Kiss Me, Stupid

by Shéa R. MacLeod

  “How about siblings?” Tom asked.

  I shrugged. “I have a brother. We’re not close. You?”

  “Only child.” He grinned. “Which is probably what was so disappointing. I think my father wanted enough for a football match.”

  I laughed. “Too bad.”

  “Have you been married?”

  I nearly choked on my wine. “Once, but it was a long time ago. We were both far too young and much too stupid. We’ve since gone our separate ways. It was all very civilized.” Just like our marriage had been. Boring, but civilized. “Have you been married?”

  He shook his head. “Got close once.”

  I leaned my elbow on the table. “How close?”

  He grimaced. “To the altar. She, ah, stood me up.”

  “On your wedding day?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. I mean, believe me, it was for the best. It just didn’t feel like it at the time.”

  “I imagine not, no. I’m sorry, that....” Only one word came to mind. Kate was fond of using it. “That sucks.”

  He chuckled. “It did, but imagine if we’d gone through with it. I’d never have met you.” The way he looked at me made me melt.

  I cleared my throat and took another sip of wine. “And that would have been a tragedy,” I said dryly.

  “Yes,” he said softy. “It would have.”

  I felt myself blushing like a teenager. I toyed with my wine glass, avoiding his gaze. He reached over and took my hand, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. It was soothing and erotic all at once. The flush became a full-body thing. I squirmed a little, not because I was uncomfortable with him holding my hand, but because I was feeling things I hadn’t felt in a very long time. It was a little overwhelming.

  I didn’t refuse when he offered to refill my wine glass. I was a lightweight, especially when it came to wine, but my nerves were getting the better of me.

  Tom twined his fingers with mine. His skin was warm and smooth beneath my fingertips. Electricity zipped through me, stirring up feelings I thought had gone to sleep a long time ago. I decided I was going to enjoy the night, this one night, whatever happened.

  “You’re so beautiful.” His voice was a husky rumble.

  “Thank you.” I didn’t even blush, but inside me something glowed hot and bright.

  He leaned closer, and I swayed toward him. His lips found mine, and the whole world faded away.

  Chapter 10

  I’M NOT SURE WHAT WOKE me. It was early, the gray light of pre-dawn just beginning to trickle through the blinds. I frowned. This wasn’t my bed.

  I turned my head to find someone else lying next to me. Nope, definitely not my bed. I struggled to remember what had happened, but it was foggy. I hadn’t had that much to drink, had I?

  I started counting. There was the wine at the pub. Two glasses. No, wait, three. Wine had a tendency to go straight to my head. Then vague memories of a walk, making out, lots of kissing. A living room. More wine....

  Tom. I was at Tom’s house. I blushed as things came back, vivid images of what Tom and I had been up to. Had I really done that with a jar of honey?

  I closed my eyes, wishing it all away. I opened them. Nope. Still in Tom’s bed with Tom sleeping next to me, his arm wrapped around my middle.

  I struggled to feel guilty, but I didn’t. I was a little sore in places that hadn’t gotten exercised in a good long while, but other than that, I felt amazing. I glanced at Tom again and reminded myself not to get carried away. Just because we’d slept together didn’t mean we were an item or anything. I couldn’t imagine a guy like him being interested in a woman my age. Not long-term anyway. It was... impossible. There was no use pretending otherwise.

  A glance at my watch told me if I didn’t move my behind, I was going to be late for my photography class. I needed to get home, take a shower, and collect my camera equipment. Seeing Owen no longer held any appeal, but the class was important. This was my future we were talking about, and while the temptation to stay in bed with Tom was strong, reality won out.

  Quiet as a mouse, I lifted up his arm and slipped out of bed. Snatching my clothes off the floor, I ducked out of his room and into the hallway, where I got dressed as quickly as I could. I was in dire need of the loo, but I didn’t want to wake him, so I scribbled a quick note thanking him for dinner and telling him I had an appointment. I couldn’t help adding an X after my name, even if it was a bit silly.

