“But you don’t have to….”
“Shhhh.” He placed a finger on her lips then replaced the finger with his mouth.
He ended the kiss and spoke. “You have to understand my strategy. It could take months and months of planning together to get this show launched. Hours together, alone…planning…” He kissed her again.
Each kiss was electric, and Darby wound her arms around his neck, certain it was the only way she would keep vertical.
“So, do we have a deal?”
“Yes,” she said. She looked with wonder into Martin’s eyes, seeing the desire there. To think she had met him at that cursed craft show. She’d really have to give Ol’ Sylvia a call and thank her. “Oh, yes.”
“Perfect.”
They sealed the bargain with another kiss.
About the Author
Canadian Author Judy Bagshaw is a woman with a mission and a unique vision. She has lived all her life as a plus size person in a thin-obsessed world. As a full time elementary school teacher for over two decades, she has personally witnessed the effect this thin obsession has had on many of her young, impressionable students. She has also recognized the need for people of size to see themselves represented in the media as more than the butt of jokes, the villain, or the jolly sidekick. To this end, Judy’s romance short stories and novels feature plus sized central characters living rich, involved lives, just as she has. You can find out more about Judy’s work at http://writerlady.homestead.com/homepage.html
DIRTY LAUNDRY
Jennifer Harrington
Dedication
To my family and my BBW writing pals, who always said I could do this.
“I TELL YOU, Flo, he sure got my pacemaker jumping!”
Lauren Giles backed through the door of the laundry room, arms straining under the weight of the wicker basket she carried. Her ears perked at the booming declaration just made by her least favorite neighbor, Gladys Bronowski. Gladys was ancient and didn’t have the least bit of use for other human beings, especially the male sort, so if some fella had caught her attention he must be something amazing indeed.
Assaulted by bright light and the whirring and clanking of busy machines, Lauren allowed herself a moment to adjust from the change of the cool, dim hall before searching for a space to claim as her own. Spotting a pair of rickety chairs huddled around a squat dingy table, she hefted the full-to-overflowing basket higher on one generous hip and plodded over to the far corner. On the way, she nodded to purple velour-clad Gladys and her cronies, whom she had long ago dubbed the “Bitter Biddy Bridge club”. Most days they were kind enough to her face, but Lauren had heard many hastily cut-off comments about her crumbling marriage during the past several months. It was just her luck to have to share her Saturday morning with them.
Sucking in a deep breath of dank air she blew her unruly bangs from her eyes, and staked her claim on a small corner of the room. There she unpacked her laundry room survival kit: a small box of chocolates, a can of diet cola, and her most beloved romance novel. This last item she gave a fond pat as she set it on the table. Lauren picked up her basket again, darting a final glance at the brawny kilted hero who graced the book’s cover. Releasing a wistful sigh, she shook her head and walked away. They sure don’t make ‘em like that anymore.
A moment’s search led her to an available washing machine. She was about to load her darks into it when one of the old women shouted, “Dontcha see that it’s broken, girly?!”
Lauren slinked across the aisle to a trio of open washers and made a great show of searching for her change purse, wincing when Gladys barked, “Don’t see much, that girl. Husband having an affair right under her nose like that, and her too dim to see it!”
Lauren would have given anything to be able to stuff the cackling old crow into the nearest washer and set her on spin cycle! She dug some quarters out of her wallet, snapped them into the slots, and forced the levers home, then slopped some soap into both machines, adding bleach to the one on the right. Maybe this group of ladies would have been friendlier if she had sought them out. But Lauren’s innate shyness and discomfort at baring her wounded soul had caused her to shrink in on herself, rather than reach out to anybody during this past, painful year.
Anxious to be back in her haven of chocolate and happily-ever-after, she tossed clothes about in a flurry of activity. Blue jeans, left--white tee shirt, right. Red shorts, left--white sock, right. Almost entranced by the simple-minded activity, she was jolted back to reality by Mrs. B’s grating voice.
“Y’know, if I were just a few years younger, I’d go after that hot stud myself!”
