Wine&Dine: another romance for the over 40

by L. B. Dunbar

  “Wally!” The sharp snap of a male voice cracks near me, but the heavy panting of the animal and the sound of him salivating over me are my sole focus.

  Sweet mother of all things holy, he’s going to eat me.

  “Wally, get off.” At the sound of the masculine tenor growing louder, and the strict command, the dog gyrates.

  Is he…oh my God, he’s getting off…on me!

  The beast dry humps my hip as I’m able to roll only the slightest under him. My elbow comes up in a desperate but weak attempt to rid him of me.

  “Wally!” Another loud cry and the pressure of the dog releases a bit as he is yanked to the side. I peek through the slats of my fingers shielding my face to see the master attempting to draw this wet heap off me.

  “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” the man questions. His voice sounds teasing despite his concern. “He’s never acted like this before. Bad Wally.” I can’t see his face as the sun shines behind his head, keeping him in shadow while he rambles his apology and reprimands his pet.

  Finally, my body is free of wet fur and bad breath, but I’m afraid to move. A hand comes to my elbow, and I flinch at the tender touch.

  “It’s all right. I just want to help you up.”

  I ignore his offer, pressing my hands into the wet sand and rolling to all fours. His hand comes to my lower back in silent support as I push myself upward to fold back on my heels. My hands rest on my thighs while I continue to catch my breath. My chest aches, and my breathing remains shallow.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t stand yet?” His rich, rugged voice curls around my ear, and I shiver at the sound of genuine concern. I shake my head, drowning in embarrassment because I’ve just been knocked over by a dog. Of course, this man is concerned. He’s concerned I’ll sue him for his wild beast loose on the beach. Unwittingly, tears well in my eyes.

  “Just knocked the wind out of me,” I wheeze, digging my fingertips into my sandy, denim-covered thighs. The man surrounds me in a crouched position. His bare kneecap comes into my periphery. A soothing hand rubs along my spine, crawling under my hair and pausing at the nape of my neck. He massages lightly, and my eyes close. That feels so good.

  We stay in this position for a moment, and my throat rumbles. Did I just purr?

  “Think you can stand?”

  My lids flip open. Sweet lord of licorice, I moan from the touch of a stranger. My heart races, and I scramble to my feet, my entire body shaky. Sounds suddenly register too loud around me. I hear the crash of the waves pelting each other and the harsh snapping bark of the dog who races around us.

  “I hate dogs,” I snip.

  “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over him.”

  I snort, swiping at my damp, sand-covered jeans as I twist out from under his firm hand at my back. “What came over him is him coming over me.” My Southern drawl grows sharp with my irritation.

  “You’re not from around here,” he comments, stating the obvious but also asking as a question.

  I look up at the pet owner.

  And I forget how to speak.

  My breath hitches for another reason other than the blow from his pup.

  The man before me has dark sandy hair and eyes to match. Scruff covers his jaw, a patch a little whiter on his chin. A hint of tattoos wraps around one side of his neck above the collar of his faded red tee. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curls, and he chuckles.

  He’s laughing at me.

  I straighten up and take a painful, deep inhale.

  “You ever hear of a leash?” I snap. His chuckle grows to a deep rumble, and I don’t care for the way the sound travels over my body, making parts of me pulse.

  “Only use them on women.”

  I gasp. Is he serious? He’s kidding, right? What a pig!

  “For sex play, of course.”

  My mouth clamps shut. Oh. My. God. Creep. Get away from me, I think, crossing my arms over my chest. California is not for me if this is my welcome, and I’m ready to step around him, wondering if I can outrun him. Our sides angle toward Denton’s building some fifty feet away, but I’m doubtful I can make the distance over the sand as I’m out of shape. And he’s clearly in shape with his fit legs sticking out from his workout shorts, and lean, muscled arms accentuating a tattoo on his forearm. Not to mention the firm fit of his faded tee, hugging his shoulders and outlining his abs.

  The throbbing between my thighs increases.

  “I’m Garrett, by the way. Garrett Fox,” he offers, extending a hand as if I’d touch him.

  Then something registers.

