Because Beards
Page 29
“It was,” he agrees. “Sorry my phone was being rude. It can really be an evil little bastard.” He tilts his head at me and grins again.
“It isn’t your phone that’s rude.” For some reason his disarmingly good looks make me feel snarky. “Nice ringtone, by the way,” I whisper.
His laugh surprises me, deep and rumbling and genuine. “You have no idea,” he finally says. When he leans over so I can hear his whispering voice, a minty scent mingled with a clean, soapy smell makes me tingly.
Suddenly all I can hear is the band singing about “blowing in the wind,” and all I can think about is whether or not he’s thinking about blowing too right now. I blush so hard I can feel it in my ears.
His eyes brighten and he smirks, like he can read my freaking mind. God.
I manage to meet his eyes. “So yeah… just…” Words are suddenly hard, and I gesture at his phone with my head, unable to speak.
“Should have set it to vibrate, I guess.” He looks directly into my eyes as he says it, and I will myself not to blush again. How immature am I that the word vibrate makes me squirm?
“Sorry,” he adds, winking at me. His voice is so low, even more so because he’s speaking quietly, and my stomach flutters. “Leaving anyway,” he adds.
I nod once. I want to say Good. I also want to say No! and What’s your name? and About time and a host of other things, all conflicting. I want him to ask me for my number. I want to ask for his. I want him to leave, because I’m positive he’s trouble, that he’s got more girls than he knows what to do with. And I don’t want to be another notch in his sexy leather belt.
When he stands, he’s all tall and lanky, and his jeans fit him so well he could be in a Stetson ad. I should have known he’d have a swagger. As he walks away, he looks over his shoulder once at me, as if he knew I’d be staring. He grins and lifts an eyebrow at me. Cocky bastard.
I return to the picnic blanket, where Jessica crinkles her brow. “Um, how did it go?” she asks. “And can I just say, he is delicious!”
“Yeah, but he’s a jerk,” I whisper back. Except he wasn’t. Not really, at least. OK, letting the phone ring and ring and laughing about it was a jerky thing to do. But still…
“He could have a Britney Spears ringtone and he’d still be sexy as hell.” She grins at me, then downs the rest of her wine.
“This round’s on me,” I whisper back, taking both our cups and standing up. “Be right back.”
I wander over to the refreshments stand, where for $5 you can get a good pour of boxed wine. The sugary scent of freshly spun cotton candy from under the next tent fills the air, and a stand of watercolors on display catches my eyes, but I’m too distracted by him to take a better look. I need a drink.
The band’s playing “Last Thing on My Mind,” so at least I’m not thinking about blow jobs anymore. Or I suppose I am, if I’m thinking about not thinking about then.
The bartender hands me two cups of wine, so cold that condensation immediately coats the plastic, and I take a big sip.
I’m turning to head back to Jessica when a loud roar gets my attention. A motorcycle’s revving, and there, being disruptive and sexy once more, is the guy with the phone.
As he speeds away I’m equally pissed that he’s being loud again, and that my heart beats this fast because I got to see him again. That’s junior high stuff. That’s like seeing your crush in the hallway and being giddy for the rest of the day, and then all night too, because he’s out of your league but still, somehow, noticed you.
No way. I’m an adult, not a teenage girl with a crush on the class trouble maker.
But as he rides past, he glances my way and waves. And my stupid heart, the betrayer, picks up its pace.
“Hey, Banjo!” I stoop to pet the black and white dog, who nuzzles into my hand and whines happily.
“You’re here!” Jessica rushes around the counter at Happy Endings Animal Shelter and Veterinary Clinic to sweep me into a hug. “Thanks for coming by!”
“No problem. I love coming here.” I do.
Jessica’s both the head of the shelter and owner of the veterinary clinic her husband, Eric, helped fund when the old clinic got knocked down. I love the animals, and the fact that Jessica spends her life doing what she really loves inspires me to do the same.
I’m thrilled that I, too, have my dream-job, as an associate professor in the English Department at Maine University at Deerfield, commonly referred to as MUD.
