point, that would have to be good enough. He was sick and tired of being tangled up in her anger trap.

  A bulletin board framed in white wicker hung on the wall to his right. Pinned to it were a couple of certificates: Varsity Club, Honor Roll, and several newspaper articles. He looked around again, making certain no one was around, and tiptoed toward it for a closer look.

  Marilyn Franklin Hornsby, he read aloud from a faded newspaper clipping of an obituary as he ran his fingers along the printed words. He read more about her: beloved mother of Gisele Annabelle and Parker Hampton. He did the math on the year of her birth to the year of her death: she was only forty-three years old. He tried to read on to discover how she died, but there was no reference to cause of death. Nor was there mention of a husband, which was curious.

  Marilyn Hornsby came from some money, it seemed. The list of previously deceased relatives sounded long and illustrious, based on references to her parents and grandparents, all of whom were patrons of the arts in Manhattan, and after whom, it seemed, a few buildings had been named.

  Tomasso looked on the desk below, where pictures mostly of Gisele and Parker stood—at least he assumed it was them at much earlier ages. In one, they were on a ride at an amusement park; Gisele’s face looked a little peaked like she was about to be sick, while her brother beamed. She looked around eight or so. In another, the two of them were sitting on a beach, drinking cans of Coke as they worked on a sand castle. Gisele appeared to be in the first blush of puberty, her small but visible breasts covered by a floral bikini. There were pictures of them as they got older, one with Parker in graduation cap and gown as they stood alongside their mother, who was the mirror image of Gisele. But Tomasso was still trying to find any sign of a father. Finally, pinned on the bulletin board behind the obituary was the sole reference to Edward Parker Hornsby: a wedding announcement that showed a picture of a man, who shared many of Parker’s features, with a much younger woman, who looked nothing like Gisele’s mother.

  So her father was one of those. Which would explain Gisele’s irritation at what she would see as Tomasso’s cavalier behavior toward her. No doubt she wasn’t a fan of love ’em and leave ’em types. Very illuminating.

  He picked up a royal blue-and-gold pom-pom that had been sticking out of a tall plastic cup on her desk, giving it a couple of shakes. Go team. He’d heard about American cheerleaders. He wondered if maybe Gisele had been one, and tried to picture her in that short skirt, doing those fancy moves. Did her skirt flit up, revealing thin white trunks and making you guess whether she wore underwear beneath them? The idea of stripping her out of her cheerleader uniform made his cock swell beneath his towel. Hell, he could think about Gisele whipping up blueberry pancakes at this point and it would give him a hard-on he’d need to take care of. This vow of chastity was messing with both of his heads, big-time.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing in my room?”

  Tomasso jumped at the sound and turned to see Gisele standing in the doorway, her face a sort of apoplectic red that didn’t come naturally, except maybe in overripe tomatoes. Well, if he thought he’d angered her already, he had the distinct impression he was about to learn that hell hath no fury like a woman who’s being snooped on.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gisele had never given birth before and truly could not imagine what that experience was like. But right now, at this very moment in time, she felt as if she could easily birth a cow, maybe even a six-ton elephant. Her fury was so great she felt the need to expel some mountainous something from her loins. How dare he nose about her room as if he was entitled to? Conversely, how dare he look so damned sexy in just a towel—a towel beneath which he couldn’t even conceal the swell of his cock? And would the axiom of that be how the hell could Gisele be filled with rage and yet so turned on, all at the same time? In addition, what was it about sneaking around her bedroom that so obviously turned him on?

  Part of her wanted to flail her fists against his (broad, sexy) chest, because she was angry he’d invaded her private space. But another part of her simply yearned to slide her fingers coyly beneath the towel that rested around his waist so suggestively, low-slung as it was from hip to beautiful hip. Just use one finger to pull, ever so gently, till it fluttered to the ground, allowing her to expose his (very large and hard) private bits as he’d exposed hers.

  It had been a week of conflicting temptations for Gisele: the desire to exact revenge on him for dumping her so ingloriously somehow did a bizarre tango with her molar-clenching need to see if she could make him regret his earlier ill-conceived decision. Maybe combine it all into a slick-bodied, heavy-panting revenge fuck, even though that wasn’t her style. The revenge part. She’d be all up for the sweating and heavy breathing... and certainly the fucking bit. It had been ages since she’d had sex, and she felt sure that even commitment-free sex with Tomasso would be hot as hell. Or caldissimo, as the Italians would say. She’d never had that experience before: going for broke just to get it out of her system, feelings be damned.

  But never in her life had she had to tamp down such a tremulous craving for a man. Perhaps it was because she’d never dated anyone who challenged her. The closest she came to that was kid from her high school, Stevie Mincer, who, after going out with her for four months (and making it all the way to
third base, natch), decided to run against her for student council president, which displeased Gisele immensely. That sort of challenge didn’t exactly blow her skirt. But this thing between her and Tomasso—well, this sexual tension was simmering between them like a witch’s brew, sending heated fingers of sensual suggestion coiling around her mind like some snake charmer whose tune lulls a cobra into doing things that go against its very instincts.

  “Look, Gisele,” he said, dropping the pom-pom in his haste. “I’m sorry for this.” He spread out his hands, motioning to the span of her room.

  She stood there, silently, arms crossed, letting him stew in his guilt for a minute.

  “You see, I just got out of the shower”—he motioned to his towel, which barely obscured what was lurking beneath—“and realized my underwear was in the dryer. So I came down the hall to get it and noticed your door was open and your lights on. I came in to see if you were in here, fully intending to shut off the lights and close the door—”

  “But—”

  “But somehow I got distracted.” His face turned red. He seemed actually embarrassed, which she found somewhat charming.

  “By?”

  “By trying to figure out you.” He shrugged. “All week long you’ve been nothing but hostile to me and I get that I must have upset you when things got complicated and I backed off, but my aim was pure. I was only trying to be up front and honest. My intention wasn’t to hurt your feelings or make you feel bad about yourself. But then I showed up here and was the sole object of your wrath. I couldn’t understand why you wanted to hate me so much. I guess maybe I thought I could find a clue to something about you in here.”

  Gisele leaned against her door, feeling a little defeated. It was hard work holding a grudge. She remembered one time reading this story about how warring factions who were dug into those horrible mud trenches in France during World War I surfaced from their hiding places during Christmas to play soccer and consort with their enemies. Sadly that truce only lasted for a few days, but it must have been such a relief from the constant agitation and stress of combat.