Lauren’s brow furrowed even deeper over that last outrageous statement. She tried to imagine a guy, any guy, hanging around Gladys long enough for her to put some smooth moves on him.
“Gladys! You can’t be serious! Why he’s young enough to be your son. Or grandson, even!” Lauren recognized the nasal-sounding voice of the prudish Miss Carmichael, a shriveled husk of a woman who had been giving piano lessons to local children for the last 50 years. She would probably continue do so until she expired, most likely while sitting at the keyboard.
She grimaced at the thought of some unfortunate law enforcement officer answering a call about a strange smell coming from Miss C’s apartment. She could imagine him opening the door to find the old woman sitting stiffly on the bench, hands splayed across the keys, the metronome still keeping time for one whom time no longer mattered.
“Or grandson-in-law.”
Mrs. B’s thoughtful rejoinder pulled Lauren back to earth again.
“Yes, I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I had my girl over for a visit this week. Wouldn’t hurt to have her help me bake a few goodies and deliver them up to 7A as part of the welcome wagon, eh?”
Lauren gave another snort. It was unfair and ludicrous that a baby named Barbara had grown up to look like the fashion doll, but that was just what had happened in Barbie Bronowski’s case. Apparently babies named Lauren hadn’t such high expectations for when they grew up. Or rather when they grew out. She made a self-conscious shuffle to the left to hide more of her wide hips behind her washing machines.
“I wouldn’t wait too long to get her over here, or he might get snapped up by someone living in the building. That redhead upstairs, for one,” chimed in Mrs. Morretti, right-hand yes-woman to Mrs. B.
“She’s no match for my girl! There’s no one in this building who can even come close to her.”
Lauren felt rather than saw the crone tilt her head toward the corner. “Men don’t fall for a girl like that. Not unless she runs them down in the hallway.”
Lauren felt her cheeks burn with anger as she pulled another piece of clothing from her basket and clutched it in her fist. Of all the nerve!
The laundry room door bounced open, startling Lauren, who gave a small hiccup of surprise. Her jaw went slack as she saw the man who had kicked it open. Not just tall, he was broad and well-muscled, as though he was used to physical labor. The hair waving across his brow was the same shade of inky black as his T-shirt and jeans, which molded themselves to his hard body as though he’d been dipped in dark chocolate. His heavy black boots landed with decisive thuds against the grey tiled floor as he strolled through the group of swooning septuagenarians. Glancing from one to another with his intense blue-green eyes, he gave each of the ladies a roguish yet sincere-seeming smile through his close-trimmed moustache and beard. Her eyes followed him as he sauntered his way across to the corner.
Her corner.
She’d be sharing her table with this hunk of a man, this stepped-right-off-of-a-romance-novel-cover god! She cringed as she mentally heard her mother’s voice intoning, “Never put off washing your laundry ‘til you run out of clothes.” Why don’t I ever listen to her? Lauren moaned, feeling her absolute worst in her rumpled, stained sweat suit complete with moth-eaten granny briefs beneath.
Briefs? Oh Gosh! The sudden realization hit her that she had been s
tanding about with her red thong dangling from her right fist for the entire world to see. In a flash, she dropped it straight into the gaping machine below, and raised her eyes heavenward in a silent thank you that no one had been watching.
Sucking in a breath of air to once more blow her bangs from her eyes, she found that the humidity had plastered them to her forehead. Yet another thing you shouldn’t have put off washing. Never in all her 30 years had she felt less attractive. Even the old biddies could beat me hands down in a beauty contest right about now.
The machines in front of her rumbled to life, bringing Lauren back to the task at hand. She sorted the remaining clothes in haste, stuffed them into the washers, and dropped the lids closed. She glanced back at her corner, trying to decide if the dire situation merited its abandonment. She felt the level of estrogen in the room surge to new heights as the stranger chose that moment to seat himself in one of the chairs, stretching panther-like in order to better accommodate himself.