  The neighbor.

  Garrett Fox.

  He’s seriously hot, in a creepy sort of way. In a I-might-like-to-leash-him kind of way. I wonder if he’d lick me instead of his dog? Which shouldn’t be a thought. Shouldn’t happen.

  Then his dog barks, and my spell on the master is broken.

  With his playful eyes watching me, I decide I hate California…along with dogs.

  3

  She’s hot for a mess

  [Garrett]

  Whoever this woman is, she’s a disaster, but when she looks at me with these soulful eyes, my stomach flips.

  Well, this is interesting.

  Most women blush and giggle when I mention a leash. I’m only kidding. Kind of. I mean, I’ve never collared anyone, but I’m not opposed to any kind of lockdown: handcuffs or straps. Although, this hot mess looks like she’d rather whip me, and it wouldn’t be in any way kinky. Damn.

  Despite her disheveled appearance, she has potential. Those blue eyes match the sky, and her legs go on for miles. With her arms crossed, her breasts truss up, the nipples peaked from the wet T-shirt she’s sporting, thanks to my dog.

  Nice work, Wally. Then I remember he bulldozed her over. I don’t know what came over him. My chocolate lab is normally a sappy wimp, but he took off for this woman like he was ready to eat his last meal. Thankfully, he’s not aggressive. He’d kill her with lapping and licking, not chowing on her. My mouth waters as my eyes lower to her breasts again. Speaking of lapping and licking—

  “I’m Dolores. Denton’s sister.”

  Screeeeeeeeeeech. There come the brakes on anything with this chick.

  “Ah, Denton’s sister. He told me you were coming to stay at his place.” Something about his sister needing a vacation. Their mother dying. Shit. Say something, I internally growl, but words escape me. Her eyes make her look lost.

  I scratch at the back of my neck when she doesn’t say anything either. We stand in awkward silence, neither of us moving. Her attention drifts back to the ocean while she shivers. A strange odor wafts off her body. She smells like a wet dog. Shit.

  “I’m sorry again about Wally.”

  “Interesting name for a dog,” she says, a twang of Southern in her voice. When she isn’t barking at me, it’s a rather sweet sound. She eyes the pup as he races away from us and then back. He looks like a rabid animal with a face too sweet for the wild. His running reminds me I flung his tennis ball, and he didn’t retrieve it. Maybe that’s why he plowed into her. Dolores was blocking his ball.

  Ballbuster.

  I bite my lip to suppress the humor I find in calling her such a name.

  “His name is short for Wallbanger,” I explain.

  Her head nods like she understands me, and a weak grin graces her lips, which are pink and plump although a little chapped. Then her mouth pops open with realization, and I’m thinking of a few things a mouth making such a perfect O could do.

  “Incredible,” she mutters, huffing on the word. Turning away from me, she shakes her head.

  “That’s what she said,” I mumble in retort, but she does not look pleased with my comeback. In fact, she looks like she wants to skewer me, so I cough into a fist to cover the awkwardness as her head whips back to face me.

  Wally circles closer to Dolores’s legs, and she steps back. Her hands lower, palms held outward, as if warding my pup off before he can jump at her again. I’ve neve
r seen him act so crazy. He slips behind her knees, and she steps forward, bumping into me while her attention remains over her shoulder, looking down at Wally behind her. Her hands clutch at my upper arms.

  “You don’t like dogs?” I question, liking the feel of her pressed against me too much despite the wet dog fragrance. Who doesn’t like dogs? Apparently, her. Another comeback rests on the tip of my tongue until her head twists upward, and her eyes meet mine for the briefest of seconds. I can’t take mine off hers, but she averts her gaze quickly and follows Wally behind me, nudging at the back of my legs. My voice croaks when I speak. My tone lower than normal as I focus on her eyes, not looking at mine. “Then that seals the deal. We’ll never have sex because I only sleep with women who adore my dog.”

  Her fingers dig into my biceps, still clutching at me although her eyes narrow. Her mouth falls open even farther, and incredible is the word I want to use to describe her. Incredible things I imagine that mouth can do.

