Wife for the Weekend

by Ophelia London

  “About what?”

  He waited a moment. “Art.”

  “Yeah?” As expected, her face lit up, but then she narrowed her eyes.

  “I’m well aware you’re not in favor of what I’m doing, the software program. But I think you can help me, if you’re willing.”

  She pressed her lips together disapprovingly, but after a moment, her expression softened. Jules was selfless. If a friend asked for something, she would give it.

  “What kind of help?”

  “Well, I didn’t like your reaction—how you said virtual art isn’t real art.”

  “It’s not.”

  “Okay, I know your thoughts on the matter, but I’m thinking, maybe if I understand art a little better, or maybe an artist’s mind—like yours—the art part of the app will feel more authentic. Believe it or not, I don’t want to turn the world into robots. Computers are useful, and more available to kids who’ll never be able to take an art class.”

  “Kids?” Jules said, leaning forward.

  “Didn’t I mention this is a program for schools?”

  The brightness in Jules’s eyes nearly took his breath away. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “I’ve already earmarked the first version to go to a district in Queens. I’ve done a lot of volunteering there, and—”

  “You volunteer at schools?”

  “When I can,” Dexter said, wondering why she kept interrupting. At least she hadn’t flat-out refused. “I’ve been unusually busy this year, but I think about them all the time. Which is why I want them to get the program first. It’ll have to go to the after-school program initially, because of all the red tape to get added to the curriculum, but it’s a start.”

  “No, that’s…that’s really wonderful. Kids in after-school programs need it the most.” She paused and bit a nail. “Dex, I’m so impressed.”

  He wondered why, but didn’t want to derail when she wasn’t hating the idea, just happy she was on board. “So, will you help me?”

  “Of course! Anything you need. Have you eaten breakfast?”

  “Um, no, but—” He stepped back as she sprang to her feet.

  “Me neither. We have that case of Hershey’s bars from Natalie. Oh! And all those apples your mother brought over last night. I can chop them up and make French toast.”

  “Sounds great. Want me to start chopping?”

  “You shower first, then we’ll switch and you can do all the apple chopping you want.”

  Dexter was about to remind her of the “I shower, you shower” joke, but he already wanted to act on it more than he should. “Okay,” he said instead. “I’ll be back.”

  Even though his muscles still ached from death-by-yoga, plus floor/couch sleeping, and he’d love to stand under the hot water for a solid hour, he was out of the shower, shaved, and dressed in ten minutes.

  “Your turn,” he said.

  “That was fast.” Jules looked up from a pile of half-peeled apples. “You’re in that big a hurry to chop and discuss art?”

  Honestly, he’d been in a hurry to get back to her. He wanted to be with Jules—wherever she was. Admitting that was a little unsettling, and it wasn’t just that he wanted to see her face, that amazing body…most of all, he wanted to talk to her, about art or anything. He wanted to hear her voice, that loud, contagious laugh that bounced off the lake.

  “Chopping apples is my life’s ambition.” He took her knife.

  “Okay, just cut those there into one-inch squares. I kept the skin on half to add texture and color.”

  “You’re even an artist in the kitchen,” he said with a smile.

  Jules smiled back and blushed at him in a way he hadn’t seen since waking up in Vegas. It made his heart full stop.

  “If you finish before I’m done, you can start the syrup. Recipe’s right there.” She pointed at an index card on the table, then twirled and disappeared.

  You shower, I shower, he thought as he heard the water turn on. He was lucky to not slice off a finger as his mind drifted to the gorgeous creature one wall away, separated from him by a see-through shower curtain covered in orange seahorses.

  “How you doing?” she called from the bedroom a few minutes later.

  Dexter looked up from the pot of cubed apples, water and sugar he was stirring. “Coming along.”

  Jules wandered out wearing a denim skirt and gray T-shirt with a faded cartoon of Wonder Woman on the front. “Hmm,” she said, inspecting his work over his shoulder. “Looks good. Can you keep it up for another few? I want to dry my hair.”

