All My Tomorrows

by Rochelle Alers

  Lydia felt a rush of dread. “Why are you making me out to be the villain, while you become the martyr?”

  “Do you feel like a villain?”

  Kennedy had eased his hold on her hand, making it easy for her to withdraw it from his warm, protective grasp. “Right now I don’t know what I’m feeling,” she admitted honestly. What she did not want to feel was like a lovesick groupie. When she least expected it, doubts assailed her that if Kennedy hadn’t slept with her, he probably would’ve sought out another female staff member.

  “I like you, Kennedy,” she said in a soft, quiet voice, “in spite of my vow that I would never let myself get involved with another athlete. In your case, ex-athlete,” she added quickly, correcting herself.

  “That’s my past and your John Doe is your past. What do you say we bury our pasts—right now, tonight?”

  Lydia studied him thoughtfully for a moment. She had buried her past when Vincent Haddon walked out of her apartment after he’d informed her that another woman was carrying his child. A satisfied light came into her eyes. “Okay, Kennedy.”

  “What do you say we celebrate with a bottle of champagne?”

  Her smile was dazzling. “I say yes, but only if you’ll permit me to pay.”

  Kennedy shook his head. “The next time, darling.”

  “Ken…ne…dy.” His name came out in three syllables. “Lighten up. It’s your birthday.”

  “I’ll still pay for it.”

  She stared at him, and something in his gaze indicated he would not relent. “Will you let me treat you the next time we go out?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Bracing an elbow on the table, he rested his chin on a fist. “Which letter don’t you understand? The N or the O?”

  “What can I give you for your birthday?”

  “I told you, I want you.”

  Resting her chin on her hand, Lydia ran her tongue over her lower lip, bringing Kennedy’s gaze to linger there. “Then you will have me.”

  Kennedy felt his flesh between his legs stir with the erotic invitation. It had been more than a week since Lydia had shared his bed, and he wasn’t certain how much longer he could see her and not touch, kiss, or make love to her before he went stark raving mad.

  Everything about Lydia had crept under the barrier Kennedy had set up to avoid becoming involved with a woman. He’d loved and trusted Nila. However, she hadn’t loved him enough to believe he could be faithful to her.

  He hadn’t lied to Lydia when he told her that he hadn’t lived a monastic lifestyle. But when he shared a woman’s bed it was only for physical gratification, not a declaration or promise of love.

  A waiter came over and placed two menus on the table. “Ma’am, sir. I’m Billy and I’ll be your server tonight. Can I start you off with a cocktail?”

  Kennedy, staring directly at Lydia, said, “We’ll have a bottle of champagne.”

  “Any particular brand, sir?”

  “Do you have a preference?” Kennedy asked Lydia.

  She smiled at the young server who sported multiple piercings in his left ear. “Do you have Bollinger or Tattinger?”

  Billy nodded and smiled. “I know we carry Bollinger.”

  “Then, we’ll take a bottle.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right back with your wine.”

  Lydia critically surveyed the restaurant as Kennedy perused the menu. The sextet who had taken a short break returned to the stage.

  The singer, a pale woman with platinum blond hair styled in a becoming chignon, appeared to have been poured into her black-sequined gown.

  She removed the microphone from its stand. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Verona and these guys behind me are some of the most talented musicians in the world.” She waved her hand and each musician rose slightly to acknowledge the applause. “Tonight we’re celebrating the great ladies of jazz: Ella Fitzgerald, Peggy Lee, Rosemary Clooney, Etta James, Julie London, and Billie Holiday. The next song I’d like to sing for you is one of the twentieth century’s best-loved songs, and I’m certain many of you will agree with me.

  “However, I’m going to need your help with this one. I’d like for husbands, wives, boyfriends and girlfriends, and those who are visiting the Music Shack for the first time to get up and dance to Etta’s ‘At Last.’”

  Lydia was rooted to her chair as Kennedy pushed back his and rounded the table. He extended his hand. “Come, darling. Dance with me.” She placed her hand in his, and he pulled her gently to her feet.

