by Mary McNear
“Oh, Cal,” Billy murmured, a worried frown line appearing between her eyes.
“No, it was okay. I didn’t lose it. Not completely, anyway. And when I confronted her, she was . . . she was so in control.” That was Meghan, cool under pressure, right up until the end, he thought to himself. It was one of the things that had first attracted Cal to her, when he’d met her on a job right after he had moved to Seattle. That night, though, there was a part of him that had wished she would crack a little. She didn’t. Instead, after he’d said he was leaving, she’d followed him upstairs and, being careful not to touch him—she’d understood, intuitively, that he wouldn’t tolerate that—she’d tried to reason with him. Tried to minimize the damage she’d done and rationalize her reason for doing it. She wasn’t parent material, she said, and she never would be. Her own parents had been cold and distant. Besides, she’d argued, her and Cal’s life together was so good without children. Why would they want to risk disrupting that? And their careers would suffer, especially hers. Having children would interrupt the momentum they’d worked so hard to build. Cal had tried to shut out what she was saying, but in the time it took him to throw some clothes into a suitcase and let himself out of the apartment, he’d still heard enough of it.
“I don’t understand something, though,” Billy said. “If you hadn’t found this out that weekend, how was she going to explain it when she didn’t get pregnant?”
“I asked her that,” Cal said. “Later, in a calmer moment. I asked her how far she was willing to carry the charade. She said she was hoping, over time, to convince me that we would be happier without children. The crazy thing, though, was that if she’d told me from the beginning she didn’t want children, I would have understood. I don’t know if I would have seen myself having a future with her, but I wouldn’t have judged her. By keeping it from me, and then, of course, by outright lying about it, she undermined our whole relationship.” What he didn’t say to Billy was that somehow, over the last month, his bitterness toward Meghan had dissipated. Was Butternut or Billy responsible for that transformation? Then again, he couldn’t really have had one without the other. He smiled at her, and she smiled back, a tentative though still lovely smile.
“The thing is, Billy,” he said, stroking her fingers, “your not telling Luke is very different from Meghan’s not telling me. You’re a parent with a child you’re responsible for. And there were, and still are, a lot of unknowns about contacting his dad. But more important, you’ve told him now. And you and Luke will work it out together.”
She returned the pressure on his hand. She took a sip of her wine, but it looked to Cal like she’d lost her appetite. Most of the spaghetti carbonara sat untouched on her plate.
“It’s good cold,” Cal offered, indicating her plate.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s delicious. I think I’m just too tired to eat. I didn’t even know that was possible for me.”
“You need a good night’s sleep more than you need dinner,” Cal said, releasing her hand. He stood up and reached for her plate and his. She tried to help him, but he waved her back down. She sat there contemplatively while he cleared the table and put the leftover spaghetti into the fridge.
“Don’t do any more, Cal,” Billy said when he started to load the dishwasher. “I’ll finish up in the morning.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. Come on. I’ll walk you to the door.” When they stood in the open doorway, facing each other, she swayed against him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t very good company,” she said.
“As far as I’m concerned, you’re always good company,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.
“I’m going to bed early,” she said. “What about tomorrow, after I get home from the library? I don’t expect you to cook for me again, but maybe we can get something at the Corner Bar.”
“I’d love that,” Cal said, running the back of his hand over her cheek. What he really wanted to do more than anything right now was take her in his arms, carry her into her bedroom, and tuck her into bed. But he thought it might be misinterpreted. So instead he said, “Good night. And Billy . . .”
“Yes?”
“You’re a good mom. Don’t forget that.” After he gave a waiting Murphy a pat on the head, he left, closing the door softly behind him.
CHAPTER 26
That night, Billy slept deeply, and the next morning, she awoke feeling utterly refreshed. As she stretched out on her sun-stippled bed, with Murphy lolling on the hardwood floor nearby, she thought about her dinner with Cal. Talking to him last night had been a good thing. Was she still worried about Luke? Still feeling guilty about withholding information from him? Still anxious about how Wesley would fit into all of this? Yes, yes, and yes. But as she gave herself the customary five minutes between the time her alarm went off and the time she got out of bed, as she lounged against the pillows and watched a breeze lift and then lazily drop one of the sheer white window curtains, she remembered the way Cal’s fingers had skated over her cheek before he’d said good-night to her. The way he’d smiled that sexy-as-hell smile at her before he’d closed the door behind him. And it came to her then with a fierceness that shocked her. She wanted him. God damn it, she wanted him. And the fact that a whole day now separated them from each other seemed to her as absurd as it did unfair.
Somehow she survived it. Although as she made polite conversation with patrons, checked books in and out, and generally tended to all of the other responsibilities her work demanded, Cal was never far from her mind, and neither, for that matter, was what she wanted to happen between them that night. She called him on her lunch hour, and somehow her tone of voice or her choice of words when she invited him to come over that evening must have conveyed her desire for him, because no sooner had she gotten home from work than the phone rang.