  By the time she returned to the kitchen, Dexter was already straining the apples. They were covered in a thick glaze of sugar, brown sugar, and their own natural sugars. He hadn’t had apple-covered French toast since high school. Mom used to make it for him on every birthday. A smile broke out on his face as he thought of that, widening when he thought of Jules suggesting the same meal.

  “You’re good at this.”

  “Just followed the recipe,” he said. “It was three steps.”

  Jules flipped her wavy hair over one shoulder, sending her scent everywhere. “Yeah, but most guys I know don’t have the patience. I’m learning so much about you. What else goes on in that brain of yours, huh?” Grinning, she knocked a fist against the side of his head.

  If she knew what was currently going on in his head, she’d run and hide, lock the bedroom door, then block it with a dresser.

  In private, she’d shared with him about not wanting a long-term relationship, not wanting to lose her independence by falling in love. Dexter’s reasons against the same thing were different, but even his commitment-phobic mind was beginning to see the benefits…screwing with his mind just enough that he still hadn’t booked his flight to JFK, hadn’t answered his phone all morning, and instead was making homemade apple syrup in the kitchen of a sexy bohemian artist he couldn’t get out of his head.

  “Plate. Here’s your plate. Dex?” Jules was holding out a platter of steaming French toast, smiling at him.

  “What?” he asked when her smile quirked.

  “You were zoned out.”

  He took the plate from her. “You wish.”

  She tipped her chin and laughed. “I know a thing or two about zoning out, and you totally were.”

  “Whatever.”

  They moved their plates to the table by the windows. It was after ten, and the sun was bright and warm through the glass.

  “I can’t get over this view,” he said, and before he could drive home his next point, Jules cut him off.

  “I’m knocking down this wall. Maybe tomorrow, if your contractor friend gives the okay.”

  “What did I say?” He gave the innocent eyes. “You’re paranoid, ya know that?”

  She laughed, took a bite, and looked out the window. Dexter took his own first bite, chewing slowly. Jules’s French toast was perfect, but his syrup on top of it tasted a little burned. Maybe it was just that bite. Nope, his next was even worse. He glanced across the table at Jules. She was eating like nothing was wrong, but there was no way she hadn’t noticed.

  “So, I have a few questions,” he said, trying not to gag as he took a long swig of coffee, extra heavy on the chocolate milk. “How long have you been painting? I remember when we were teenagers. You were what—fifteen when you went out with Vince?”

  “Uh-huh.” Her voice sounded nasally, as if trying not to breathe through her nose while she ate. Then she took a sip of mint tea. “I’ve always been an artist. I had the aptitude for it when I was really little. My mom saved drawings from before I could even talk.”

  “But you didn’t go to art school?”

  “Too expensive.” She pushed the food around her plate. “A lot of artists are never trained professionally. That’s probably why I painted so much when I was younger. I knew I needed experience over education. I don’t regret it, though. I’ve developed my own style that I’m really happy with.” Her expression brightened. “I have Grams
to thank for that. I don’t know what path my life would’ve taken if not for her.”

  Dexter moved his plate to the side. “Kind of funny how we don’t realize we’re being influenced until it’s too late. Not in a negative way. Like how Rosy influenced you and my father influenced me, yet we didn’t even know it at first—at least I didn’t.”

  “You’re stressing again,” Jules pointed out. “You were relaxed last night and this morning, but now, your jaw’s clenching.” She reached across the table and pushed the front of his hair off his forehead. “The little vein right here pops whenever you’re stressed. It’s your tell.” She kept her hand on his face for a moment, then let it drop.

  He wanted her to touch him again. He’d give anything for it.

  “I am stressed,” he admitted. “Stressed and sore as hell.” He cracked his neck, then groaned. “Your yoga really kicked my ass. The stress, though, goes with the territory of being an Elliott.”

  “We all need a break sometimes—to recharge. A day or even a few hours, if you can.”

  He laughed under his breath and began stacking their dishes. “Where can I get some of that?”