  He led her to the area set aside for the dance floor and swung her into his embrace, her arms circling his neck. Everything—the minute particles, fragments, or molecules that had come together to make Kennedy Fletcher the being that he’d become—seeped into her, making them one. Closing her eyes, Lydia pressed her mouth to his throat.

  I love this man!

  And she did love him despite her vow not to become involved. She had known of the strong passion within her, but it had taken the man holding her close to his heart to ignite it. She had convinced herself that what she shared with Kennedy was nothing more than a summer fling, that she could walk away from him without a backward glance, back to a life and those who were safe and familiar.

  Molded chest to thighs, she followed Kennedy as he eased her away from the other couples crowding the dance floor until they were in a corner not far from their table. They kept perfect rhythm—heartbeats, a dip, sway.

  Without warning Lydia heard the fortune-teller’s voice: I see two men in your life—one who will come to love you very much and one who will pretend to love you. She went completely still and would’ve fallen if Kennedy hadn’t been holding her.

  Kennedy tightened his hold on Lydia’s waist. “What’s the matter?” he whispered close to her ear.

  Lydia forced herself to relax. “Nothing.” She hadn’t lied, but then she hadn’t told him the truth either. She was faced with a dilemma—one she had to resolve on her own.

  Tilting her chin, she smiled up at him. “Everything is good.”

  He returned her smile, executing a step and spinning her around as Verona crooned the ballad with all of the passion that made the song a trademark of the singer who had come to be known as Peaches.

  Kennedy pulled Lydia closer. “It’s more than good. It’s perfect.”

  His life was perfect because he’d found a woman whose passion, dedication to children, and ambition were similar to his. Lydia was ardently feminine, confident, strong-willed, determined, and while her cool exterior was a foil for a quick temper that made her unpredictable, he knew instinctively she would never bore him.

  Burying his face in her hair, he closed his eyes, losing himself in the moment and the woman he’d claimed as his own.

  The song ended. Lydia applauded, while Kennedy’s whistle joined those of the other men, who alternated whistling with hooting. The piercing sounds vibrated her eardrum. She gave him an incredulous stare and he flashed a Cheshire cat grin.

  Curving an arm around her waist, Kennedy directed her toward their table. “Verona has an incredible voice. You have to hear her do Aretha and Gladys Knight.”

  “When is R-and-B night?”

  “Thursday. We won’t be able to come this week because I’m going on survival maneuvers with the older boys.”

  Lydia had overheard the older campers talking about the three-day expedition, but she hadn’t expected Kennedy to join them. They were scheduled to leave Wednesday afternoon and return to camp Saturday morning.

  He seated her, lingering over her head for several seconds. “Are you going to miss me?”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she wrinkled her nose. “Now who has the swelled head?”

  His hand circled her neck. “Are you going to miss me, baby?” he repeated.

  There was a pregnant silence; then Lydia whispered softly, “Yes, Kennedy. I know I’ll miss you.” Lowering his head, Kennedy pressed his mouth to the nape of her neck, e
liciting a noticeable shudder from her.

  Billy approached the table and set down a large glass bowl filled with ice and a bottle of champagne. Within seconds the sensual spell between Kennedy and Lydia vanished like a puff of smoke on a frigid winter day.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Lydia floated in a state of absolute relaxation after her second glass of champagne. Her dining partner, the live music, and the casual, intimate ambience of the Music Shack had enveloped her in an aura of tranquility she hadn’t thought possible.

  She forgot that she’d walked away from a position most aspiring chefs would’ve sold their souls to obtain. She forgot Justin’s shocking declaration of love and she temporarily forgot about the space where she’d hoped to establish Lady Day.

  Leaning back in his chair, Kennedy watched Lydia as she catalogued the goings-on in the restaurant. “Do you have a floor plan for your restaurant?”

  Smiling and nodding, she met his knowing gaze. “Yes.”

