Hello, It's Me

by Wendy Markham

  She laughs. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “Why? You didn’t notice?”

  “Oh, I noticed. I just . . .”

  “Thought I didn’t?”

  She shrugs. “I thought you . . .”

  “Were one of them?”

  “No!” Annie’s black curls bob furiously. “I mean, I know that you are one of them, but you’re different. At least, you seem different. Oh, Lord, I can’t believe I’m saying this. I wonder if the coffee’s ready?” She makes a move to get up.

  “Wait, Annie.”

  “What?”

  “Talk to me. Or just . . . listen to me. I want you to know where I’m coming from.”

  Where, he wonders, did that come from? And where is he coming from? He has no idea what he even wants to tell her. He only knows that he can’t let her go. Not to the kitchen. Not . . . anywhere. Not yet.

  “No, I know where you’re coming from. You already told me. You like a challenge. You want whatever you can’t have.”

  “That’s not true,” he protests.

  “You said it yourself.”

  “All right, it is true. In business. Maybe even most of the time, in life,” he says, seeing the doubt in her eyes. “But not now. Not with you. Just sit down, Annie, and listen to what I have to say. Please. This is different for me.”

  “All right,” she says, settling back on the couch, safely keeping her distance. She looks almost amused, yet still wary. “So tell me, then. Where are you coming from, Thom?”

  He touches his chest. “From here. I’m coming from the heart, Annie.”

  Okay, somehow, that doesn’t sound as corny as he might have anticipated, had he bothered to weigh his words.

  It doesn’t sound corny at all. And she’s looking at him as though . . . well, as though she wouldn’t be opposed to sliding a little closer to him.

  Encouraged, he goes on, “I really like you. And the kids, too. All week, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, or . . . caring about what happens to you.”

  “But why? Don’t you have a billion-dollar empire to run or something?”

  “Oh, that? It practically runs itself.”

  “Yeah, right.” She returns his smile. “This is crazy, Thom.”

  There it is again.

  And then, all at once, his name isn’t all that’s on her lips.

  One unexpected kiss from Thom, and Annie is a goner.

  In the instant his heated mouth brushes against her own, her so-called steely core of willpower is transformed into a puddle of molten desire.

  She sinks back into the cushions, pulling him with her, cupping his face in her hands as he deepens the kiss. He tastes of molasses and wine; his tongue playing a delicious game of hide-and-seek with hers.

  He breaks off to lift his head and look questioning into her eyes. She kisses him again in response, and that kiss rapidly melts into another, and another.

  “I can’t do this,” she murmurs helplessly against his lips, and she isn’t merely talking about kissing him. The length of his body is pressed against hers; that she can feel how much he wants her merely fuels the fire inside of her.

  “I’m sorry.” He lifts his head and looks down at her, panting. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “I know.”

  She shifts her hips and succeeds only in bringing the hard evidence of his need even closer to the most vulnerable part of her.

  He groans. “Annie . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, squirming. The movement sends luscious quivers through her, a reminder of what could happen between them . . . if only she’d let it. But she can’t, because . . . because . . .

  Why can’t she, again?

  If it feels good, do it.

  With another groan, Thom rakes his hand through his hair and looks away, his breathing tortured.

  “Thom, I didn’t mean to—”

  “I know,” he says, and props himself on his elbows, gingerly lifting himself away from her.

  Her body protests, her hands jerking up to pull him close again as if guided by an invisible puppeteer.

  “Annie, you don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he says with a ragged moan, and allows his weight to sink against her once again.

  But she does know.

  She knows, and she can’t deny a giddy recklessness at her own potency. She weaves her fingers into his hair and fervently pulls his mouth back down to hers, pouring everything she feels for him into a soul-searing kiss.

  “If we don’t stop now, Annie . . .”

  “It’s okay,” she says softly. “We don’t have to stop.”

  “But you said—”

  “I know. I changed my mind.”