“Sit down,” says Jessica, scooping a giant orange cat off the chair across from her desk and placing it gently on the floor. The cats have a special huge room with cages and beds and toys in the back, but Marmalade is allowed to wander freely through the shelter during the day. He’s fat and friendly and never tries to escape, and everyone who visits loves him instantly.
I sit, and Marmalade mewls, then jumps up onto my lap. Laughing, I pet him while he settles down and starts kneading my leg with his front paws.
“I have a huge favor to ask you,” says Jessica, sitting down at her desk.
“What is it?” I scratch Marmalade behind the ears, and he starts to purr loudly.
Jessica takes a deep breath and sits up really straight, like she has to brace herself to say it. “OK. It’s kind of weird.”
I tilt my head and narrow my eyes. “What kind of weird?”
“Fun weird!”
“Okaaay…..” I draw out the word.
“All right. Eric is involved in a charity that raises money for prostate cancer. There’s a big fundraising event coming up next week, and one of the participants was injured and can’t make it. We need someone to fill in, and I was hoping you’d do it.”
“What do you mean by participant? I thought charity events involved glamming up and making small talk at a fancy dinner or something.”
“Well. Uh, this is a little different.” She scratches her cheek and looks away.
“Jessica?” I squint my eyes and crinkle my forehead.
She takes a deep breath, then a smile breaks out on her face. “It’s going to be fun, Tessa! You’ll have a great time.”
“Tell me!”
“It’s the annual Wife Carrying Competition.” She says it really fast, but I’m pretty sure I heard her correctly.
For a second I just stare at her. “The what?” I finally ask.
“Wife Carrying Competition.”
“I don’t… what… isn’t that something they do in Finland or somewhere?” I vaguely remember watching a YouTube video about it once, laughing as the women were carried over hay stacks and up hills, some over the guys’ shoulders like sacks of potatoes, and some dangling upside down behind the guys in what looked like a really uncomfortable position.
“Yeah, but it’s also a thing every year in Maine. Actually, it’s in a town not far from here. Every year a different charitable organization benefits from the money raised, and this year it’s the foundation my husband works with. A woman from one of the teams got hurt, so Eric asked me if I knew someone small that might be willing to fill in.”
“And I’m the lucky person.” I narrow my eyes at her. “Anyway, isn’t it called the Wife Carrying Competition? I’m not a wife.”
“You don’t have to be married. Lots of the participants aren’t. Please? It’s really important to Eric, and the event raises a lot of money, this year for prostate cancer.”
“Why don’t you do it?” I challenge her. “You’re petite.”
“I can’t. I’ll be out of town this weekend at a veterinary conference.”
“This weekend? That’s not short notice at all!” I sigh. “And honestly? It’s way out of my comfort zone, and you’re the one telling me to put my foot down about stuff. What if I say no?”
“I’d be really sad?” she asks, plastering a fake frown on her face.
“Jessica, stop! Tessa’s Time is all about me being assertive, right? And I’m fairly certain this isn’t something I want to do.”
“You’re ri
ght. You’re right.” She puts her hands up defensively. “But let me just tell you a little more about it, OK?”
“Fine,” I mutter.
“So your partner is—I mean would be, if you decide to do this…” She turns to her computer and types something. “Dr. B. Maxwell.”
“What’s he like? Do you know him?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nope. But let’s Google him! What if he’s hot? And single? And you two fall in love while practicing various wife-carrying techniques? You know, like the one where the guy backs you up against a wall, and you straddle him with your legs?”
“This isn’t some porno!” I laugh. “Though it would be a really great concept for one, now that I think of it.”
“Are you sure you’re not thinking of wife swapping?” asks Jessica with a giggle.
I move my chair over next to hers, laughing.
“Oh. Wait. No. Sorry for getting your hopes up.” She clicks on a photo and a handsome man in his sixties pops up on the screen. “He’s a little old for you. I mean, he’s a silver fox and all, but you probably want someone at least thirty years younger.”
