After Hours Bundle

by Karen Kendall

  “It’s just Peggy,” she said tightly. A telltale flush was rising from her chest to her temples. “And how do you know about the Crisco?”

  He crooked a finger at her, and she bent her head forward. He removed the glob from her hair and smeared it right onto the tip of her nose.

  She sat there for a long moment, gritting her teeth. Then she removed it with her napkin.

  The waiter appeared again. “Have you had a chance to look over the menu? Would you care to hear the specials?”

  “No thanks,” Troy said. “I believe we’d just like two slices of the twelve-layer chocolate cake.”

  “Very good, sir.” The waiter disappeared.

  “Now, where were we?” Troy asked. “Oh, right. Crisco in the hair. So I’m assuming that you brushed your teeth with baking soda, too?”

  “Very funny.” Peggy upended her champagne glass into her mouth. He poured her some more.

  “So what is it, exactly, about the word girlfriend that you hate so much?”

  “It’s not the word, okay? It’s just that I made a promise to myself to spend this year alone. To get reacquainted with me, however stupid that sounds.”

  “It doesn’t sound stupid.”

  “I spent all this time trying to make my last relationship work. Trying to fix someone who didn’t want to be fixed, and put up with someone I should never have put up with.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I vowed that I was going to love, honor and cherish myself for a year afterward. So here it is, four months later, and you come along.”

  “I’m so very sorry,” he said dryly.

  “Hey, I didn’t mean it that way…it’s just that it’s bad timing. I don’t want to be anyone’s girlfriend right now.”

  He thought about it. “Well, you said you didn’t date football players, either, but you’ve gone out with me a number of times now. And maybe you should look at all this from a different perspective. Why did you stay with Mr. Limp Dick? He obviously didn’t make you very happy.”

  She fiddled with her silverware and didn’t answer.

  “I’m gonna make a suggestion, but you probably won’t like it. I think you stayed with him because he was safe. He was a loser who didn’t challenge you and couldn’t violate you. He couldn’t do you any harm.”

  She inhaled sharply and refused to look at him.

  “After all those years of toughing it out, and then the fear and disgust of the men you played football with, you chose someone on the opposite end of the spectrum. Someone safe. And if I had to make a guess, I’d say that your feelings were never that engaged.”

  “That’s not true!” Her eyes blazed, and he knew he’d hit pay dirt. He was dead-on.

  “Whatever you say. But you just think about it. You chose a guy who fulfilled all your expectations of men at that point—somebody who’d disappoint you on every level. He was safe, Peggy. But he sure as hell didn’t help you move on.”

  She’d pulled her hands back into her lap now, and he’d bet they were clenched and white-knuckled. Her face was shuttered and grim.

  “He didn’t help you, and in fact he probably did even more damage. But that’s all I’m going to say. I’ll just ask you to think about it. Think about why the word girlfriend bothers you so much. Is it the word, Peggy? Or is it the idea of intimacy?”

  She took a deep breath. “Don’t be ridiculous, Troy. It’s the word. I hate the word.”

  Troy nodded. “Okay, fair enough.” He’d pushed as hard as he could. It was time to backtrack to humor and lighten the atmosphere. “Then I have a suggestion—we scrap the word girlfriend completely. Why don’t we call you my chick instead? Or my ho? Would that help?”

  She sputtered over her ice water, the expression on her face comic.

  He just grinned at her. “Solves everything, doesn’t it?”

  She looked at him darkly. “You know, if they weren’t about to bring me chocolate cake—twelve-layer chocolate cake—I wouldn’t put up with this. I’d leave right now.”

  “What about the champagne?”

  “Oh, I’d take that with me.”

  “That is so cold.”

  “Mmm, isn’t it?” She lounged back in her chair and took another sip. “But then I wouldn’t have to share it.”

  “Aw, come on. Champagne is the one drink in the world that you cannot have alone. It’s like a law—you have to share it with someone.”

  “Even someone whom you strongly dislike? Someone who—”

  “Is still sitting here with you in public, even though you’re dressed like Rambo and smell like a dead cockroach?”