  “Your dog is your barometer for sleeping partners?” she snaps.

  “Well…” I shrug all smug, and then her brows pinch with another thought.

  “As if you’d be attracted to me.”

  Huh. Not what I expected her to say although she’s correct. Wally is a good judge of character, and I’m not attracted to hot messes with disheveled, sand-filled hair who smell like wet dog, even if my dog is the reason for her being messy. Prepared for a snide remark and prepped for the banter, I didn’t care for the self-deprecating insult. She isn’t that bad. I catch her eyes again. There’s something in that azure color—lovely but sad—and I want to dive in to save her.

  I shake my head. That’s crazy talk.

  My heart thumps once, reminding me I’m an ass. Why am I flirting with her? Denton’s sister. Off limits. Shit. I place my hands on her hips and press her back, feeling strangely empty with the release of her body against mine. She drops her hands instantly, swiping them up and down the curve of her hips like she can’t get them clean.

  “Hey, Dorothy, I’m—”

  “It’s Dolores.”

  I stare at her. What?

  “My name. It’s Dolores, not Dorothy.”

  “Okay, well, either way, this isn’t Kansas and—”

  “I’m from Georgia, not Kansas.” Her hands stop stroking her hips, fists forming on each one and then one juts out. Her eyes narrow, and I forgot where I was going by mentioning Kansas. She’s a little sassy, and my body reacts to the fire in her. My dick wants in on some action. Down boy. We already had what we shouldn’t have had last night. I shake my head, refusing to let myself think about how I gave in to Alicia Graystone of all people.

  “What’s the difference?” I ask, knowing full well the distinction between the two states as I’m from a small town about halfway between Kansas and Georgia.

  “Purple mountains majesty, not amber waves of grain,” she snarks. I stare at her another moment, and then I can’t help myself. I laugh. A good belly roll, bend at the waist, hands on my knees laugh. Standing there in her prissy glare, hands on hips, with her Southern drawl, she tried to school me. The laughter is surprisingly refreshing.

  “Are you laughing at me?” she bites again. Her teeth clench as she speaks, and I wonder—when I shouldn’t—if she’d bite me. My dick jolts again, and I’m about to have an issue in my thin workout shorts.

  “No, ma’am.” Her expression sours as I pull up my expired Southern drawl. “I’d have to have a heart to laugh at you,” I explain, still chuckling. “And I don’t.”

  She blinks as her forehead furrows. “Don’t have a heart?”

  My laughter lowers to a dying huff, and I swipe at a tear. I haven’t laughed like that in a long time.

  “Well, then nice to meet you, Tin Man.” She extends a hand, standing too formal for someone who wrestled with my dog in the sand and then pressed against me.

  It takes me a moment to make the connection with what she said.

  Tin Man. Dorothy. Ah, yes, Kansas, but no Wizard here.

  “You’re pretty funny, Dolores,” I say, emphasizing her name as my hands slip into the pockets of my shorts, hoping to disguise what she’s done to me.

  Her lips twist. “Hilarious,” she whispers, before lowering her unclasped hand and brushing past me, heading toward the condo building. “See ya around, Tin Man.”

  My eyes follow her retreat. The sway of her ass in skinny jeans. The hourglass shape of her hips narrowing at her waist. The muscle in her back with her hair piled on her head. I lick my lips.

  Well. Huh. That was interesting.

  4

  Curb Appeal

  [Dolores]

  I’ve been at Denton’s a week, moving from the couch to the bed and then the beach. The triangle repeats, and I find myself sleeping more than anything else. I can’t seem to keep my lids open or the yawns suppressed. Then one morning, the breeze holds a chill, and I tremble. This is California. It shouldn’t be cold, I tell myself. My one sweater isn’t going to be enough, and neither are the knock-off Chucks I bought.

  “Where’s a store?” I ask Denton when I call him. I hate to admit I need him. I’m helpless in my new surroundings. He hasn’t asked me to check in with him, but I feel better pretending he wants me to. For the first time in a long time, he actually asks how I’m doing. He doesn’t rush me away like he used to do when we spoke on the phone. Well, when I spoke, and he pretended to listen.

