Book Boyfriends Cafe Summer Lovin' Anthology 2015

by Melinda Curtis

He reached out and grasped her shoulders so their forward momentum didn’t cause them to collide. “Sorry,” he murmured.

  “I was expecting Norma Jean.” The quick start and stop had dislodged a tendril of her hair from the twist she’d hastily pinned up this morning. “My receptionist,” she clarified, swiping the lock back from where it had fallen across her cheek.

  Lauren glanced at her watch.

  “Yes, yes,” the man rushed to say. “I’m early. I called, but couldn’t reach anyone. I did leave a message.”

  Automatically, she peeked around him and saw the red blinking light on the telephone-slash-answering machine-slash-intercom that sat on Norma’s desk.

  “I hope I’m not messing up your day,” he told her.

  Taking a backward step, Lauren smiled. “Of course not.”

  His amazing, blue eyes were the first thing she noticed. He was tall. At least six foot. The black business suit fitted his body well. And his eyes were an awesomely vivid blue. She’d describe him as trim and athletic-looking rather than bulkily muscular. A long distance runner, maybe? And those eyes... They were enough to make a woman’s thoughts go haywire.

  She thrust out her hand automatically. “Lauren Flynn.”

  He shook it, smiling, and that gaze of his twinkled.

  “Scott Shaw. I’m Scotty’s father.”

  Lauren nodded. “Ah, yes. Scott. He called and said he wanted me to represent him.”

  When the man automatically reached for the pocket on the inside of his suit jacket, she told him, “Come on in.” She retreated behind her desk, but didn’t sit. “Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got appointments this morning.”

  He handed her a check and she couldn’t help but notice what neat penmanship he had.

  “Scotty would have brought this himself, but he had class this morning.” His jaw firmed and so did his tone. “He’s going to be focusing on his grades more and partying less. And he’ll be keeping his nose clean. That much I can assure anyone who’s interested. The police. A judge. The Dean. You.”

  Uh-oh. Sounds like poor Scott, Jr. wasn’t in just a bit of hot water with his father, he was in a tub full.

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” she assured him. She set the check on her desk. “I’m on his side.”

  “And we appreciate that, too. Very much.” He tucked his checkbook back into his jacket. “Can you tell me what to expect? When Scotty goes to court, I mean?”

  “Well, I can promise you that your son will get a firm lecture from the judge.” She crossed her arms. “I’m sure he’ll be fined. And depending on who oversees the case, he could get some probation. However, I will do everything I can to keep his punishment to a minimum.”

  The man nodded, his serious gaze never leaving her face. He made her feel as if she were the only person alive at that particular moment.

  “It’s not the court’s intention to ruin Scott’s life over this.” She let her hands fall to her sides.

  “Yes.” He sighed. “They just want to ram home the message that stupid behavior has consequences.”

  “Exactly.” She reached out and touched the check he’d written. “I’ll need your signature on the retainer.”

  “I’d like for my son to sign any formal documents, if you don’t mind. He’ll be footing one hundred percent of the bill for this little escapade. That—” he pointed to the check “—is just a loan.”

  When Scott, Jr. had told her that he had no job and that he was given a weekly allowance, she’d pegged him as spoiled and his father as a pushover.

  “I didn’t mind providing a free ride as long as he was acting like he had some sense. But now...” He lifted one shoulder. “Gainful employment is in my son’s immediate future. I’m paying the retainer because I want him to have solid representation, but I expect him to repay every nickel. And he’ll be responsible for any fees over that, as well.”

  Wow. The man was quickly proving himself anything but a pushover.

  “But don’t worry,” he said, his blue eyes glittering. “If something happens, if he can’t find a job or packs his bags and flees the state before his court date, I won’t let him stiff you.”

  She grinned.

  He shifted his weight on his feet, looking at her desk. She thought he was staring at the check he’d given her and she wondered if he might be having second thoughts about loaning his son the retainer fee.

  Softly, he asked, “So, are congratulations in order?”