Lauren made great pretense of arranging her empty basket, laundry detergent, and fabric softener on the top of her washers. Sneaking another look in the man’s direction, she realized he had carried a black leather bag into the room with him. He rooted around in it and smiled in satisfaction when a small foil-wrapped item emerged in his hand.
A Power Bar. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, but had to give him points for the carton of chocolate milk which followed soon after. He reached into the bag again and withdrew a battered paperback, so old and tattered it was all Lauren could do to make out the words, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance splashed across its cover. She shrugged at that, figuring he had selected it for the motorcycle slant, as he looked more like a well-manicured Hell’s Angel than a benevolent Buddha.
His bright eyes caught hers and he gave her a friendly smile before flipping open his book and burying himself in it.
Lord, the man was magnificent! In panic, Lauren turned back to her machines, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she pressed her hands to the pit of her stomach as though they could calm the hundreds of butterflies taking wing inside her. She puffed out her cheeks, blew the air out through her teeth, and straightened her spine before turning back to see if he was still distracted by his reading.
He was.
She cleared her dry throat and decided this was as good a time as any to return to her seat. Feeling like the world’s frowsiest hausfrau, she crept back to the corner and breathed a self-congratulatory sigh of relief for reaching the table without drawing notice to herself. But she celebrated a moment too soon, for as she turned the back of her heel hit the metal leg of the chair, which gave a deafening screech as it skittered away from her. Lauren threw herself backward in a desperate bid to plant her backside on the retreating furniture, only (just) saving herself from plopping on the floor in a graceless heap.
Heat filled her face as she made a blind grope for her soda and missed knocking her book to the floor. Her numb fingers struggled until she finally popped the tab of the can. She raised her shaking hand to her mouth and gratefully swallowed draught after draught of the cool beverage, her tongue snaking out to lick any wayward drops from her lips.
Thirst abated, she turned her attention to her box of chocolates, and gave an imperceptible shake of her head. Much as she’d love to dive into her velvety treat, the unbearable heat of the room must have taken its toll on them. She could not, would not be seen by this gorgeous hunk dribbling candy all over her herself!
With reluctance, she turned from the chocolates to her book, which she picked up with as much nonchalance as possible under the circumstances, and opened to the little Celtic cross-stitch book mark she’d made the winter before last. Raising the novel shield-like in front of her face, Lauren tried to make sense of the words that on any other day she could have recited from memory. Leaning a bit to the left, she peeked around the paperback at her uninvited tablemate, who gave a deft lick to one large thumb and turned another page of his book, wreaking still more havoc on her frayed nervous system.
She brought her eyes back to the words on the page and tried to regain her normal breathing pattern. She heard a soft tearing sound: the chocolate milk carton.
She peered over the top of her paperback and saw him bring it to his shapely mouth. In a perfect world, he’d spill some of that on his shirt. And being in a laundromat, he’d think nothing of stripping it off and tossing it into one of the machines. Her mouth turned up at the thought of this divine creature having an unexpected moment of human klutziness.
Still…what she wouldn’t give to see it happen. Her vision blurred as she imagined the fluid grace with which he’d peel off the offending garment; the hard, carved torso that would be revealed as he did so. She could see a droplet of milk mingling with the sweat in the hollow of his throat, coursing down the center of his chest, slipping past his bulky rectangular pecs, easing its way over the ridges of his abdomen ‘til it slid down to . . .
Coming to her senses, her eyes snapped back into focus and she found herself locking gazes with an inquisitive pair of piercing blue-green ones. Her mouth formed a surprised little O as she opened her eyes wide. The stranger’s gaze dropped to the cover of her book, taking in the painting of the heroic bare-chested Scot, then recaptured hers. His mouth twisting in a wry grin, he raised one quizzical eyebrow as if to ask, Gotten to the good part yet?
Lauren bit her lip in complete mortification. Hiding once more behind her book, she tried again to apply herself to reading the words, but still found it difficult, as though she held the stalest of academic tomes rather than a pleasant and enjoyable novel. Before long, however, the comfort the familiar story always brought filled her chest, and she allowed herself to be transported to another world.