“True,” I respond, “but there’s no way a man that old could pick up a woman anyway, let alone carry her!”
“Hold on,” she says. “Here’s an article. Dr. Benson Maxwell and his wife Carla Maxwell are officially retiring from Maine’s annual Wife Carrying Competition. After thirty years of participating, Maxwell, sixty five, says it’s time for the couple to enjoy the competition from the sidelines instead of from the course. The article’s from about a year ago, right after the last competition.”
“So if he’s retired from the race, why does he need a partner?” I ask.
“Let’s see. It mentions later that he’s a prostate cancer specialist. So that’s probably why he’s back in, since the competition is benefiting research in his line of work. And maybe his wife, like, broke her hip or something? Oh look. Here’s a video of last year’s competition. Let’s watch.”
I stare at her screen while the video starts. The camera person is following a couple in the competition, and I absolutely cannot imagine doing this.
The guy is jogging along the course, the woman in an embarrassingly strange position on him. She’s hanging upside down along his back, facing his body. Her face is pretty much lined up with his ass. At least it’s cushioned, I think, because the girl’s getting shaken up as the guy progresses through the course. The girl’s butt faces up into the air, the back of the guy’s neck against her crotch. Her thighs grip his neck, and her feet are crossed in front of him to help her stay in position. He’s holding on to the backs of her knees as he rushes into a man-made water section of the course, and the woman has to raise her head up to keep from being drowned.
No. Freaking. Way.
There’s no way I’m going to be in this competition, making a fool out of myself, and being carried about by a guy in his sixties, silver fox or not.
Jessica stops the video and looks at me, her face braced for the “no” she already knows is coming. “So?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
She leans her head back and closes her eyes. “OK. You don’t have to. It’s just that…”
“What?”
“I kind of already said you’d do it. You’re supposed to meet him tomorrow morning at his office. I’m so sorry. Don’t hate me!”
“Jessica!”
“I’m sorry,” she repeats, and I can tell she feels bad. “It was a really shitty thing to do. Here, I’ll call him right now and tell him you can’t do it.”
I watch as she dials the phone, mouthing sorry to me, and waits as it rings. “His office is closed for the day,” she whispers. “Should I leave a message?”
“No,” I say with a sigh. “Hang up. I’ll stop by in the morning and tell him in person. I feel bad letting him down through a voice mail.”
“I can go,” says Jessica. “I’m the one who got you into this.”
“It’s fine, Jessica. Seriously. I’ve got time in the morning, and it will be interesting to meet the local wife carrying celebrity.”
“Let me write down his info for you.” She hands me a piece of paper on which she’s scribbled Dr. Benson Maxwell and an address.
“In the office? Isn’t he a little old to still be practicing?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Yeah, maybe? Anyway, call me tomorrow and let me know how it goes. And don’t hate me!”
“Never,” I say with a grin as I get up to leave.
The office is in a converted Victorian house on a quiet tree-lined street in a town about a half hour away from Deerfield. Classes haven’t started yet, and I don’t have any meetings till the afternoon, so I head out first thing. I kind of wish I’d let Jessica leave a message, because I dread meeting this doctor and telling him no. It’s too late to turn back now, though, so I park my silver Prius in front of the office and make my way to the house.
Lush dew-dropped ferns hang from the front porch, which is freshly painted a gorgeous shade of light blue and white, and a sign that reads “Maxwell Medical” confirms I’m in the right place.
Inside, there’s a reception desk, and off to the side a large waiting room in what must have previously been the house’s living room, octagonal and bright, sunlight streaming in through the many windows. Two comfortable couches and a handful of chairs are interspersed with side tables stacked with magazines. A coffee table in the middle of the room has coloring books and crayons on it, and I wonder how often kids come to a prostate specialist, but my thoughts are interrupted by an older woman hurrying to the desk.