  “Excuse me?”

  Scott chuckled, pointing. “I know finalized divorce papers when I see them. If they belonged to one of your clients, the state wouldn’t have sent them here.”

  Her gaze unwittingly fell on the decree; then one corner of her mouth lifted. “That’s true. And I’m guilty as charged.”

  He smiled, and those gorgeous eyes flashed. “So congratulations are in order.”

  Lauren continued to smile at him, not certain how to respond.

  “And I see that, like my ex, you’re a good house keeper.”

  Her smile slipped. Then she saw what he was looking at. She picked up the deed, chuckling at his joke. “Oh, this isn’t for the house.” She found she was blushing as she explained, “I did keep the house. But that was only fair since it was mine before we got married.”

  His brows arched. “A fair-minded woman? Wow. Wish I’d been that lucky. My wife kept our house, our SUV, half the savings and—drum roll, please—half my pension.”

  “Ouch!” Lauren winced.

  He sighed. “Yeah, she sold the house within a year and moved to Atlanta. An up and coming city full of opportunity, she called it. She’s remarried now, and raising kids that are his and theirs, and she rarely calls our son.”

  She’d grown used to listening to people’s woes. For some reason, the public seemed to look at lawyers as they did psychiatrists or counselors; the money you offer for services includes an ear to bend and a shoulder to lean on.

  “That woman is a piece of work, I don’t mind saying. Scotty flies down there to spend a week with his mother every summer.” Scott Shaw’s mouth flattened, then he added, “Whether he wants to or not.”

  Lauren found herself nodding.

  His head cocked slightly as he looked at her askance. “You look like you just put two and two together and came up with four.”

  The smile she offered was evasive. “Just making sense of something your son said when he was here.”

  It’s just my dad, the young man had told her when she’d mentioned his parents. For the most part. Now she understood. Before he could inquire further, she said, “You’re sure I can’t get you something?”

  “No. Really. I have to go.” He backed through her office door as he spoke and she followed him out into the reception area.

  Norma Jean pulled open the front door and called out, “Hello, hello!”

  After shooting Norma a smile and a tipped-chin greeting, Scott Shaw turned back to Lauren. “When you meet with Scotty to go over things, would it be all right if I came along with him?”

  “Sure. If it’s okay with your son, it’s okay with me.”

  He went still suddenly. “And, uh, maybe I could take you to lunch some day. You know—” he grinned wickedly “—to celebrate.”

  The invitation was so unexpected she couldn’t think of a single thing to say or do. Her mouth widened of its own accord, and she saw her hands lifted outward even though she hadn’t given conscious thought to the action.

  “Maybe.” She croaked the word rather than spoke it.

  He winked at her. “I hope you’ll take me up on the offer. It’ll be fun.” He moved to the front door. “I’ll see you soon.”

  After nodding goodbye to Norma Jean, Scott waltzed out the door.

  “Who was that?”

  Lauren turned her attention to Norma, feeling for the first time in many minutes that she could take a nice, deep breath.

  “Mr. Shaw,” she said. “Scot
t Shaw’s father.”

  “The Shaw appointment wasn’t until nine-thirty.”

  Lauren nodded. “He said he tried to call.”

  “He brought the retainer? We’ve got a new client?” She made her way to the front of the office, to the big picture window. “Great. I’ll work up a file.”

  But it was clear her mind wasn’t on office procedure at the moment. She was too busy watching the man cross the street.

  “You going to go? To lunch, I mean? I think you should, Lauren.” She gave a little wolf whistle. “Oh, yes, I think you should.”

  “What’s that you brought?” Lauren asked, hoping the change the subject.

  Norma Jean glanced at the covered dish she’d set on her desk but didn’t move from her spot. “Oh, I made a casserole. For Lew’s dinner tonight.”

  “Well, thanks. That was awfully nice.”

  “Actually, I thought I’d follow you home. We could all eat together. There’s plenty there.” She busied herself unbuttoning and then slipping off her jacket, her eyes still trained out the window. “I had a good time talking with him the other night.”