  “There’s the Grove or Century City, or you could always go down to Rodeo.”

  My brother must be kidding. Me on Rodeo Drive, hardly. I don’t know where any of these other places are located, and I don’t think my concept of a mall matches my brother’s.

  “How about a Target?”

  “No Target, Dolores. Shop at a real store.” There’s nothing wrong with Target, I want to snap.

  “I don’t think I can find those places on my own.” I hate to admit my incapability, but the traffic congestion around here isn’t like Blue Ridge. It’s fast-paced, crowded, and busy, and I don’t trust myself to drive.

  “Take an Uber.”

  I’m quiet for a moment. I don’t want to tell him I don’t know how. We don’t have Uber or even taxis in Blue Ridge. We don’t need them in such a small community. Thankfully, he seems to understand my hesitation and offers me instructions.

  “Download the app on your phone. Use my card for the charges. Then order a driver. It’s actually pretty easy.”

  Maybe for him, but I don’t know how I feel about letting a stranger drive me around an area that’s foreign to me. I’ve heard stories. What if he turns out to be an ax murderer or worse? I quiver with the horrid possibility.

  “I can call Garrett and ask him to help you.” My brother’s the one to hesitate this time, and I shake my head even though he can’t see me. I haven’t seen Garrett since our literal run-in on the beach. I’ve heard Wally bark once or twice, and it’s the only sign he’s in the condo next to me. Then there was the other night and the sounds coming through the wall.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. I’ll figure it out.” I run a business, I tell myself so I can download a freaking app.

  Only I don’t find it so easy as I stand on the curb outside Denton’s condo in my jeans, a light sweater, and canvas shoes, freezing. When did it get so cold? My fingers tremble as I try to download the app, which seems to be taking a long time to load. As I wait, my phone pings in my hand.

  Tonight.

  I stare at the singular word.

  Rusty. It’s about damn time, I want to curse, but realize with sadness the request implies he doesn’t know I’m not in Blue Ridge.

  I’m not home. I text back, fingers trembling on the reply.

  When you get home.

  It’s rare for Rusty to reach out to me. Typically, I’d go to Ridged Edge, the biker bar just outside of town, and find him there with some of his club friends. We’d play this cat and mouse game where he’d circle like he hadn’t seen me and then he’d come
in for the kill and ask me to go home with him. We didn’t date. We fucked. My lips twist as I admit the truth and stare at his command. Doesn’t he know where I am?

  I’m in California.

  Three dots appear and then disappear. Then a question pops up. What the fuck you doing there?

  There are so many ways to answer this question and so many statements to make. Has he not realized I’m gone? Has he not noticed my absence? Has he not missed me? With all that happened in the past month, does he not understand my need to leave? I can answer all those thoughts without asking Rusty. No. No, he does not realize, notice, miss, or understand anything about me. We have no emotional tie to one another. Well, at least he has no emotional tie to me. I, on the other hand, have given my body to this man for nearly a decade which has pulled my heart along for the bumpy ride.

  Staying at my brother’s.

  I thought your brother was here. I can almost hear the sharp intake of his breath with this comment.

  Strange how he knows Denton is in town but doesn’t know I’m not.

  Sorry to disappoint you. Although I’m certain he’ll believe the disappointment is mine. I’m not itching to get laid, but a little physical comfort would be nice.

  The thought makes me pause. Since when has sympathy ever come from Rusty?

  Only disappointed I won’t get to taste your sweet—

  I look away. Not exactly a romantic gesture or declaration of missing me.

  “Whatcha doing?” The teasing tone curls around my ear, and I sharply inhale. Only my nostrils fill with the fresh scent of a male. Manly, bayberry, and woodsy. I might not have noticed him sneak up on me, but what I do notice is how close he stands. As if I could lean back, rest my head on his shoulder, and relax into him. Instead, I stiffen.

  Why am I having thoughts like these about someone like him?

  A leash. I choke on the reminder of our first meeting. Garrett Fox might be hot, but he’s a sex-fiend and obviously a player. Already have one of those, don’t need another, thank you.