  She glared at him.

  “Yes, I think I’m exactly the kind of guy you should share your champagne with. One who’s tolerant of madwomen.”

  She actually pushed out her chair this time and made it halfway out of her seat.

  “Cake for madam?” The waiter appeared behind her.

  Troy watched her struggle, delighted. She eyed the door with longing. She eyed the cake with longing. She eyed him with something close to hatred. But the chocolate cake won the battle.

  “Mademoiselle,” she hissed, and sat down again. “Thank you.”

  The waiter nodded and set the cake in front of her. He sniffed the air with a puzzled expression. Then he set Troy’s cake down, noted their drained glasses and picked up the Cristal bottle, which was now empty.

  “Another, please,” said Troy with a nod.

  Peggy put a forkful of cake into her mouth, and the sudden change in her expression was almost comic. Ecstasy, bliss, euphoria: all of these words summed it up. Her eyes almost rolled up into her head.

  “It is good, isn’t it?” He smiled at her.

  “Only for this cake would I remain sitting with someone who suggests that the term ho is a pleasing alternative to girlfriend.”

  “I think you know I was kidding.”

  The waiter appeared again with the second bottle of Cristal and a scented candle, which he set in the center of the table along with the one already present. He filled their glasses once again.

  “Is Raid flammable?” Troy asked. “Because I really think that would be the perfect ending to a romantic evening. My, uh, chick going up in smoke.”

  “Chick is not an acceptable alternative to the G word either.” Peggy forked up another mouthful of cake and blissed out.

  “Bed-buddy? Boink-baby? I mean, trust me, there are a lot of terms we could use here, some of them not so nice.”

  Peggy swallowed. “Troy? Darling Troy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “If you want to have any prayer of getting laid tonight, would you just shut up?”

  “Okay,” he said agreeably. He might be chopped liver and mow his own lawn now, but he wasn’t stupid.

  16

  PEGGY GIGGLED and leaned on Troy’s arm for support as they walked through the gate of his backyard. Her legs felt like rubber and her head was full of tiny bubbles. She had a strong suspicion that she had a chocolate mustache, but couldn’t seem to care enough to lick it off.

  Troy stripped off her shirt and threw it into a clump of rose bushes. “Jesus,” he said. “You reek.”

  More giggles attacked her while he unbuttoned and unzipped her cargo pants and pulled off her shoes. The pants landed on the thick ficus hedge surrounding the yard and one of the high-tops flew over it.

  He unhooked her bra and stripped off her panties, then picked her up bodily and tossed her into the pool. He waited until she came up sputtering and then instructed her to sit on the steps. “You’re too drunk to swim alone,” he said. “Stay there until I get back.”

  “H’okay,” she said agreeably. “Kill you in a lil’ bit.” She was mad on principle that he’d thrown her in, but the water felt erotic, cool and silky against her naked skin, and she leaned her head against the edge of the pool.

  Troy reappeared from inside, now naked himself and with a bar of soap. She giggled again. “’S pretty big bathtub,” she said.

>   “Yeah. Come here. We’re gonna get all that Raid off of you. I still can’t believe you sprayed that on your shirt.”

  “Was gonna hit my neck, but figured it wasn’t very good for me.”

  “No, you little moron, it’s not.” He lathered up his palms and soaped her torso, paying special attention to her breasts, if truth be told.

  “I din’ spray those.”

  “Let’s pretend you did,” said Troy, fondling them with great appreciation.

  “H’okay. Mmm, that feels good.”

  He soaped her rib cage, belly and neck thoroughly, rinsed her by swishing her through the pool, and then repeated the whole process.

  “That can’t be good for the pool,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Now come here.” He kissed her, shooting more tiny bubbles into her brain, and she smiled against his lips. “Shh. Don’ tell anyone, but I like you.”

  “Enough to be my…never mind.” He kept on kissing her, and set her on the first step of the pool while he knelt on the third between her legs. Soon his mouth was on her breasts, sucking and pulling, nipping here and there, gently kneading until she felt almost crazy with desire.