  I grabbed my handbag from the middle of the living room floor and let myself out his front door, wincing at the slight squeak of hinges. I took the steps to the ground floor two at a time and hurried out onto the street. I turned left toward the nearest Tube station, but a glance at my watch told me it was so early the Tube wasn’t even running yet. The first train to Guildford from Waterloo Station was at five. If I grabbed a cab, I could just make it.

  The memory of Tom’s face above mine popped into my head. Somehow I was going to have to forget about him and how he made me feel. And I definitely couldn’t allow myself to imagine a future together.

  Chapter 11

  “INTERESTING SUBJECT, Deb.” Owen’s voice was cool to the point of being downright chilly.

  “Um, thanks.” What else was there to say?

  A shot of Tom loomed on the wall, his smile beaming down at us. I felt that same stir I did every time he was near. The picture was from that day viewing properties, with me pausing now and then to snap random photos of him until I no longer felt awkward.

  Okay, that was a lie. I’d still felt awkward, but it had been fun. Tom had made it easy. He’d teased and joked and cajoled until I was laughing so hard my sides hurt. I’d taken a lot of pictures of him. How could I not? He was gorgeous.

  Even better, we’d found the perfect flat. It was a one-bedroom on the top floor of a sunny yellow townhouse not far from where Kate’s friend, Chloe, lived. Because it was essentially in the attic there were exposed beams and interesting ceiling angles, garret windows, and cute little nooks and crannies. I loved it even though the kitchen was the size of a postage stamp and the bathroom was even smaller. It was, in a word, perfect. I’d already signed the paperwork to move in in two weeks. I was nervous since my house had only just gone on the market, but Tom had assured me everything would work out fine and for some reason, I trusted him. At least about the housing situation.

  “He’s hot,” Pixie mumbled, staring up at Tom plastered across the classroom wall. “He your boyfriend?”

  “Uh, no. Just a friend.”

  Owen’s eyes narrowed. Was he jealous? A small part of me was thrilled at the thought. I mean, let’s get real, it always felt good to know other people found you attractive. My more practical side wasn’t convinced. After all, Owen hadn’t shown much interest after our initial few meetings. Mild flirtation was not a gauge of true interest. And, frankly, I no longer cared, regardless of what happened with Tom.

  Carefully schooling his expression, Owen pointed out a few technical tidbits that would have improved the photo. As I scrawled notes in my binder, Pixie leaned over and whispered. “Please. As if you could improve on perfection. Way to go, girl.” She leaned back in her seat and smugly twisted the diamond stud in her nose.

  At the end of class, Owen gave us our next assignment. “Deb, would you stay a moment, I’d like to speak to you.”

  Pixie waggled her eyebrows meaningfully before slipping out the door. The men didn’t even notice. They were too busy talking about the latest cricket match.

  My heart beat a little faster. Was Owen going to ask me out again? Was he going to apologize for his behavior the night of Tom’s party?

  “Are you dating Tom?” he asked as soon as we were alone.

  I blinked at his blunt tone and even blunter words. “I don’t see that it’s any business of yours, Owen.”

  “Actually, it is my business. Tom is a good friend of mine. He has a bright future ahead of him. He does not need some washed-up cougar panting after him.”

  My
eyes widened in shock. Had he just called me a cougar? A washed-up cougar? If I’d been the sort to get into fights, I would have punched Owen in his smug face. Instead I grabbed my bag off the table and walked out without a word.

  SEVERAL DAYS AFTER Owen’s nasty little comment, I was still smarting. Every time I thought about Tom, I heard Owen calling me a cougar. Tom had texted me the morning of the class, but I’d been avoiding him. I just couldn’t get past the “cougar” thing. I was supposed to meet him that day to review some offers on my house. I knew it needed doing, but I wasn’t ready to face him yet. Probably should have thought of that before refusing his calls. I cringed when I thought of the whole mess. I really did know how to put my foot in it.

