Shortcake

by Watson, Lucy

  Except for Mrs. Baker who gives me a stiff nod and turns to Lisa. “Well, in that case, I’ll have the lobster melt, but on rye, not sourdough. Sourdough gives me gas. And with fries. Crisp, not soggy.”

  The server jots it down on her notepad, her brows pulled tight in concentration like she knows there’ll be hell to pay if she gets it wrong. Smart girl. I bet she’s a good student.

  She looks up from her notepad to Betsy with a ready smile.

  “We’re going to split the club sandwich.” Betsy motions to Ada. “On white bread, lightly toasted, please.”

  “Would you like potato salad or fries?” she asks with her eyes nervously flicking back to Mrs. Baker, who’s too busy inspecting the shine on her utensils to notice.

  “Potato salad for me,” Ada answers.

  “I’ll take the same,” Betsy adds.

  Lisa turns her attention to Josie.

  “I’ll have the tuna melt with potato salad.”

  Then she turns to me at the exact time Ben’s forearm rests against mine. And my mind blanks.

  “I’ll have… a cup of… whatever soup you have, please.”

  “Tomato bisque, okay?”

  “That’s fine—”

  “Hodgepodge!” Mrs. Baker exclaims, her beady eyes turning from me to Lisa, the butter knife still outstretched in her hand. “She’ll have the steak sandwich. Medium-rare. And French fries. Crisp, not soggy. Add some spinach to the plate, if you’ve got it. She’s obviously anemic,” she finishes with a flick of the knife to me.

  Ben clears his throat, stifling a laugh. Jerk.

  I clench my teeth and bring the sharp heel of my boot down onto the top of his shoe. And dig. Hard.

  His eyes never waver from the menu as he snakes his hand under the table—his heavy hand circles my thigh, right above my knee. An unwanted jolt of awareness zips through my body.

  Until he squeezes the pressure point. Hard.

  Hard enough for my muscle to painfully spasm in protest. I grit my teeth and dig my heel in deeper, so deep I lift a little off my seat.

  His fingers tighten, increasing my pain to level-seven on the Emergency Room pain chart, an orange frowning face with a single drop of sweat traveling from its forehead.

  I sneak another glance at him. The only telltale my ministrations are working in the slightest is the tight narrowing of his eyes as he studies the menu. But it could just be wishful thinking. Or he needs glasses.

  I’m sure he did some kind of military training for this sort of thing. Me? I’m sure my face is turning bright red—one of the joys of having fair skin. Not.

  Ada catches my eyes, concern creasing her brows. She turns to Mrs. Baker and mutters in an urgent tone, “Dottie, if she wants soup, let her get the soup.” She’s probably mistaking my tomato-red face for anger at Mrs. Baker.

  Lisa’s eyes flash nervously to mine, an unsure half-smile playing on her lips.

  “Steak’s fine,” I say through clenched teeth and a tight-lipped smile.

  I take in a sharp breath through my nose as Ben’s squeezing grip intensifies until it feels like a stampede of Charlie horses on my leg. I fake-cough to keep from yelping. He wins. Damnit.

  I remove my heel from his shoe. His hand instantly ends his assault on my senses. He shoots me a “nice try” wink, closes his menu, and picks up his Sprite, casually taking a sip.

  Lisa finishes writing down my order and turns her attention to Ben, a flicker of appreciation in her eyes.

  Yeah, yeah, he’s a walking DNA specimen for the perfect masculine genetic code, I get it.

  “I’ll take two pieces of chocolate cake.” His deep voice vibrates the air around me, morphing my residual pain into something else. The slight blush on Lisa’s cheeks says she can feel it too.

  I dart a look to Mrs. Baker waiting for her hodgepodge-of-outrage at Ben’s dessert-only lunch.

  Crickets.

  I deflate a little as we hand over our menus. Lisa saves her best smile for Ben as she takes his, which is met with his curt nod of thanks. I watch her deflate a little too. Poor thing. I decide to leave her a giant tip. Not a viral-internet-news-story-size tip, but a good one considering the dwindling digits in my bank account.

  I grab my straw, taking a sip of my disappearing drink, sputtering out a cough as Ben’s hand returns to my thigh.