  He turned her around, gathering up her still-Crisco-covered hair and kissing her neck, her shoulders, all over. She could feel his erection against her backside, and she opened her thighs, slid it between them as his hands roamed over her body. She wanted him inside her, but he made no move to enter.

  He palmed her breasts again, driving her wild with his fingers, nipping her shoulder.

  She wiggled her backside against him and finally gave a not-so-subtle nudge when he still didn’t take the hint. He laughed, and slipped his hands between her legs. “What do you want, Peggy-Sue?”

  “You,” she said, pushing against him. The tiny bubbles were popping down there, now, too.

  “What part of me?” he asked, nuzzling her ear.

  Impatient, she said, “Your big toe! What d’you think?”

  “My toe, huh.” His chest rumbled against her spine. “First request on that one, honey. I can honestly say that no woman has ever begged me for that.”

  She reached behind her and grabbed his penis, tugging on it. “That’s what I want!”

  “Thank you for the clarification.” He removed her hand. “But I gotta tell you,” he said, his fingers working cleverly to find the little nub between her thighs, “that what you’re asking for is now off limits, reserved only for girlfriends. I can’t give it to ya, babe.”

  She started to whimper, half in pleasure and half with frustration. “Barrington, do you even know how much I hate you? Aaaaah!”

  “Yeah. As much as I hate you,” he said, taking his hand away and fanning cool water against her trouble spot.

  “Please,” she whispered.

  “I do love it when you discover your manners.”

  “Please.”

  He thrust into her and she arched her back, quivering. He gave her three strokes before pulling out. “So, are you my girlfriend yet?”

  She gritted her teeth.

  “Hmm?”

  “Just for tonight.”

  He entered her again, slowly and teasingly. “Nope, you gotta do better than that.”

  Warmth and fullness spread through her, and a pulse started deep inside. He stroked in and out, and cupped her breasts in his big warm hands again, flicking her nipples with his thumbs.

  Then he took his hands away and slipped out of her. “You my girlfriend?”

  “Yes,” she finally panted, willing to promise anything or be anyone if he would just bring her release. Troy drove into her fast and furious this time, as if he couldn’t get far enough inside her.

  The warmth and fullness and friction built to a burn, and she burst into flames, shivering from head to toe in hot, helpless convulsions. Troy followed her seconds later, and they collapsed on the steps, water lapping around them.

  After washing the Crisco out of her hair, she slept in his bed snuggled against him that night. It was something that girlfriends just did, he told her. She shot the finger at him sleepily, and he rolled her into his arms. He threw a big, muscular leg over hers and she felt warm and safe and beyond sated.

  He promised to make her pancakes in the morning before she went to work, and they drifted off to sleep.

  TROY WOKE HER in the most blissful possible way, and afterward she yawned and stretched like a cat.

  “It’s just terrible being my girlfriend, isn’t it?” he said, yanking on a T-shirt and some shorts. “I mean, look at the abuse you put up with—two orgasms before breakfast.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  “You know, I am more and more impressed by your stunning maturity,” said Troy. “I’m still trying to absorb the whole Crisco/Raid combo. That took finesse.” He threw one of his T-shirts at her. “Here, you can consider that a perk of your new position as girlfriend.”

  “Ooooh!” She threw it back at him.

  “What? Was it something I said? You’re not putting on the Raid-rag again, that’s for sure.” He threw it back at her, and this time she put it on. After all, her other clothes were still outside in the bushes.

  She got out of bed and trailed him to the kitchen, where she stood and blinked in shock. “Your cabinets. What happened?”

  He stopped needling her long enough to look sheepish. “Uh. Me.” He hadn’t cleaned up; he hadn’t been there much. She opened and closed her mouth without saying anything. She shook her head.

  “I kind of…finished what you started the other day.” He shrugged at her expression. “Girls cry. Guys destroy things. Hey, don’t look at me that way. You inspired it! You kicked one first.”