  “From me.” Jules was smiling and gazing off to the side. “I never renege on a bet. You did an hour of yoga, which means I owe you one full body massage.”

  …

  When Dexter came out of the bedroom, Jules had drawn all the shades so the house was dim and shadowy, even at high noon.

  He’d had plenty of massages at the club after golf or hockey. Never from a woman he knew, however, let alone was crazy-ass attracted to on every level.

  It was probably a very bad idea to get naked, lie on a table, and allow Jules to rub oil all over him.

  But she was right. He was stressed and needed professional relaxation help. Especially now that so much was at stake with his meeting on Friday. Two dozen people were trusting him to change their lives, to be part of something new and great… Risky.

  His shoulder muscles tensed again by just thinking about it.

  “Are you ready for me?” he asked, holding the towel around his waist.

  “I am,” Jules said, using that calming yoga voice that used to drive him bats. “Come in.”

  The living room was just as dark, with the exception of one lamp in the corner, casting a soft red glow from the scarf draped over the shade. Jules stood in the middle of the room. Her hair was pulled back in a knot on top of her head, and she wore all white, a short-sleeved top and long pants that flared over her feet.

  “Is that your uniform? Cute.” Nervousness made him jokey.

  “Shhh.” She placed a finger over her lips and waved him forward.

  She’d set up a table that looked like every other massage therapist’s table he’d ever seen. A white sheet lay over the top and another was folded at the foot.

  This is for your health. Mental and physical. Just forget it’s Jules.

  “Would you like music?”

  “Um, no. I don’t know. On second thought—yes. Music would be great.”

  She nodded and kind of floated to the record player. A few albums were stacked, ready to be played. He expected pan flutes or Gregorian chants, and was surprised when Count Basie at the piano came on. Light, mellow strings in the background.

  He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to say “namaste,” so he kept his mouth shut.

  “We’ll start facedown, if that’s okay?” she said. “You’ll lie here, your face there so your neck will relax. The table is heated. You’ll only need a sheet, which is on the end. After you lie down, pull it up as high as you’d like. I’m turning around while you get ready. Keep the towel on or not. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

  Honestly, Dexter was about as comfortable as when he got his first physical in the seventh grade. But Jules was being extremely professional, and he knew he was safe in her hands.

  Her hands…

  Right before unknotting the towel, he gave it one last thought. Then dropped it, got on the table, pulled the sheet to his waist, and positioned his face in the padded rest.

  “Ready?”

  “Uh-huh,” he replied, his voice muffled as he stared down at the rug. He heard the floorboards creak as Jules walked over.

  “I scented the oil with cinnamon. Men seem to like that, plus it gives the oil extra heat. Tell me if your skin is sensitive to it.”

  The second she touched him, he flinched.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “Are my hands cold?”

  “No—no.” He wanted to sit up and tell her everything was all right. That it was him, not her, who was freaking out like a nervous kid. “You just…surprised me.”

  “I understand.” Jules’s voice was soft and flowy, drifting around the room like all those skirts she wore. “I’m going to touch your hand first. Is that okay?”

  He chuckled. “Yes.”

  “Just checking. Don’t want you jumping out of your skin again.” He heard the smile in her voice, then felt her touch his hand, slide it across his arm until it reached his shoulder. “What kind of pressure do you like?”

  He thought about saying something smart-ass, but didn’t. “Firm.”

  “Like this?”

  Dexter closed his eyes as Jules kneaded his shoulders, pressing in on the left side where she felt a knot. “Yes, that’s good—ow.”

  “You’re a little tender there. Sports injury?”

  “You could call it that,” he said, purposefully monotone. “I’m on my honeymoon.”

  Jules pinched that tender spot again, making Dexter suck in a sharp breath. “Oops, so sorry.”

  She was kneading again, focusing on that knot and the matching one on the other side. She was stronger than she looked, because she was really working him over. It felt great, really relaxing, until he’d remember it was Jules’s hands sliding across his body.

  Chill, dude…chill, he chanted inside his head. It’s just a massage. She’s a professional.