  He took a sip from his flute. He had barely touched the platter of appetizers, preferring instead to drink the excellent vintage and watch Lydia.

  “How about the décor?”

  “Contemporary and Asian.”

  “Nice combination. Do you have a name?”

  “Lady Day.”

  Attractive lines fanned out around his eyes when he smiled. “Aha! Quite fitting for Baltimore native Billie Holiday. What will be your seating capacity?”

  “No more than sixty. The total capacity cannot exceed eighty-five. I’m projecting fifteen at the bar, and another ten in the waiting area. I’ve been on pins and needles ever since my attorney filed the application with the planning board. The last time I spoke to him he said we should expect to get the approval in a couple of weeks.”

  Kennedy was suddenly alert. He’d thought Lydia had inked the deal. “You still don’t have the city’s approval?”

  “No.”

  “What if you don’t get it?”

  Her delicate jaw tightened. “I refuse to think of them declining my proposal.”

  “But what if you don’t, Lydia? You must have a backup plan.”

  “The alternative is that I go back to work and look for another space.”

  “Do you have the required financing?”

  Lydia angled her head and smiled at Kennedy. “Why? Are you thinking of investing in my dream?”

  “If you need a partner, then let me know,” he said noncommittally.

  “Hands-on or behind the scenes?”

  “A silent partner, of course.”

  Lydia’s large expressive eyes widened perceptively. “Thank you, but no, thanks, Kennedy.”

  He leaned forward, took her hand, his thumb caressing the velvety skin on her knuckles. “I want you to promise me that you’ll contact me if you find yourself short on funds.”

  She would not need Kennedy’s money, because she’d been preapproved for a business loan to cover construction costs. The proceeds from the sale of her condo would cover furnishings and equipment.

  Doubting whether she would see Kennedy beyond the summer, she smiled and said, “I promise.” She placed her napkin on the table. “I’m sorry to be a party pooper, but if I don’t get up I’m going to spend the night in this chair.” Drinking champagne always made her sleepy.

  Kennedy glanced at his watch. They’d been at the restaurant for more than two hours. He signaled their waiter for the check, settled the bill, and left Billy a generous tip.

  Rounding the table, he pulled back Lydia’s chair, wound an arm around her waist, and led her out of the restaurant to the parking lot. She gasped, but did not protest when he swung her up in his arms and carried her to where he’d parked his Range Rover.

  He unlocked the doors with the remote control key chain, opened the passenger-side door, and placed Lydia on the seat with a minimum of motion or effort. Reaching for the seat belt, he secured it over her chest; the back of his hand brushed against her breasts. Both recoiled from the brief contact, their startled gazes meeting and fusing.

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Kennedy and Lydia had spoken in unison. Even though Kennedy wanted to make love to Lydia, he did not want her to see him as a predator—someone who went after her for her body. If and when they came together for a sexual encounter he wanted it to be with mutual consent.

  He closed the door, rounded the vehicle, and sat behind the wheel. Starting up the engine, he maneuvered out of the lot, heading south and estimating he would arrive home before midnight.

  * * *

  Lydia dozed off and on during the drive, coming awake when all movement stopped. Sitting up straighter, she stared through the windshield. Kennedy had parked his vehicle in a bay in the three-car garage. The other time he had left it in the driveway.

  “Don’t move,” he cautioned in a soft voice. “I’ll come around and get you.” Kennedy reached for Lydia’s overnight bag, then scooped her off the leather seat.

  “I can walk, Kennedy.” Her protest sounded weak even to her ears.

  He kissed her forehead. “You can walk once I get you inside.”

  Lydia curled her arms around Kennedy’s neck and rested her head on his shoulder. He carried her with the same ease with which she picked up her toddler nieces and nephews.

  Kennedy stopped at a door with a keypad. “Punch in these numbers, then the star key.” He told her the four numbers that would deactivate the lock and turn on the lights on the first floor.

  The door opened automatically, and he mounted the four steps that brought them into a mudroom off the kitchen. Once Kennedy stepped into the expansive gourmet kitchen, he set Lydia on her feet.