  “Sure,” Lauren said. “Dinner at my place sounds great. I’ll pick up a bottle of wine at lunch. I’ll put the casserole in the fridge for you.”

  She reached over and picked up the dish, but Norma Jean came over, caught one of the handles and met her gaze levelly.

  “So...you going to go?”

  “Probably not,” Lauren said. “I don’t even know the man.”

  Norma let go and walked to the front door. “You should. That is one heavenly piece of man meat.”

  Lauren just shook her head. “Would you come away from there? He’s going to catch you staring.”

  She hoped she would be as zesty as Norma was when she reached her sixties.

  “No harm in looking.” Her nose was nearly pressed to the glass. “Did you see those eyes?”

  Turning on her heel, Lauren headed for the break room refrigerator as she asked, “He had eyes?”

  She wasn’t surprised that her glib remark prompted no response. Norma was too busy studying the man meat.

  Chapter 6

  I beg your pardon; I was not in the rear of the barn.

  I was in the other end of the barn that faced the street.

  ~Lizzie Andrew Borden

  For the third day in a row, Lauren left the house in a hurry. More like, she’d been shooed out by her father. It was as if the man couldn’t wait for her to get out of the door each morning so he could read the paper in peace or turn on his laptop and start trolling the Net.

  As she pulled out of her neighborhood, Greg was once again pulling in. He offered a quick smile and lifted his hand in greeting, but he passed by before she had time to react.

  The frown between her brows bit deeper the farther she drove away from home. Was this the third time she’d passed Greg on his way to her house over the past week, or the fourth? She tilted her head just a fraction. Could it really be the fifth?

  Who her father visited with was no business of hers. Lauren tried to focus on the day ahead, plan out the phone calls she had to make, the people she needed to see, but her thoughts of work soon scattered.

  She knew her dad and her ex were close, but five visits in a week? That just didn’t make sense.

  Men didn’t normally participate in coffee klatches. They didn’t sit over crullers and hazelnut lattes, dishing the dirt like women did.

  Or did they?

  “Noooo.” She whispered the answer, shaking her head and chuckling as she drew the small word out.

  Men didn’t talk. Not about anything meaningful, anyway. They watched football on TV and discussed the players’ stats. They visited home improvement stores and pointed out the items on their wish lists. They scratched itches and shifted private parts in public. No way were they social enough to participate in civilized, chatty conversation.

  Lauren grinned as she turned onto South Avenue and entered town. She wasn’t being fair and she knew it. She oughtn’t to think that way about fifty one point four percent of the human race.

  Something seemed fishy, though. Five visits in a week. That frown was back, pinching the space between her eyebrows, and a band of tension tightened with enough force to trigger the first inkling of a headache.

  She circled the block, flipping open her cell and punching in Norma Jean’s number to tell her she was going to be late. Lauren tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and headed out of town the way she’d come.

  Greg’s pick-up sat in the drive. She parked behind it. Drywall and crown molding filled the truck bed.

  “Dad?” she called as she entered the foyer. “Greg?” Her heels clicked on the hardwood of the hallway as she checked the rooms in the front of the house. The kitchen was empty, too. She looked out the window and scanned the backyard, making a mental note to rake the leaves that littered the lawn.

  Water was running somewhere and she climbed the stairs, tracking the sound to the main bathroom. The door was open a crack and the shower was running.

  Lauren found it odd that her dad would decide to take a shower while he had a visitor. And where was Greg, anyway? Before the question had fully registered in her mind, the shower cut off.

  “Dad?” She waited, and when she didn’t get an answer, she knocked.

  Just as it dawned on her that her father might not be the person taking the shower, she took a small backward step and the door was pulled open wide.

  Hazy steam billowed into the hallway, and there stood Greg, his slick, wet body wrapped in a towel from the waist down. “Lew’s not here.”

  “What are you doing?” Her tone reflected her utter astonishment.