  She still stood there, speechless. Not a single cabinet door was intact. They were splintered, hinges hanging drunkenly, utterly destroyed. “You were…upset by what I told you?”

  “Nah, I was thrilled.” He threw up his hands in exasperation. “Of course I was upset! If I had the names and addresses of those guys I’d make sure they looked worse than the cabinets. I don’t suppose you’d give me that info, huh?”

  “Not a chance.” She tried to absorb the fact that Troy hadn’t thrown a single punch at his brother-in-law during the whole commotion at Sam’s. But he’d done this to his kitchen over something that had happened to her more than ten years ago.

  “I didn’t think so.” He inspected his knuckles and then gestured toward the damage. “I’m remodeling in a few weeks, anyway. So no big deal. Demo has commenced, that’s all.”

  No wonder his feet looked bruised and cut up. His hands, too. Her heart turned over.

  “Sorry if you think I’m a caveman. But look on the bright side—I’m a caveman who makes pancakes and bacon! How do you like your bacon? Crunchy or chewy?”

  “Chewy.”

  “Huh. First strike against you. Bacon should only be eaten crunchy. But for you, I’ll take some out of the pan early.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Mickey Mouse pancakes? Or regular round?”

  “Mickey Mouse.”

  “Excellent choice. I craft exquisite ears. Orange juice?”

  She nodded. “Where are the cups? I’ll get it. By the way, you are way too energetic in the morning.”

  “Cranky, are we? Even after two orgasms. I suppose you want coffee, too?”

  She clasped her hands as if in prayer.

  “God, you demanding woman.”

  “Hey, I’m just settling into my new role as girlfriend. Aren’t we supposed to be high maintenance?”

  “True. That is generally part of the job description.” He grinned at her as he pulled a coffee filter out of a cabinet, popped it into the top of the machine and spooned in coffee. Soon the coffeemaker was gurgling away, the bacon was starting to spit in a pan, and Troy was whipping pancake batter in a bowl.

  I could actually get used to this, she thought. This is really nice.

  “What time do you have to be at the spa?” he asked.

 
; “Not until one. I’m working till closing at midnight tonight.”

  “So we can have a nice, leisurely breakfast, read some of the paper, maybe skinny-dip a little.” He waggled his brows at her.

  “Sounds great.” She found some clean glasses in the dishwasher and pulled a pitcher of orange juice out of the refrigerator. She poured it and took a sip of hers while Troy, true to his promise, made a perfect Mickey Mouse hotcake on his plug-in griddle.

  “Amazing,” she said.

  But he wasn’t done yet. He flipped it and foraged in the fruit drawer of the fridge. When it came out of the pan, he gave Mickey blueberries for eyes, a grape for a nose and a raspberry mouth.

  Ridiculous, but when he set the plate in front of her, she teared up. “My dad used to do fun pancakes. He’d pour the batter into these big aluminum cookie cutters my mom had. We had a gingerbread man and a heart and a sun and a crescent moon.”

  “But you’ve never had mouse-cakes.”

  She shook her head and smiled. “Nope. I don’t think my Dad could have done it freehand.”

  “So once again, I am The Man.” He held his spatula aloft like a scepter and took a bow for an imaginary adoring crowd.

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Troy. You are The Man.”

  The microwave pinged—he’d warmed the syrup in a glass measuring cup—and he got it and set it on the table next to her. Then he brought her some bacon that he’d cooled on a paper towel. “Would madame—excuse me, mademoiselle—care for anything else at the moment?”

  “Just the pleasure of your company. Thanks.”

  They ate in companionable silence over the newspaper, after a brief tussle over who got the sports section first. She compromised and took the A section, catching up on world events. She read about another suicide bombing, more unrest in the Middle East, somber economic forecasts. The overnight body count in Miami, always an active city for murders. The typically cheery stuff.

  Finally Troy stretched and yawned. “Listen, I’m going to take a shower, okay?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re welcome to join me,” he said with a leer.

  “I’m really not functional until I’ve had two cups of coffee. You go ahead.”