  I decided to get out and take some photos. It was the perfect day for it, gloomy and overcast. It suited my mood exactly. So I sent Tom a text claiming I wasn’t feeling well and then turned off the ringer on my phone. I didn’t mention our night together. I reminded myself it was a fling. Keep it professional. A case of closing the barn door after the horse was gone, I supposed.

  I wandered through town, snapping shots of half-timbered buildings and old brick storefronts, close-ups of Victorian lampposts and street signs and the odd flower dancing in the light breeze.

  I hopped the bus to Guildford Castle and strolled the grounds, taking shots whenever something inspired me. The crumbling stone walls and arched windows provided plenty of inspiration. I snapped candid photos of tourists which I knew would look stunning in black and white. I tried to remember all the things about light and shadows and angles I’d learned in my classes. Sometimes I applied them. Sometimes I just went with what felt right.

  It was odd, that. Going with my gut instead of my head. How often did I do that in my life? Not often. The day I’d quit my job. The day I’d signed up for the photography class. The day I’d asked Tom to be my estate agent.

  Taking another shot of the keep, I reminded myself I wasn’t thinking about Tom. I was focusing on my work today. Taking in some fresh air, looking toward the future, not daydreaming over something that could never be. It was ridiculous to think it could.

  A pub beckoned from the edge of the river, so I tucked my camera away and wandered inside. A fire was burning low in the grate next to the door. A couple of old men wrapped in woolen scarves sat next to it, sipping pints of ale. They didn’t even glance my way, so focused on their animated discussion of something political. Or maybe it was the footie. It was hard to tell.

  In a corner across the room, a couple were holding hands and smiling at each other with sappy expressions, completely ignoring the glasses of wine in front of them. I reached into my bag, pulled out a camera, and snapped a quick shot. They didn’t notice. It was a perfect tableau of romance, and something twisted in my gut. I wanted that.

  “You gonna take our picture, lass?” one of the old men cajoled.

  “Sure.” I flashed him a smile and took a couple shots of the two old guys as they raised their pints to me.

  I took a spot at the bar and ordered fish and chips. After licking the last bit of grease from my fingers, I once again braved the gloom of the day, on the hunt for more pictures.

  As dusk began to fall, I made my way back home somewhat reluctantly. The day had been a perfect slice of aloneness. Home meant facing the real world again. I dreaded seeing the texts from Tom. I was certain he’d be angry or, even worse, hurt. Honestly, I deserved whatever horrible things he had to say to me.

  Putting off checking my phone a bit longer, I uploaded the photos to my computer and sorted through them. The best I would put up on my website after processes them, including the one of the couple in the pub and the two old guys with their pints. I smiled at the cheerful expressions on their wrinkled faces, the utter look of contentment with life. I wanted that same feeling. And I also wanted the emotion I got from the couple. That blissed out, totally in love feeling.

  With a sigh, I turned the ringer back on. I realized I’d missed two calls from Tom, plus a couple of texts. He hadn’t left a message when he called, but the texts said it all.

  I don’t understand why you’ve been avoiding me. Can we talk about this?

  And we do need to talk about the offers on your house as soon as possible. If you feel you can’t work with me anymore, I understand and can refer you to another agent.

  I thought I’d feel relief that he was being so darned noble and gentlemanly about the whole thing. Instead I felt a hollow ache inside.

  I shot him a text. I think it’s best I work with another agent. Thanks.

  I cringed as I sent it, but I didn’t see any other alternative. I stayed up late that night processing and uploading my photos and trying not to think. But the hollow ache turned into a sharp stabbing pain that wouldn’t go away.

  Chapter 12

  THE NEXT MORNING I awoke to dozens of comments on my website. Compliments about the pictures and inquiries into either buying prints or hiring me to take photos at an event. I was stunned. I didn’t even have that many people following me. And then I saw the first few comments and grinned. Kate. Of course. My guess was she’d rallied everyone she knew and then some.