  This time mid-thigh, and this time he doesn’t squeeze, he just holds it, which is somehow worse.

  Wiping the dribble from my chin, I clear my throat to keep from coughing again.

  “You alright, dear?” Betsy asks, peeking her head around Ben as she sets her wedding planner on the table.

  “Just swallowed wrong,” I choke out, giving Betsy a silly-me-smile I couldn’t be any further from feeling.

  When the Brigade turns their rapt attention to her planner, I lean my shoulder into Ben, my voice a harsh whisper to his profile, “What are you doing?”

  He takes a casual sip of his Sprite, then faces me. His head dips, so close I hold my breath. “You’re a slow learner, babe,” he whispers, his bristly beard brushing against my cheek. “You touch me, I touch you.”

  My stomach does a series of back handsprings at the rough sensation of his beard and the deep rumble of his voice. I mentally scratch “kiss a man with a beard” off my bucket list.

  Yet another thing he has ruined.

  As if he can sense his latest annihilation, he sits back with a smug freaking look that I want to take a jackhammer to.

  “Thanks for ruining my bucket list,” I whisper-growl with a side glare while angrily stabbing my straw through the ice left in my glass. “Jerk,” I add under my breath.

  “Bucket list?” His brows knit together in amusement, his condescending lips ticking up.

  Yeah, I’m not even going to try explaining that one.

  “Never mind.” I slide my gaze to my glass and continue my ice-assault, looking for a pocket of watered-down goodness.

  “Jesus, woman.” He exhales sharply, and plucks the straw from my fingers, slips it in his drink, then slides it to me.

  I raise my brows while holding his gaze, and bring the tip of the straw to my mouth. Then I take a long sip of his Sprite without so much as a single thank you. Because I’m hardcore like that.

  His gaze slides to my mouth.

  Ada’s soothing voice draws my attention. “When the time comes, my grandson paints the most amazing nursery murals you’ve ever seen. Magical forests. Cinderella. Fire breathing dragons. You name it.” Pride shines in her chocolate-brown eyes. “He’s a real professional with an office girl and everything.”

  “He’s such a talented boy,” Josie adds.

  “So talented,” Betsy chimes in from the end of the table.

  My eyes flash to Ben who’s fighting back a grin while making napkin origami.

  My ears heat and prickle at the topic. Judging by the way their eyes always seem to flicker to my stomach, I’m pretty sure they think I’m newly pregnant and this is an old-school shotgun wedding.

  “Thanks. I think we’re going to wait”— for hell to freeze over— “awhile before we start a family, but I’ll totally call him when we’re ready. He sounds awesome.”

  “Better not wait too long. You’ll miss your window,” Mrs. Baker calls out while eating a dinner roll.

  Where the hell did she snag a dinner roll?!

  Ada turns to her. “Women can have babies well into their forties now, Dottie. Look at Janet Jackson. She had a baby at fifty.” Her eyes slide to me with a wide smile. “I just love that Janet Jackson.”

  Before I can tell her that I love Janet too, Mrs. Baker says, “Just because you can have a baby willy-nilly doesn’t mean you should.”

  Josie catches my eyes. “You’ll know when the time is right.”

  Can this conversation get any more freaking awkward?

  Betsy peers to me around Ben, who sits further back with an amused smile on his asshole face, and says, “Do you have twins in your family? I always wanted twin
s. You guys would have the cutest twins.”

  Apparently, yes, it can.

  Mrs. Baker turns her beady gaze to Betsy. “All you had to do was eat yams.” She turns to me. “You want twins, eat yams. A lot of ’em. I don’t know if it works for Gypsies, but it wouldn’t hurt.”

  “I don’t think they like to be called Gypsies, Dottie. It’s offensive,” Josie says to Mrs. Baker, then turns me with an apologetic smile.

  Ben rubs his mouth to stifle a laugh.

  So glad he’s having fun.

  Mrs. Baker mutters under her breath about a Gypsy curse while buttering another roll. Do I picture cutting the brake lines in her mobility scooter? Yes. Yes, I do.

  Time to change the subject.