  He opened his mouth, but he didn’t reply. A fat droplet hovered on his chin. His dark lashes were stuck together, and water ran in rivulets down his neck, shoulders and chest.

  “Getting ready to shave?” He looked guilty, as if he’d been caught with, not one, but both hands in the cookie jar.

  “This isn’t Jeopardy, Greg. You don’t have to pose your answers in the form of a question.”

  Then it registered—the warm, clean scent of him. Blood whooshed through her ears, and she had to fight the urge to close her eyes and inhale deeply. Suddenly, she felt as if she were standing in a pool of bright sunlight, heat permeating every inch of her.

  She blinked and swallowed and took another backward step all at the same time. “Get dressed and come down stairs. We need to talk.” She headed down the hall.

  “But, hold on. Wait. I can’t.”

  Lauren stopped, curious to know what he meant; however, she came face to face with her dad who was trudging up the steps.

  “Where were you? And why is he in your shower?” She pointed to her ex with a jerk of her thumb.

  She looked from one man to the other.

  “If you must know,” her dad blustered, “I was in the basement putting in a load of laundry.”

  “But I took care of your laundry yesterday, Dad. If you’re doing a small load, you set the water level on low, didn’t you?” She looked at Greg. She rested her closed fist on her hip. “Why are you still standing there? Put on your pants and come downstairs.”

  Greg’s dark eyes shifted from her to her dad and then back again. His expression fell as he softly admitted, “I don’t have any pants up here, Lauren.”

  The steam in the bathroom had dissipated completely. He stood half in, half out of the doorway. The smattering of dark curls on his chest was damp, so were the curls on the flat of his belly just above the terry towel loosely tucked around his hips. A small puddle had formed around each foot, one on the hardwood hallway floor, one on the bathroom tile.

  She went completely still and heat rushed through her entire body. Then she turned to her father. “You’re doing his laundry.” It wasn’t a question.

  Something weird was going on inside her. Greg’s state of undress incited a dark neediness low in her gut, but it was all tangled up with the anno
yance she felt when she’d finally figured out what was going on here. She was hot. In more ways than one. The only way to handle willful lust was to pay it no heed and refocus, so she grabbed hold of the aggravation with both hands and used it as a shield.

  Her ex was taking a shower in her bathroom, using her towels and the hot water she paid for, and her father was washing Greg’s clothes in her washing machine.

  Looking at Greg was too dangerous, so she focused on her father.

  “I can’t even get you to do you own laundry,” she said. “What would compel you to do his?”

  “I can do my own wash, thank you very much” he told her. “It’s just that you won’t give me a chance. Stay out of my room, out of my hamper, and I’ll do for myself when the need arises.”

  “That’s a deal.” She walked back down the hallway toward Greg, keeping her gaze directed at the floor as she passed by him. She pushed open her bedroom door hard enough to make it thud into the door stop, snatched up her robe from the arm of the chair, then turned around and headed back out the door.

  “Put this on.” She dropped the robe across Greg’s outstretched arm, keeping her eyes trained on the baseboard, where the wall met the floor. “I’ll see you in the kitchen.”

  Her dad had come up the stairs and now stood in the hall. She brushed past him and said, “You, too, Dad.”

  She heard the bathroom door close on her way downstairs. Letting her hand trail along the railing, she closed her eyes, breathed deep and tried to cool the chaotic heat agitating in her. Anger, resentment, irritation, those were the things she needed to concentrate on. The other stuff, she quickly decided, didn’t even exist as long as she chose to ignore it. And ignore it, she would.

  In the kitchen, she dropped her keys on the counter and snatched up an orange from the wooden bowl. Not because she was hungry but because she needed something to occupy her hands so she couldn’t strangle someone. She passed the orange from one palm to the other.

  “This is my fault, Lauren,” her dad said when he came into the kitchen. “I didn’t actually tell him you knew he was coming. I didn’t say this was okay with you, but, well—” the crown of his head tilted from left to right and his silver hair did a little flop “—I may have given him that impression.”