  “You . . . what? Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  He kisses her neck, caresses the length of her waist gently. “Are you absolutely sure you’re sure?”

  “Absolutely,” she says with utter conviction. “But just . . . not here. The kids might—”

  “I know.” He stands and pulls her to her feet. “Does your bedroom door lock?”

  She shakes her head quickly. “Not there, either,” she says simply, grateful when he doesn’t press her for a reason.

  Of course he knows why and must sense, also, that she doesn’t want to dwell on it.

  Thrusting a shard of Andre from her thoughts before it can shatter the mood, Annie darts a glance around the room, seeking inspiration.

  Finding it quickly, she says, “Come on,” tugging him along toward the backdoor, stopping only to swoop down and grab the blanket she discarded earlier.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Outside.”

  The night is velvety warm, scented with the sea and the riot of wildflowers that are growing rampant in Annie’s unkempt planters and garden beds. There’s just a sliver of moon in the vast starlit sky that arches overhead like one of Merlin’s trademark canopies.

  Annie leads Thom down the steps and into the yard, the overgrown grass cool and moist beneath her bare feet. She stops in a secluded corner beside the untamed, early-blooming honeysuckle hedge and spreads the blanket on the ground.

  She looks up to see him gazing down at her, almost in wonder.

  Annie smiles and pats the blanket.

  “I can’t believe this is happening.” He kneels beside her, facing her. “Are you sure, Annie?”

  “Why do you keep asking me that?”

  “Because I wouldn’t want you to have regrets . . .”

  “I won’t.”

  She wants to tell him that she isn’t sure what this means; that she can’t think of anything that might happen beyond this moment or anything that came before. She wants to tell him that she can’t make any promises.

  But Thom isn’t asking for promises, Annie realizes as she rests her arms on his shoulders and presses a gentle kiss to his lips. He isn’t asking for anything he isn’t willing to give himself.

  This isn’t about the future, or the past. This is about the present; for once, Annie will allow that to be the only thing that matters.

  With a sigh of pleasure, she loses herself in the here and now, tumbling backward with him on the blanket, stretching her body languidly alongside his, kissing with the torrid conviction of two teenagers who haven’t a care in the world.

  “Still okay?” he lifts his head to ask after a while.

  “Still okay.” She smiles.

  Thom reaches out and brushes her hair back from the base of her neck with the back of his hand. Then he leans over and nuzzles her in precisely that spot, burrowing into the tender crevice just above her collarbone.

  Delicate tremors burst inside of her, and Annie buries her face in his hair, the brisk scent of his shampoo blending intoxicatingly with the heady fragrance of honeysuckle in the air.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Is this okay?” He slips a finger beneath the narrow strap of her sundress and pushes it off her
shoulder.

  “Yes.”

  “This?” He slips the other strap off her other shoulder and carefully tugs the bodice down to her waist.

  “Yes.”

  He lowers his head and she gasps at the sudden, shocking sensation of his wet mouth on her bare breast.

  “Okay?”

  Barely able to speak, Annie manages a strangled-sounding “Yes.” She grasps his hair, holding his head fast against her, certain that she’ll die if he stops.

  But he goes on, and on, until at last Annie pulls his face up so that she can kiss him again; kiss him endlessly, swept along on a tide of emotion.

  I could love this man, she thinks illogically, with at least the vague presence of mind to be grateful the words remain stranded in her throat with an unanticipated flood of yearning.

  No. She can’t love this man. She can’t love anybody but Andre. Andre, who died a year ago . . .

  Don’t think about tomorrow, Annie. There’s just tonight.

  Needing more, she reaches for the front of his shirt and releases first one button, then another, and another. Finally it falls away, joined momentarily by his T-shirt, his trousers, his boxers, her dress, and her panties.

  With that, it’s almost as though Annie has glided into her own dream: lying naked in Thom’s arms, feeling his warm breath mingling with wisp of night breeze to stir her hair, feeling him moving over her and then inside of her.