  I take in a breath and turn to Ada. “I love Janet Jackson, too. She was my idol growing up. Even won first place in my eighth-grade talent show with her Rhythm Nation routine.” I continue with a teasing smile, “I’m sort of a big deal…” I leave out the part where I puked on Mark Henley backstage and was later crowned Exorcist Emmy by the entire class. Good times.

  “Oooh, how fun! Saw her do that live on her World Tour in ninety-three.” Her eyes widen and her face lights up. “I just had the best idea,” she exclaims and turns to Josie. “Wouldn’t it be a hoot if she came to the center and taught it to us?” Her gaze jumps back to mine. “We’re so tired of line dancing. And this would be so much fun!”

  “It’d be a kick!” Josie exclaims.

  Feeling sort of lightheaded with everyone focused in on me, I race through the different ways I can say no without saying no.

  “Well, it’s been a long time… I’m not sure I even remember the choreography—”

  I take in a sharp breath when Ben’s suddenly snakes an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into a side hug, jostling me a bit.

  My eyes slice to his. I’m sure my surprise is reflected in them. The glint in his sets my pulse on warp speed.

  Nothing good ever comes from Ben touching me.

  My eyes narrow.

  The corner of his lip ticks up. “You were just saying how much you wanted to get out of the house, honey.” His voice drops. “Plus, you love to dance.”

  A blinding image of me grinding against Jesse fills my mind.

  “You should do it. It’ll be fun.”

  The way he draws out the word fun makes me fume.

  I’m done.

  Done.

  I force a smile and snuggle closer to him, resting my hand on his toned stomach, feeling his muscles tense under my touch.

  I turn my eyes to the ladies with a crafty grin. “Better yet…” I give Ben’s solid lower stomach a little rub-pat along the bumps and ridges because I think it’s pissing him off and say, “We’ve been looking for something to do together, and this would be perfect.” My mock-adoring eyes lock on his. “Right, baby cakes?”

  His jaw hardens. His hand covers mine, stilling my rubbing ministrations. His gaze bores into mine as the ladies exclaim their excitement in the background.

  “My George loved to dance.”

  “A couple that dances together stays together.”

  “That’s right.”

  My smile widens. “Hear that? A couple that dances together stays together.” My body zings in triumph, having won my first battle since the pink-parachute-panties incident.

  I turn to the ladies. “Count us in.”

  The joy on their faces makes it almost worth it.

  “Wait ’till we tell the girls. They’re going to be over the moon,” Ada exclaims.

  I glance up to Ben. His raised forehead vein says he is not happy. At all. Good.

  My smile fades as his head dips toward mine, and his lips part—no doubt readying the words that will effectively steal my thunder.

  As a nurse, I do my best work under pressure. As Ben’s fake fiancée, not so much.

  Before I can think better of it, I do the one thing that comes to mind. I quickly close the distance before he can get a word out.

  And smack my lips to his.

  I kiss him like I kissed Abe Adams in first grade.

  Close-eyed. Puckered. And hard.

  Ben’s parted lips are soft and unmoving beneath my own. In fact, Ben doesn’t move at all. Not his arm. Not his hand. Not his chest. I’m not sure he’s even breathing.

  That would make two of us.

  I crack open my eyes to see narrowed slits of murder aimed at me. I instantly pull back, and try to move from his solid arm, but he tightens it like a vice.

  “I have to use the bathroom.” The lie free-falls from my mouth.

  His stern gaze holds mine for a moment. His jugular pulses violently in his flushed neck. I think it’s safe to say, Ben is not a fan of kissing me.

  Not that I care. He can go ahead and walk around thinking I kiss like the seven-year-old version of myself. That’s just fine with me.

  Ben turns to Betsy. “Can you let us out, please?” His voice seems deeper, sharper even.

  “Sure, dear,” Betsy says as she scoots and stands.

  Ben follows her lead and stands, holding out his hand for me to take. There’s something glittering in his dark eyes that has me stalling for a breath. Something in the stiffness of his posture that causes the skin on the small of my back to tingle.

  I scoot down the booth with all eyes on me and take his hand. His long fingers and broad palm engulf mine. Shooting the ladies a wobbly smile, I stand and go to pull my hand from his.

  His grip tightens. “We’ll be right back.”

  We?

  My eyes flash to his. I remind myself that we’re in a cozy but busy restaurant. Which means witnesses. Which means he can’t kill me.