“Billy?” he said. “I’m on my way over. I’ll be there in about five minutes.”
“So soon?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I know you said six, but I can’t wait that long.”
“Okay,” she breathed, her heart pounding.
“And Billy?”
“Yes?” she said.
“Remember that dress you wore to the wedding?”
“I remember it. It’s hanging in my closet.”
“If it’s not too much trouble . . . do you think you could put it on?”
“Now?”
“Yes, I love that dress. And one more thing? But only if you . . . don’t mind. I don’t want to be too demanding here.”
“What?”
“Your freckles. I know you like to cover them up. But if you’re wearing any makeup . . . could you take it off? I want to see them. Every single one of them. I love them, Billy.”
She hesitated, puzzled, as always, by his fascination with something she’d spent a lifetime trying to hide. “All right, fine,” she said. “I’ve got to go, though.” She hung up and started racing around the house. She plumped the couch pillows, kicked one of Murphy’s chew toys into a corner, and piled the soaking dishes and pots from the night before into the dishwasher. Then she headed for the bedroom, moving a little unsteadily since she was taking her clothes off on the way there. She kicked off her sandals, peeled off her blouse, and wiggled out of her skirt, flinging them willy-nilly as she went. No matter. She’d pick them up later. Right now, she was focused on one thing and one thing only: Cal. He’d be here soon. And she needed to bring her freckles out of hiding and put that dress on before he walked through the front door.
She arrived in the bathroom dressed only in her bra and underwear, her breath coming fast, her hands shaking slightly as she stood in front of the sink and turned on the faucet. But she picked up the soap and, staring into the mirror, scrubbed her face clean of any makeup. When she was satisfied that it was all washed away, and that each of her freckles was proudly on display, she turned off the water, patted her face dry with a hand towel, and rushed into the bedroom, stubbing her toe on the door fr
ame in the process.
“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” she said, grabbing her injured foot in her hands and jumping up and down on the other foot. “Damn it, damn it, damn it,” she muttered, hopping over to the closet and rifling through its contents. She’d hoped to find the dress neatly encased in dry cleaner’s plastic, but no, she must not have taken it in after the wedding. There it was, trapped between a frayed cardigan that had once belonged to her grandmother and a jean jacket she hadn’t worn since college. She pulled it out and studied it critically. It looked . . . it looked fine. A little wrinkled, maybe, but there were no stains on it, though that wasn’t that surprising given that she’d been at that wedding reception for less than fifteen minutes.
She slipped the dress off the hanger, unzipped it, and stepped into it. And as she hurriedly tugged it up over her body, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Why did Cal like this dress so much? she wondered. It was so plain, so conservative. And then she remembered something her mother, bless her heart, had said to her once when she’d taken her shopping for a fancy dress. “Sometimes, Billy, less is more.”
Maybe Cal believed that, too, she thought, reaching around behind her for the zipper. She struggled with it a little, her hands sweaty with nerves and excitement. But when she’d worked it halfway up, the zipper got stuck, and no amount of cajoling on her part could get it any further. Oh, what difference did it make? she decided finally, abandoning it. Cal was just going to take off the dress, anyway, wasn’t he? And as if on cue, the doorbell rang. She heard Murphy bark and gallop excitedly to the door. She ran out of the bedroom, barefoot and half-zipped into her dress, only to stub her other toe on the bedroom doorjamb.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said to no one in particular, hopping down the hallway, this time on the other foot. But when she passed the mirror over the hall table, she stopped and looked at herself. Big mistake. Her hair was flying everywhere, and her freckles . . . She leaned closer to the mirror. Her freckles were not just on view; they appeared to have multiplied. Multiplied and expanded. They were colonizing her entire face. She was so horrified that, for a moment, she almost went back to her bureau for her pressed powder compact, but the doorbell rang again, startling her. She turned away from the mirror and, walking the few remaining steps to the door, yanked it open.
As soon as she saw Cal, she forgot about everything else. The unzipped dress, the flyaway hair, the mysterious reproducing freckles. Even the throbbing pain in her most recently stubbed toe. She forgot about all of that now because of the way Cal was smiling at her. It was a smile that could take off a woman’s dress, and she half expected to feel the zipper sliding down the rest of the way of its own accord, powered by nothing more than the sheer sex appeal of the man standing on her doorstep.
“Are you going to invite me in?” he asked, still smiling as he bent to pat Murphy.
She nodded mutely and stepped aside. When he came in, he shut the door behind her, backed her up against it, and kissed her, a slow, simmering kiss that she never wanted to end. Just when it was starting to heat up even more, though, he pulled away from her and asked, “Do you have a bedroom?”
“I think so,” she said, slightly dazed. She took his hand and pulled him down the hallway. But Cal kept stopping and kissing her, so that they ended up navigating the hallway blindly, feeling their way to her room. When they reached it, they stumbled to the bed. Then, before she knew it, he was lying beside her, still kissing her, and running a hand up her back, feeling for the zipper on her dress. He found it and fiddled with it. It was still stuck.