  There’s only tonight. This is all you have, Annie. Be in the moment.

  She wills time to stand still, but the stars continue to twinkle overhead and the waves crash rhythmically in the distance, and the earth is presumably still turning, and all too soon, she knows, it will be over.

  Then, of course, it is; Thom has collapsed against her, breathing hard, murmuring her name.

  Holding him close, Annie gazes at the sky with tears in her eyes, knowing that nothing in her world will ever be the same; that in a matter of hours the shortest night of the year will give way to the longest day.

  Chapter 10

  Good morning, cream puff,” Merlin calls from his car window, pulling to a stop at the top of the gravel driveway.

  Annie reluctantly lowers her coffee mug and pushes herself wearily off the porch swing, where she was sorting dried flowers for a new batch of wreaths.

  She normally welcomes Merlin’s morning pop-ins, but today, of all days, she’d rather be alone. Of course today, of all days, he’s particularly inclined to check in on her.

  She meets her old friend at the base of the porch steps, where he plants a kiss on her cheek and a shopping bag from Neiman Marcus at her feet.

  “What’s this?” she asks, looking down.

  “Just a little something from your fairy godfather.”

  “Thanks,” Annie says with a laugh. “Can I open it?”

  “Go ahead. Where are my precious little SweeTARTS?”

  “Still sleeping, thank goodness.” Peering into the bag, Annie sees billowing white cotton.

  “Merlin . . . did you shop for me?”

  “I shopped for you, Vivian,” he says gleefully, leaning his chin on her shoulder to see into the bag. “It’s just a little something to say thanks for helping me out this past week.”

  “A little something? Merlin, this is a Hanro nightgown!” She pulls it out of the bag with a gasp. It’s the most elegant sleepwear she’s ever seen, made of luxurious georgette and embroidered in delicate lace.

  “You like?”

  “I love, but Merlin . . . what are you doing? You know I usually just sleep in T-shirts and boxers.”

  “I know.” He wrinkles his nose. “I thought you could use something pretty to wear to bed.”

  She narrows her eyes at him, wondering if he knows about Thom.

  But he couldn’t possibly, unless he’s psychic. It happened mere hours ago.

  And anyway, Annie has no intention of ever actually sleeping next to Thom . . . or, for that matter, sleeping with him ever again.

  He tiptoed away into the darkness long before dawn, at her insistence. The last thing she wanted was for one of the children to wake in the night and find that she was missing . . . or that he was there.

  Sure enough, moments after Thom left—with a last lingering kiss and a promise to call her this afternoon—Trixie erupted in blood-curdling shrieks.

  It took Annie close to an hour to settle her back down, at which point she finally collapsed into her own undisturbed sheets.

  But sleep refused to come, thanks to the madly spinning carousel that had taken over her brain in the wake of Thom’s departure. Her body was dead tired, but her thoughts were alive with the giddy memory of their lovemaking.

  Guilt waited until dawn before stealing over her like an unexpected late frost in the garden, snuffing out the fragile shoots of hope that had foolishly taken root within her.

  Now, gazing at Merlin through bleary eyes that feel as though they’ve been scrubbed with a loofah, Annie is nothing but exhausted. Yawning loudly, she weighs the odds that she’ll be able to squeeze in a nap at some point this afternoon.

  “I don’t suppose,” Merlin says pointedly, draping an arm around her shoulder, “that I can bribe you with the robe that matches that nightgown?”

  A nightgown that costs almost as much as a new washing machine, Annie thinks wryly.

  “Bribe me to do what?” she asks aloud.

  “Work at another event this weekend. My waitresses are dropping like Survivor castoffs, and I’m shorthanded again.”

  “What, are you killing them off?”

  “No, they’re just too young and stupid to hold down a job. It’s hard to find responsible help, Annie, let alone classy help like you.”

  “Flattery and nightgowns will get you nowhere, Merlin.”

  “I was planning to throw in quite a bit of cash, too.”