  She turned and stared up at him with a strange expression on her face, and he wondered if she’d changed her mind about spending the night with him.

  “What time do you want me to wake you up in the morning?”

  A mysterious smile replaced her expression of indecision. “We don’t have to get up that early. Neil is going to cover breakfast and lunch.”

  Buoyed by the news that they could linger in bed beyond sunrise, Kennedy reached for Lydia and swung her around and around until she pleaded with him to stop. He did stop, and she clung to him until the room stopped spinning.

  When she had deactivated the security system it also turned on a stereo system with hidden speakers positioned throughout the house. The distinctive bass of Soul II Soul’s “Back to Life” filled the space.

  Grabbing Kennedy’s left hand, Lydia said, “I love this song. Please dance with me.”

  He swayed from side to side, watching Lydia’s slender body moving sensuously to the upbeat song with a distinctive driving bass beat. Everything about her teased and seduced as she closed the distance between them.

  Her hands went to his lapels, pushing the jacket off his shoulders. Kennedy froze, holding his breath, stunned as she removed his tie, gold-monogrammed cuff links, and watch, placing them on a countertop. His breath caught in his chest when she unbuttoned his shirt and relieved him of it, as the shirt joined his jacket and tie on the floor tiles. He was forced to exhale when he felt the pressure on his chest. He gasped sharply seconds later once the buckle of his belt hit the floor.

  Kennedy couldn’t believe it. The minx was stripping him in the middle of the kitchen without missing a beat. He could not remember when she relieved him of his shoes, socks, trousers, and boxers. What he did remember was a jolt of desire so strong that he groaned aloud.

  Lydia placed her hands on Kennedy’s smooth muscled chest and forced him back until a wall stopped his retreat. Seeing him naked and unable to conceal his arousal brought forth a throbbing between her thighs.

  Her gaze moved slowly from his taut expression and lower. His clenched fists, half-closed eyes, labored breathing, and the swollen flesh jutting between tight, muscled thighs elicited a boldness that was as foreign as the act she contemplated initiating.

  Resting her hands on his shoulders, Lydia molded
her breasts to his chest. “I’m going to offer you a very special birthday present. Would you like it now?” she asked, her tongue flicking outward and tracing the outline of his mouth.

  Unable to speak, Kennedy nodded like a bobble-head doll. He didn’t know what it was that Lydia proposed doing to him, but he was helpless to resist her. He feared moving because he did not want to spill his passion on the kitchen tile, but in her hot, fragrant body.

  Smiling, Lydia pressed a kiss over his left eyelid. “H,” she whispered in a voice so sultry that Kennedy shivered. “A,” she continued, kissing his right eyelid. P was the bridge of his nose, a second P his mouth, and his throat claimed the Y.

  “B - I - R - T - H.” These letters began with a series of light kisses starting at his breastbone and ending inches above his belly button. Grasping his hips, Lydia slid down his body. She went to her knees. “D,” she crooned, flicking her tongue into the indentation of his belly button.

  “A.” This letter elicited a painful groan from Kennedy that erupted from the back of his throat.

  Lydia buried her nose in the inverted triangle of hair cradling his blood-engorged flesh, and breathed her hot breath inches from his maleness.

  She prayed she would be able to follow through with her plan to offer up herself to Kennedy as a special gift for his thirty-sixth birthday. One hand on his flat belly and the other cradling his inner thigh, she whispered, “Y.”

  Throwing back his head, Kennedy bellowed as if he’d been impaled with a spike as Lydia took him into her hot, wet mouth. Every nerve in his body short-circuited, every muscle quivered. He writhed and jerked as if he’d been hit with bolts of electricity.

  Please don’t let me lose it. The litany played over and over in his head as her mouth closed around his rigid flesh and created a rushing, turbulent rapture that weakened his knees.

  In.

  Out.

  Deeper.

  Up.

  Down.

  Around. Around again and again, then up and down his straining shaft.