“Just break the damn thing,” Billy said through their kiss.
“Really?”
“Positive.” But instead, he reached back with both hands and, with astonishing deftness, worked the zipper slowly, miraculously unsticking it.
“Hurry,” she whispered as he started to slide the dress off her. This was happening, she thought. This was really happening. After two false starts, they were actually going to do this. And she was ready, wasn’t she? She mentally reviewed her readiness. She was wearing her favorite bra and underwear, navy blue with cream-colored lace edging. Plus she’d remembered this morning to put on the perfume Cal had told her he liked, the Chanel Gardénia. She’d touched it to her wrists and her throat. But Cal, running a hand up her thigh, reminded her of something. “Oh no,” Billy said, sitting up on the bed.
“What?”
“I forgot to shave my legs in the shower this morning,” she said, scrambling over to the edge of the bed. “I’ll be right back. It’ll take me five minutes. Ten tops.”
But Cal reached over and ran a hand up one of her bare calves. “Your legs feel fine,” he said. “Come here.”
She held up two fingers. “Two minutes, I promise,” she said in a placating tone.
Cal shook his head. “Billy, if you leave here now, this is never going to happen. Because in the time it takes you to shave your legs, a meteorite will crash into Butternut, or a tree will fall through your bedroom ceiling, or a swarm of locusts will descend on this house. I’m serious,” he continued when she smiled. “I’m actually starting to believe that the universe does not want us to make love to each other.”
And Billy, looking over at him, sighed. The man had a point. “Come on,” he said, his hand encircling her ankle. “You can shave your legs later. Hell, I’ll shave them for you later. But right now, you need to be here, with me, on this bed.” He patted it with the hand that wasn’t holding her ankle and smiled at her, a slow smile that made her insides quiver. Still, she wanted everything to be perfect. Or at least as perfect as possible. Having razor stubble on her legs would make it . . . well, less perfect. She tried to explain this to him now. He looked unconvinced, though.
“Billy, it doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to be . . .” He searched for the right word. “Real,” he decided. “And trust me, real, in this case, is going to be pretty goddamned amazing. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I’ve never waited this long to be with someone I’ve wanted before. And I’ve never wanted anyone as much as I want you right now.”
“Really?” she whispered, feeling an odd sensation, a simultaneous heat and chill sliding through her whole body.
“Now come over here,” he said, tugging on her ankle. “And let’s relax. When you’re ready, we can make imperfect, but still amazing, love to each other.”
“Oh, all right,” she said, laughing. She came back over to him and lay down next to him, and when he kissed her, she kissed him back. It was going to be okay, she thought, settling into his arms. It was going to be better than okay. She liked him. She liked him a lot. She might even be in love with him, as improbable as that seemed given how short a time she had known him. Still, he was kind, and funny, and sweet, and sexy. Oh God, he was sexy. And the way he kissed . . . with a slow intensity that made her practically squirm with impatience in his arms. He caressed the skin on her shoulders, her arms, her back as, with infinite patience, he eased her dress down to her waist. She moved her hands to his hair and ran her fingers through it, tugging on his curls, which she knew he liked.
Now that she’d worked through all her layers of self-consciousness, she found herself possessed of a new fearlessness. “Let’s take this off,” she said, pulling his T-shirt up over his head and exposing his smooth, suntanned chest. She ran her hands over it eagerly, hungrily, and then followed her hands with her lips, kissing his neck, and collarbone, and shoulders, wanting to touch and taste all of him at the same time.
He let out a little groan as her lips brushed over his chest, but then he hesitated. She felt an indecision settle over him. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
Cal used his chin to gesture behind her, and she turned around. “Oh, I forgot about him,” she said of Murphy. He was sitting beside the bed, his head resting on it, his friendly eyes watching them.
“He’s . . . staring at us,” Cal said.
“Well, maybe. But he doesn’t know what we’re doing,” B
illy said. She started moving her hands and her lips over his chest again. But now it was Cal who couldn’t relax.
“Is he just going to stay there, though, the whole time?” he wanted to know.
Billy sighed. This had never been an issue before. She’d never been interested enough in anyone to let it get this far right here in her own home. She looked at Murphy again. His front paws and his head were both up on the bed now, and he had an eager look in his eyes. The look he got before Billy threw the tennis ball for him. He wagged his tail and let out a little bark. “I think he thinks we’re playing,” she said to Cal.
“Well, we’re trying to,” he said. “Could he maybe . . . go in the other room?”
“Of course,” Billy said. She got up, pulling her dress back on, and led Murphy out by his collar. She took him to the pantry and got a bone off a top shelf.
“Here you go,” she said, giving him the bone. He took it between his teeth, flopped down on the floor, and commenced his gnawing. “Good boy,” Billy said, patting him. She left him there, walked back to the bedroom, and closed and locked the door behind her. Cal was lying on the bed, waiting for her, his hair adorably tousled, his smile unmistakably carnal.