Lauren jumped as a dryer buzzed. The man in black wandered over to the machines lining the wall, opened the door to one and thrust a muscular arm inside. He shook his head, and managed to jam a large fist into the pocket of his painted-on jeans and pull out another quarter to plug into the slot.
She glanced at her own machines and saw that the violent shakings of one washer in its final spin-cycle was threatening to topple her detergent from its perch. Bounding from her chair, she snatched the bottle as it teetered on the edge of the undulating appliance. Then she slapped her basket on the washer top next to her and slammed the lid of the machine up.
Blinking in confusion, she bent closer to its opening. Horrified, she began pulling out item after item of pink-tinged clothing.
Will it never end?! She spied the culprit, a scrap of bright red lace at the bottom of the washer, and groaned. She’d managed to toss one of her teensiest, most flamboyant thongs in with her white load.
It was time to be discreet. She bent low to remove it from the washer and place it with all possible haste in her basket. But the dainty garment caught on the washer’s change slide. Grumbling under her breath she gave it a sharp yank when – SNAP! - the thong flew out of her hand and sailed over her head to land somewhere behind her.
Somewhere near the man in black. She was sure.
Ok. OK, just think. Play it cool. I’m sure it didn’t really land anywhere near him. In fact, it’s probably on top of the dryers. No, it’s behind the dryers. So if it isn’t lying around as evidence somewhere, how can anyone really be sure that it even happened? And if nothing happened, there’s no reason for me to look around.
Best intentions thrust aside, she whirled to see if her nightmare had been realized, fully expecting to find her wayward undergarment atop the man’s sleek raven locks.
She saw nothing.
No underwear. No man.
A polite cough behind her caught her attention. He stood with his hand extended, the scarlet lingerie dangling from his fingertips in sharp contrast with the ebony of his shirt.
“I believe this is yours,” his voice rumbled, deep and resonating. His full lips quirked with barely suppressed mirth. “Unless it came from that direction?” He motioned toward the group of elderly lad
ies, who ducked and bowed their heads in whispered conversation like so many chickens scratching up feed.
A burble of laughter escaped Lauren’s lips at the thought of those particular women owning such things. But then perhaps wearing size-too-small thongs explained the constant pinched expressions on their sour old faces?
She turned to him, grinning impishly at their shared joke. Never removing his gaze from her lush lips, he captured her hand in his larger one, which made her feel almost dainty. Holding fast, and with a gentle firmness, he pressed the lacy confection into it.
The tingling sensation wrought by his skin rubbing against her flesh unnerved her. She licked her lips, desperate for something witty to say.
“Uh, thanks.” Deserted by her voice, she squeaked like one of her young charges at the daycare center where she worked. Well. I’ll just be submitting that one to “Quotable Quotes”!
Gladys Bronowski waved at them from the opposite corner. “Excuse me, young man,” she oozed in the most syrup-laden voice Lauren had ever heard her use. “But do you think you might give me a hand with my basket? My old arms just aren’t what they used to be.”
Surprised by the interruption, as though he’d forgotten anyone else was in the room, the gentleman stepped away
“Certainly, ma’am. I’d be happy to.” He gave the crone a polite smile, and tossed Lauren a wink. She felt bereft when his hand left hers, but the emptiness inside her was fast filling with anger and a bit of guilt. The interfering biddy! Lauren cursed her luck for the second time that day. Be careful what you wish for. She regretted begging the cosmos for a chance to have the laundry room to herself.
The man in black hastened to the table, seized his basket, and filled it with clothes from his dryer, then stacked Mrs. B’s basket on his own and strode through the door held open by the salivating Gladys.
Lauren returned her attention to her own washing and, feeling forlorn, put her now pink white load into the dryer vacated by the handsome stranger, and her darks in the one next to that. Retreating to her seat, she saw the beaten-up copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance still sitting on the man in black’s chair. The ding of the elevator told her she’d missed her chance to run into the hall and return it to him.
Love at Large Page 6