“Sorry!” she says. “Just getting coffee.” She lifts her steaming mug, then sets it on the table. “Do you, um, have an appointment?” She pushes her spectacles—they definitely look like spectacles and not glasses—up on her nose and pulls a pencil from behind her ear. Her grey hair is pulled back into a bun at the back of her head.
“No. Not really. I’m here to see Dr. Benson Maxwell? I’m supposed to meet him at nine?”
Her brow furrows. “Dr. Benjamin Maxwell?”
I pull the paper Jessica gave me and double check. “No. Benson. Am I in the wrong place? I’m here to talk to him about the, uh, Wife Carrying Competition?” I feel silly saying it.
She smiles broadly. “No, you’re in the right place! He’s with a patient now, but why don’t you have a seat in the waiting room. He should be done soon.”
“Thanks.” I sit in a comfy arm chair and pick up a copy of People magazine.
A woman enters the office, smiles at the receptionist as if she knows her well, then sits across from me in the waiting room. Her brown hair is pulled back into a sloppy pony tail, and she’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt, carrying a big slouchy purse, her face worn but friendly. She grins at me when she sees me looking at her.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m just waiting for my son.” She’s one of those sweet talkative people who seems to need to get stuff off her chest.
I nod and smile, then turn back to the magazine.
“I’m sorry if you have to wait to see the doctor. We weren’t on the schedule, but Dr. Maxwell always sees us, even if he’s booked solid. When my son has a meltdown, sometimes there’s no other way to calm him down.”
“It’s not a problem,” I say.
“He’s such a life saver. At first, I was a little put off by his appearance. But Trevor—that’s my son—immediately responded to him in ways he hasn’t responded to anyone before. Dr. Maxwell’s helped bring out Trevor’s sense of humor—I didn’t even know he had a sense of humor! He’s so serious all the time…”
Her words break off as the door between the waiting room and the exam rooms opens. A boy of about ten enters the room. He’s slim and pale, with brown uncombed hair, and he shuffles in, head down, like he’s trying not to be seen. He ignores me completely but he smiles at his mom.
“Bye,” she says to me as she gets up to leave.
I s
mile and nod at her, and the boy tugs at her sleeve, apparently eager to leave. I pick up my magazine again, ready to settle in and wait, when the door opens again. I take a deep breath, ready to be friendly and make small talk before dropping the bomb that I won’t be Dr. Maxwell’s new Wife Carrying Competition partner.
And then the doctor comes in. Except it’s not the friendly old man I was expecting. It’s the guy from the concert in the park.
Light blue button down shirt rolled up to his elbows—a hint of scrolled black tattoos showing—and tucked into a pair of dark blue jeans. Black leather belt and boots. Rakish brown hair and bearded jaw and chin.
Jesus.
He freezes for a moment when he sees me, then one side of his mouth turns up in a grin as he realizes the coincidence he just walked into.
“Bye, Dr. Maxwell!” says the boy, who’s waiting as his mom signs some papers at the front desk.
“See you next week,” says the man in front of me, who I assume must, inexplicably, be Dr. Maxwell. “Oh, and I’ll get you back for that prank you pulled!”
The boy laughs loudly, and his mom smiles fondly at the doctor as the two of them leave.
He turns to me, his brown eyes flecked with gold as he smiles. “Please tell me you’re Tessa Jones and you’re my new partner for the Wife Carrying Competition.”
“I… I wasn’t expecting you,” I manage, despite the fact that my heart is pounding and my mind is an eddy of confusion.
“Likewise,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m Ben Maxwell.”
“Tessa Jones,” I murmur, though he already said it. “I mean, you already know that. I’m here… I thought… I expected someone older. Benson Maxwell?”
“Ah,” he nods, letting go of my hand. “That’s my dad. He and my mom did the competition every year for a long time, but he officially retired from it last year. He roped me into doing it this year because the event benefits prostate cancer research, his field. And then my partner hurt her knee… Anyway, thanks for agreeing to fill in.”
“Yeah. No problem,” I answer. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I remember that I came here to say I wouldn’t participate. But what girl wouldn’t jump at the chance to wrap her legs around this guy?