Wine&Dine: another romance for the over 40

by L. B. Dunbar

  What is she doing out here?

  I glance up at the building before us. On the Go is an old railcar turned diner. If I hadn’t been aimlessly staring out the window of my hired car, thinking of her, while we wound down this side street, I would have missed her standing on the walk, melting under the rain.

  The past few days have sucked dog balls. Dolores has completely ignored me, avoiding our daily walks. It surprised me at first how much this agitated me. I didn’t realize how much I looked forward to four o’clock each afternoon until she wasn’t there, rolling her eyes as she pretended to be inconvenienced in her busy day. I like her sass.

  She’s been avoiding my phone calls as well. I’ve missed the teasing banter and flirtatious innuendos of our nightly chats. It’s been surprisingly refreshing to talk on the phone, but her current silence cuts deep.

  I hate it.

  Because I miss her.

  She didn’t seem to hear me as I approached, covering her with an umbrella. Her attention remains fixated on the diner before us. She’s so wet, and I don’t mean that in a sexual tease. I struggle to remove my suit coat even though I know it won’t be enough to warm her up. She’s shivering.

  “Sweetheart,” I repeat. “Whatcha doing out here?”

  She remains silent, misty air emitting from her nose. Her lips are bluish, and her skin looks pale.

  How long has she been standing here?

  It’s purely by chance we turned down this street. Traffic is a beast. People cannot remember how to drive in heavy rain. The day is dark because of the storm, matching my mood. I’m wound tight as a deal I’ve made wasn’t going as planned. The initial investment was minimal but enough to get the product started in a mass-production plant. On the first day, the equipment stalled, and maintenance isn’t coming together to repair the line. I’m furious although it isn’t directed solely at the management team.

  I’ve bounced from my office to the plant, so I have a driver today, and I was headed back to the city. I’d spent too many nights home alone, thinking of Dolores and our kiss. Her mouth is made for sin, and I realized that the second we separated. She’s a genie in a bottle, and I want to let her out. I’ll give her anything she wishes.

  The sensation had been coming on slowly. A sense of not liking to be separated from her. Our daily walks haven’t been nearly enough. I like hanging out with her. Then we had our date, and the kiss fucked it all up. I had planned to meet up with a few friends downtown tonight, hoping to blow off some steam. I don’t intend to fuck a woman. I cut off Alicia the day after Dolores and I kissed although, in hindsight, I dropped Alicia weeks prior to that night.

  “It looks like my diner,” she finally speaks, interrupting my thoughts, and a breath I’d been holding for days releases, like setting free the oxygen trapped in a balloon. “But not really.”

  I want to reach for her and draw her to me. Her shivering freaks me out, but I’m afraid she’ll shatter into a million pieces if I touch her.

  “How does yours look?” I work to keep my voice steady. I don’t want her to stop speaking, even if all she does is describe her place.

  “It’s old. Worn down. Like me.”

  “You aren’t old,” I say with a chuckle lacking humor. Taking on a more serious tone, I add, “You aren’t worn down, either.”

  “My diner has this drab paneling that’s cracked in places, and tile floors that don’t look clean even after I scrub them. The chrome is dull. The kitchen dated.” Her voice fades, but I sense her mentally checking off the things she doesn’t like about her business. “I never had the money to fix it up. I didn’t consider it run-down until Denton returned.”

  That bastard. What did he know? He told me he hadn’t been home since he left at eighteen. What a way to treat his family.

  “He’s right, though. It’s dated. Like me. Like my clothes. My hair. My everything.”

  “Dolores,” I say, softening my voice as I touch her chin and force her to look at me. That’s when I notice the tears streaming down her cheeks like the rainwater against the windows of On the Go.

  “Why are you crying?” My voice remains low, level, concerned. She seems so strong to me, so I don’t understand.