  Once Adam left a compliment on one of my photos, site traffic took off like a hot rocket. Midmorning, the website crashed temporarily before the company was able to get it back online. I was grinning so hard my face hurt, but deep inside that sharp pain still stabbed away like a hot poker.

  That afternoon my phone rang. The caller ID said it was Tom’s office. I told myself to be a big girl and answer the darned thing.

  “Deb, hi, this is George White. Tom Rutledge asked me to take over for him?” The last sentence ended on a question.

  “Hello, George. Thanks for calling. I understand there are some offers on my house.” I kept my tone cool and professional. I had no idea how much George knew, but judging from Tom’s behavior, I imagined it was little to nothing. There was no need to be embarrassed. People changed agents all the time for lots of reasons. Right?

  “Absolutely. There are three. Would now be a good time to go over them?”

  “Yes. Please do.”

  By the end of the day, I’d accepted an offer on my house with the contingency that we closed in thirty days, which was fine by me. I was moving into my Notting Hill flat in two weeks, come hell or high water.

  I opened a bottle of wine and toasted the sale as well as the success of my photography. But the celebration felt hollow and empty.

  OVER THE NEXT COUPLE of weeks, I determinedly dodged Tom’s calls and texts while packing up my entire home, a place I’d lived for nearly ten years. I was going to miss Guildford, but I couldn’t wait to begin my new life in Notting Hill.

  It wasn’t that Tom was going stalker or anything. He called twice, sent three texts. That was the first week. The second week I didn’t hear from him at all. The last text he sent was, I want to talk this through. The ball’s in your court.

  So far that ball was still sitting on the court like the proverbial elephant in the room. It wasn’t right for me to leave him hanging, but I made the excuse that I was busy.

  In addition to moving house, I had also booked a couple of portrait sessions and a wedding. I had no idea what I was doing, but what was that old saying? Fake it ’til you make it. And I was doing that in spades. Without a professional portrait space to use, I informed my new clients I specialized in “candid shots in unique venues.”

  One of my clients was a writer friend of Kate’s who specialized in horror. He loved the idea of having pictures taken on the grounds of an old church among the grave markers. He’d been so excited over the shoot, he’d invited along half a dozen people to watch. It was sort of awkward, but I went with the flow, and the pictures turned out better than I could have imagined.

  Kate had also suggested I set up an online shop and sell prints and notecards of my photos. I’d gotten it up right away, and already I’d sold half a dozen prints and a couple packs of notecards. Business-wise things were loo
king promising, and moving day was right around the corner. The only gray cloud on my horizon was having to deal with Tom. Dread had taken up residence in the pit of my stomach, but I kept putting off the inevitable...until it came knocking.

  It was the day after I’d officially moved into my Notting Hill flat. The house in Guildford hadn’t closed yet, and there were still a few things there I needed to deal with, but essentially I was now an official resident of Notting Hill.

  I’d been out buying lining paper for the cabinet drawers and was just starting to line the ones in the kitchen when there was a knock on the door. I frowned. I wasn’t expecting anyone.

  Laying down the paper and scissors, I hurried to the front door and swung it open. Tom stood on the stoop. His expression was grim, his eyes brooding. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in a while. Join the club.

  “Deb. I know I said I’d leave you alone, but we need to talk.”

  I swallowed. It was time to face the music. I swung the door wide. “You’re right. Come in.”

  Once he was inside, and the door shut behind him, I started to speak, but he interrupted me. “I think I deserve to know what happened.”

  “What do you mean?” I wanted to kick myself. I prided myself on being a woman who didn’t play games. “I mean, could you be more specific.”

  He ground his teeth. “Sure, I’ll be specific. I thought we had a great time that night.”

  “We—ah—did,” I admitted.

  “So why did you refuse to answer my calls? Why’d you cancel on me and request another agent? And why have you been avoiding me ever since? This is bollocks, Deb.”

  “You’re right. You don’t deserve that kind of treatment, and I’m sorry.”

  “So, why?”