  “Well, that’s tempting . . . but I can’t.”

  “Please, Annie. It’s for the Corringtons,” he adds significantly.

  “What is the Corringtons?”

  “Not what is, who are.” He begins rattling off credentials that include bloodline, résumé, and real-estate holdings to rival . . . well, the Brannocks.

  Annie cuts in to say, “You couldn’t convince me to work a wedding today, Merlin, if it was the second coming of Princess Diana and she’d agreed to walk down the aisle and give Prince Charles another shot.”

  “No, I didn’t mean today,” he says hastily. “Do you think I don’t know it’s the anniversary of Andre’s death, Annie?”

  She swallows painfully. Will she ever get used to hearing the words “Andre” and “death” spoken together?

  “But what about tomorrow?” Merlin asks gently. “You need the money. I need you. It’s a Sunday afternoon wedding that should go pretty late. And Carly said she’d babysit.”

  “You asked her without checking with me first?”

  “I was trying to make everything easier for you, Annie. I know that this is a tough weekend. Tougher than usual. I’m worried about you.”

  Annie sighs. She desperately needs cash; no doubt about that. But another long day spent waiting on hordes of upscale summer people is enough to make her want to turn Merlin’s offer down flat.

  “I’ll think about it,” she says instead, realizing she doesn’t have the luxury of saying an outright “no” to potential income.

  “Great! You’ll think about it.” He pauses. “For how long?”

  “Just give me a few hours to clear the cobwebs out of my brain, and I’ll call you on your cell and let you know, Merlin.” Yawning again, she takes another sip of her coffee. “I need a refill. Do you want some?”

  “No thanks. I have to get home. Jonathan and I are playing tennis in a half hour if it doesn’t rain.”

  They both look up at the clouds that are rapidly moving in from the water to obliterate the patch of blue.

  “Is it supposed to rain?” Annie asks, thinking a storm might suit the bleak mood of the day.

 
“Yes, but just a quick thunderstorm, then it’s going to clear up,” Merlin tells her with the authority of the closet Weather Channel addict he is.

  “Well, I’m off.” He kisses her on the cheek, then lifts her left hand and examines it. “I see you’ve got your wedding ring back.”

  “Mmm-hmm. Thom brought it over last week.”

  “Thom?” Merlin echoes with a knowing look. “Rather intimate with Mr. Brannock, are we?”

  Annie can feel her cheeks growing warmer than the coffee that’s left in the bottom of her cup. “No, we are not intimate with Mr. Brannock,” she lies, feigning outrage.

  “But we are on a first-name basis.”

  Annie shrugs. “It doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with him.”

  “Sleeping with him!”

  Oops.

  “Annie, you’re sleeping with Thom Brannock?”

  “I just said that I wasn’t.”

  Merlin gazes at her.

  “Shut up, Merlin.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Merlin continues to examine her face thoughtfully for a few moments, then shakes his head. “I know you too well.”

  That, he does. But she’ll admit nothing. Her relationship with Thom Brannock—if that’s the right term for what happened between them—is none of his business. One word of acknowledgement, and Merlin would dub himself matchmaker and begin catering a wedding extravaganza.

  “You don’t know me as well as you think, Merlin.”

  “Whatever you say, sugar pie. I’ll talk to you later.”

  She watches him pull out of the driveway, speeding off to his tennis date with Jonathan.

  Lucky Merlin, she thinks wistfully, with his blissfully uncomplicated love life.

  Not that he doesn’t deserve it, after all the strife of adolescence and lovelorn adulthood, when he had every right to be jealous of Annie’s easy romance with Andre—and blatantly admitted that he was.

  A raindrop lands on Annie’s arm.

  Now it’s his turn to live happily ever after, she tells herself, slowly walking back up the steps onto the porch, aware of a sudden chill permeating the warm summer morning. And my turn to look on with envy.

  She pulls the screen door open with a loud squeak.