  “I’m crying?” she asks. “I can’t remember the last time I cried. I didn’t even cry when my mother died.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Her mother’s death, which she’s hardly mentioned, must have been weighing on her more than she thought. She’s been holding it in. Then her brother’s comments about her business. And this trip across the country. No wonder she was a hot mess when I first saw her. Okay, Wally may have been part of the issue as well, but still…

  “You haven’t cried about your mother?” I ask, and the saddest blue eyes I’ve ever seen look up at me. Deep lakes and drowning oceans did not compare to the depths of those hollow eyes and the sorrow filling them. She shakes her head, and I can’t take the distance any longer. My arm envelops her, drawing her against me.

  “I miss my mother,” she says into my chest, and then the real shaking begins. Soul-rattling sobs occur against my chest. Her hands come up to cover her face, and I struggle to balance the umbrella over her while keeping my coat on her shoulders and my arm around her back.

  “Shh,” I soothe. “It’s okay to miss her.” I don’t know how to comfort her other than to kiss her rain-soaked hair. Waterworks on a woman is my weakness, but she’s not using them to play me. She’s not crying because we’re breaking up or I canceled a date. She’s legit crying over something that has nothing to do with me—and I’m heartbroken for her.

  The rain continues, and the pelting spray near my ankles has soaked my pant legs. Dolores continues to shiver and sob against me, and I realize I need to do something.

  “Fuck it,” I say as I collapse the umbrella, feeling the downpour cascade over both of us. I scoop her up and jostle her once to get a better hold on her. “Hold on, sweetheart,” I tell her, and she wraps her arms around my neck. Her cold nose nuzzles against my skin.

  I walk us to the waiting car and set her down to guide her inside. The second I close the door, I pull her back to me, tugging her onto my lap and tucking her head against my neck. I bark out my address to the driver. Screw my day. I’ll handle the production plant later.

  With Dolores on my lap, her wet attire seeps into my dress shirt and suit pants. A chill comes over me, but it’s nothing compared to the cold of her skin. Her nose is ice against my neck. I reach for her hands lying limp in her lap.

  “You’re freezing,” I say, kissing her forehead. She doesn’t respond as the tears continue. Her head remains lax against my shoulder.

  Once we arrive at the condo building, I lead her to my door. It’s an awkward walk as I keep both my arms around her, and half the time, I have my lips pressed to her temple. My mind sends mental messages to hers.

  Don’t cry.

  I’m here for you.

  It’s going to be okay.

  As we enter my place, I take my coat from her shoulders. The suit might be ruined, but it isn’t my primary concern. Dolores needs warmth. I drape my suit jacket over a stool in the kitchen and guide her back to my bedroom. We walk directly into my bathroom.

  Although she’s still crying, she’s unaware. Silent tears are the worst.

  “You need a shower to warm up. I’m going to undress you,” I warn her. “No funny business, okay? Don’t be throwing yourself at me,” I tease, hoping to lighten the mood. Hell, even a fake smile would be something, but she doesn’t crack one bit. Her eyes remain downcast as do her lips, which are almost purple.

  I reach for the faucet and turn the shower on hot, hoping to steam up the room before she enters the stall. Leaving the shower door open, I tend to her clothing. The heavy, water-laden sweater slaps on the tile floor at our feet. That thing must go. Next, I slide her shirt up her torso. Through her soaked bra, I see dark nipples peaked from the cold. I drag my eyes away. There’s nothing sensual about the moment, but my dick isn’t getting t
he memo.

  My fingers find the button of her jeans, and I unsnap, then unzip. The skinny jeans are even skinnier when soaked and adhering to her hips as I struggle to remove them. Eventually, she helps me by leaning against the counter and kicking off her booties. The suede shoes are destroyed. Silently, she pulls off her socks and then takes over to finish removing her pants.

  Holding out my hand, I wiggle my fingers for hers. When she places her hand in mine, I tug her forward.

  “No funny business,” I say, reassuring her I’m not coming onto her. I’d love nothing more than to bury myself inside her in hopes to distract her, but it doesn’t feel appropriate. She nods, acknowledging she heard me. I step behind her and unclasp her bra. I don’t look as I push it forward, and she lowers her arms to release the material. Her own fingers curl at the edge of her underwear, and she slips it downward. I back up, allowing her space. I tell myself not to look, but I can’t help myself. My eyes are drawn to her.