  “My flight’s in the morning,” he said, needing to make conversation.

  Jules’s hands stopped moving. “Oh, yeah?”

  “There were a few messages I needed to check on my phone before I came out. My overworked assistant booked my flight and set up a conference call with my group for three o’clock this afternoon. It’s our final crunch before we meet with the investors. I’ve missed our last three calls.” He paused to chuckle. “If I miss this one, I might as well call off the whole thing.”

  It was a joke, of course. Everything his team has worked for was riding on this final conference call to make their pitch extra perfect, then to kill it at Friday’s meeting.

  “I know it’s important. You won’t miss it,” Jules said, her fingers manipulating his neck muscles, the base of his skull. Damn, it felt amazing. “I won’t let you.”

  “Thank you,” he said, the words coming out in a relaxed exhale. The woman really did have magic fingers, magic hands that worked down his spine. The heated massage bed coupled with the cinnamon oil was suddenly way too hot; so was the damn sheet over him. Her hands? Yes, they were definitely hot, the hottest thing to ever touch him.

  Think of Charles Barkley, his first season with the Sixers. Picture, in detail, that epic dunk over Jordan.

  “Can I tell you something?” Jules’s voice was so quiet, Dexter wondered if he’d imagined it.

  “Sure.” He swallowed and tried to breathe normally. “I’m kind of at your mercy.”

  In more ways than one.

  She laughed, and her hands stopped moving. “It’s something I’ve never told anyone.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jules didn’t know why now was the time she felt like sharing. Or why Dexter was the only person she could share with.

  That was a lie. She did know. It was because she knew him, trusted him—with everything. Plus, she wanted him to know.

  “Are you still there?” he asked, his voice muffled.

  After a nervous laugh,
she unclenched her fists, which were tucked under her chin. “Still here.” She gazed down at his back, each spot that she’d touched now glistening with oil. If she didn’t move to his feet and legs, she’d start on his back again—his lower back—and just keep on moving down…

  Professionally, she’d given plenty of glute massages, and it was never, ever sexual. But this was Dexter, and she could not touch his butt. She felt flushy and giggly just thinking about it.

  “You were going to tell me something?” he prompted.

  She blew out a quiet breath and swiped a wrist across her dewy forehead. Be professional, Jules. If Dexter was actually paying for this, what you’re thinking right now is grounds to lose your license.

  “I sold a painting to a private collector.”

  Dexter didn’t say anything at first, then he pulled his head off the face rest and looked at her. “My instinct says to tell you congratulations, but my instincts are always wrong when it comes to you. Should I just say great, or lose all respect for you for selling out?” He leaned on an elbow. “Is it a good thing to sell to a private collector or not? I need context.”

  “It’s a good thing,” she said, still not having the guts to touch him after all her dirty-minded thoughts. “Sort of.” He gave her an eyebrow arch requesting information. “Lie down. It’ll be easier for me if I don’t have to look at you.”

  He laughed but then went quiet. “Really?” After she nodded, he shrugged and lay back down. The sheet had shifted, uncovering the dent at the top of his…

  She pulled her eyes away and moved to his feet, picking one up and kneading it like it was a batch of the toughest sourdough. “Some artists consider adding to private collections a sellout, particularly if the money is good.”

  “Was your money good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Awesome, Jules. Stickin’ it to the man.”

  “Yeah well, like I said, no one knows about it.”

  “Except me?”

  She stared down at his back, rising and falling with deep breaths. “Yes,” she said. “Except you.”

  “Why? Are you sensitive to what your artist friends think? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  She moved up to his calf, working the muscle on autopilot. “Truthfully, I’m insecure about it. It was good money and he wants three more, maybe a portrait commission—which is kind of a sellout. But what sort of painter am I if I don’t paint?” Unexpected tears clogged her throat and it was hard to swallow. “The goal of every artist I know is to be in an important gallery. I know that’ll never happen to me, and I should be happy with my one painting that is in a gallery.”