  But just in case, I turn to the table. “Anyone else need to use the restroom?” In a club, that question would make total sense. We always went in two’s or three’s. Here? Not so much.

  Betsy shakes her head and retakes her seat.

  “Move it. You’re blocking our lunch,” Mrs. Baker exclaims, her eyes focused behind me.

  I turn to see Lisa and a food runner carrying trays. Before I can blink her the SOS distress signal I learned in the article “Ten Ways to Save Your Life,” Ben has my feet moving in the direction of my doom.

  “You don’t have to walk me,” I whisper to his profile. His steps are unhurried, his gait casual, which freaks me out even more.

  It turns out spiked adrenaline is a great cure for foot pain. So, at least there’s that…

  “Let go of my hand, please,” I say with a bit more force, though my voice is still shakier than I’d like.

  His grip tightens as we make our way through the dining room. I try and catch eyes with the patrons eating—you know, for witness reasons—but they’re either too busy looking at their phones to notice or too busy blatantly checking out Ben with their ovaries flashing bright neon “implant Alpha seed here” signs in their eyes.

  My jaw clenches. Apparently, my ovaries are territorial bitches because, it would seem, they think Ben belongs to them. I don’t have the strength to convince them otherwise, so I shoot dirty looks at the drooling women.

  My Alpha seed, get your own.

  As we approach the mood-lit hallway leading to the restrooms or possibly to the Gates of Hell, either one seems feasible right now, my nerves kick up a notch.

  “Your food’s probably getting cold,” I try to reason. He got chocolate cake, you idiot. “I don’t even have to use the bathroom anymore.” Not entirely a lie. “So…”

  He ignores me, releasing my hand as we step into the hallway. I don’t even have time to let out a sigh of relief because that same giant hand immediately lands on my lower back and ever-so-gently guides me forward.

  “I get that you’re mad,” I whisper to his profile. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.” He ignores me. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  Not even a flinch. Not even a blink. Not even one of his signature death glares. Nothing.

  An attractive middle-aged woman in a power suit steps out
of the bathroom. Her keen eyes scan Ben as she moves in our direction. She gives me a “you go girl” smirk while walking past. Power Suit obviously wasn’t class valedictorian, because I’m pretty sure the look on my face resembles Rachel McAdams in Red Eye when she figures out she’s being kidnapped.

  When we reach the bathroom, I dig in my heels and face him, my hand on my hips, my back to the door.

  “Whatever you’re going to do, just get it over with. I don’t have time for your games.” That earns me a glare that drops my body temperature and spikes my pulse.

  Right now, I’d give my left foot for Dolly Parton’s dimpled smile and signature laugh. I’m pretty sure it was used to end the Cuban Missile Crisis, so there’s a small chance it could work on Ben too.

  “Go.” He points to the door.

  “Fine.” I turn and push it open. “But I’m never coming out.” I step inside the spacious single-person bathroom that is now my new home.

  My new home comes with No Doubt’s “Don’t Speak” playing from the overhead speakers. Cool. I love Gwen. And running water, which is always a plus. I’ll have to get my mail forwarded… and change the pine-scented air freshener…

  My thoughts are guillotined when Ben’s hand catches the shutting door as he follows me in.

  Into my tiny new home.

  Which feels even tinier with him standing in it. Thick tension buzzing in the air makes it hard to breathe.

  “What are you doing?!” I take a few stumbling steps backward. “You can’t, uh, you can’t be in here,” I manage to stammer out.

  Without a word, he turns to the door. Budding relief at seeing his expansive retreating back is short-lived when I hear him flip the lock.

  My heart sputters, then seizes in my chest as my mind tries to process what’s happening.

  He’s locked the door.

  Locked the bathroom door!

  Locked the bathroom door with us in it!!

  I’m locked in a bathroom with Ben!!!

  This is not good.

  He faces me, his wolfish gaze tracks me as I slowly back up toward the sink, careful not to make any sudden movements, feeling like I’ve been dropped into an episode of Animal Planet.

  Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I retrace the steps of my life until I come across that single choice that led me to the present day, then I change it. And I live a different life. I have a feeling no matter what different choices I make, what different paths I take, they’ll all lead me here. To this moment.