  Her backside is perfectly heart-shaped like I called it before. A tramp stamp covers her lower back, something her rebellious self probably did in college. No one gets tattoos there anymore, but my fingers twitch to outline the design. With a hand on the curving ink, I gently press her forward. I swear I won’t look at any other part of her. I want her under the spray so she’ll warm up.

  “I’ll be right outside the bathroom door,” I tell her, letting her know I’m not leaving while still offering her some privacy. She doesn’t look back. She doesn’t respond. The only sounds are the rush of water from the showerhead and the click of the glass door cutting her off from me.

  11

  Shower me

  [Dolores]

  Once the shower door closes, the tears fall in earnest again. I haven’t cried this hard or for this long as far back as I can remember—not in front of someone else and especially not in front of someone I hardly know. Keeping my emotions to myself has taken years to perfect. James Harrington was the first to teach me this lesson. My heart cracked when he didn’t return the feelings of love I had for him, but it wasn’t fully broken. Rusty finished the shattering with his cavalier attitude about our relationship—or lack thereof one.

  My mother was the one to teach me to keep my feelings in check.

  Never let a man know how you feel. He’ll use it against you at every turn. Spoken like a woman truly scorned, I never wanted to be bitter like her. Somedays, it was difficult to contain my emotions. I’d reveal a little bit of myself, ask for a little bit more from Rusty, and demand a little compassion from my mother. Magnolia tried to sympathize, but she was a woman near eighty, and her Victorian ideals sometimes clashed with the modern era.

  My palms lay flat against the cool tile wall of Garrett’s shower. A glass box on three sides large enough to fit two. Water streams down on me from an overhead rain shower. The droplets burn at first as my skin is colder than I realize. My fingers curl into fists as I can’t seem to control the tears or the wracking sobs in my chest. My heart literally hurts.

  My head lowers, allowing the spray to wash over the back of my neck and down my spine. I want to scrub off my skin and the pain of loneliness that goes with it. I also want the heartache of feeling unaccomplished to swirl down the drain.

  I’m almost fifty, and where am I in life?

  I didn’t hear the shower door open, but suddenly, I sense his presence. Garrett’s like a shadow, one I find comforting and endearing just when I need one.

  “Sweetheart,” he whispers behind me, and I stiffen. I can’t do this right now. I can’t have sex with him, and the tears fall harder. I don’t even know if I want to have sex with him.

  As if reading my mind, his hand comes to my lower back.

  “No funny business, okay? Just…I don’t know how to help. Let me help.” He pauses, his fingers tickling the base of my spine lightly. “Stay as you are, facing away from me. I have my boxers on. Just let me…” His voice drifts as his hand travels up my spine. He reaches around me for the shampoo bottle on the ledge, and I hear the cap snap open. Then fingertips touch my scalp.

  With a gentle massage, Garrett scrubs at my hair, piling it high and rubbing the nape of my neck. He whispers shushing sounds and mutters words of sympathy. I’m here for you. The pleasurable pressure on my head is too difficult to deny, and I willingly let him wash my hair. He guides my body forward and back to rinse the sudsy tresses. It’s messy as it flows down my face, and I swipe at my cheeks to find I’m still crying, but I’m no longer sobbing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, though I don’t know what I’m apologizing for.

  “No need to apologize.” His forehead comes to the back of my head. “Just try to relax, okay?” His hand brushes down my spine again, and then he reaches for the soap. Firm fingers press into my shoulders, thumbs digging into tense muscles, spreading suds across my shoulder blades and lowering to the curve of my ass. He doesn’t slip below a line, staying respectful and courteous. In some ways, I don’t want him to be polite. I want him to take me up against this wall, thrust into me, and make me scream. However, I know seconds after something like that happens, I’ll feel just as empty as I do right now.

  He pushes me forward so the water travels down my back as it rinses the soap clean.

  “The water’s getting cool. Almost ready to step out?”

  I nod, and he reaches around me for the faucet. “Stay here. Don’t turn around.” His sharp tone warns me he’s struggling. I mean, I am a naked woman in his shower. With the shower off, I shiver and fold my arms across my breasts.

  Within seconds, Garrett is behind me again. “Lift,” he demands, and my arms spread. A towel wraps around my back, and I take the edge to secure the thick terrycloth material around me. Garrett spins me to face him, and his hands come to my cheeks. He swipes his thumbs over them and then steps back for the open shower door. When I step out, he points at a large white robe hanging on the back of the door.

  “Put that on. I just need a minute.”

  Reaching for the robe, I hear the slap of wet material hit the shower floor. I will myself not to look as I hear the shower turn back on. I risk a peek to see water streaming over Garrett’s firm body. Rivers slither down his back and spread over his solid ass. He scrubs quickly at his hair and the raised arms flex, displaying his strength. I recall how he carried me to his car.

  “Thank you,” I whisper even though I know my voice doesn’t carry loud enough over the spray. He turns his head to see me still standing in his bathroom, and a sly smirk comes to his lips.

  “Have a seat in my room.” He nods toward the door, but his eyes hold mine. He isn’t staring; he’s begging me to step out.

  I turn away and enter his room. On the stand next to the bed sits a bottle of amber alcohol with a cup of tea next to it. I fold myself onto his mattress, propping up pillows behind me and tucking my feet into the end of the robe. Warmth surrounds me as I brush back my hair with my fingers. I reach for the tea and take a sip. It’s still hot and smells sweet. The taste tickles my tongue.

  “I put whiskey in there. Drink up. It will warm you from the inside.” I stare up at him as he stands just outside his bathroom door. A towel similar to the one I used drapes around his hips, exposing a thick trail of fine hairs to his belly button. He could warm me from the inside out.

  “Thank you for all this,” I say, my voice low and rough from crying. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  Garrett crosses the room to one of his dressers and removes some clothing. “Stay right there,” he commands, not addressing my comment. “Be right back.”

  He returns minutes later dressed in a pair of loose gray lounge pants and a white undershirt. He’s so good looking, I think for the millionth time. He makes sleepwear look sexy. Crawling up next to me on the bed, he spreads out on his stomach and props himself up on an elbow.

  “What were you doing out there?” He isn’t judging me. He’s curious, concerned even. I can’t remember the last time someone worried about me.
<
br />   “I was wandering the city as I’ve been doing for the past few days. I decided I needed to get out and see some of the famous places. I may never get to California again.”

  His brow furrows at my statement, but he remains quiet.

  “I turned a corner, and there was the diner. And it reminded me of home.”

  “And it made you sad.”

  “Sad is the wrong word.” I lower my gaze to the cup in hands. “It reminded me I’m alone. I don’t have anyone. I can’t count on Rusty, and Denton didn’t like the diner. He didn’t intentionally hurt me, but he made me feel like the place was a pit.” I sigh. “He’s right. It is. It needs a facelift, but I can’t afford it, which makes me feel like a failure at running my own business.”

  His hand reaches for my covered ankle. “Hey, none of this. You own a business, right? Is it in major debt? Things happen, but there are always solutions.”

  “I’m not in debt, but I’m not making a killing either. The locals love the diner, but the community is shifting. The brewpub down the way attracts much of the younger people moving into the area. The tourists find my place,visiting the diner nearly as old as the train depot because it seems like the trendy thing to do, but I can’t count on tourists for steady business.”

  My palms absorb the heat from the mug, and I take another sip. My blood slugs through my veins as my body melts into the pillows at my back. I’m starting to warm.

  Garrett’s lips twist like he’s considering a thought. “Tell me more about Rusty.” His tone deepens, a hint of a groan in asking.

  “We’re nothing to tell. Honestly, we have sex. Ten years of only having sex. It’s a small town, and I’m over forty. Hell, I’m almost fifty. When he came onto me, I was vulnerable. He’s seven years younger, and I guess I had the cougar thing going when I met him at thirty-seven.” It sounds pathetic when I think about it.

  “I’ve got no room to judge,” he tells me, jiggling my foot as he gives me a false smile.