by Vicki Batman
“Hattie?” He tapped the tabletop with his finger. “Tell all.”
“Fine.” I set my butter knife on the plate and wiped my hands on the napkin. “But I say justifiable. I told Ms. Smarty Pants Barbie, Tracey was Jonson’s No. 2 wife because nobody—and I mean nobody—messes with my sister, especially him.” I took my fork and punctuated the air like I stabbed Jonson Leggett the Third in his heart.
Allan nearly choked on his drink. He set his glass on the table, swiped his mouth with his lap cloth, and coughed. “S-Second ex-wife?”
I nodded and bit into the bread.
“I’m missing something. Are you saying Jonson was married before Tracey?”
“Duh, didn’t you read the papers? Didn’t your mother tell you?”
“Okay, sometimes, I skip the paper when I’m super busy and”—his brow narrowed—“don’t you dare repeat this. I can tune out my mom.”
“No way.” Shocking it was.
“If you ever say a word, I’ll deny everything.” He grinned.
Why did Allan have to smile in such a sexy lazy way? He was way too suggestive. I cleared my throat.
“What did Barbie do?”
“At first, she looked sad, her face all droopy like she would cry. Then, as if smacked with a divine revelation, she leaped all over Jonson like fleas on a homeless mongrel. She had no idea he was married two times before and wanted to know why he implied otherwise. My take—he lied.”
His left brow lifted. “Jonson, my friend—not—lied by omission.”
“Big time. A big fat whopper.” I slid my wineglass along a row of checks. “Maybe he’s a borderline sociopath.”
“Hmm. Most people disclose their marriage background when they begin dating.”
“Guess Jonson wanted to avoid anything which could impinge his reputation and prevent him from dipping into the Fenster family wallet.”
“Surely, someone said something before now.”
“You’d think.”
Allan recrossed his legs. “He has a charming way as narcissists do. Anyway, she's better off knowing before the wedding instead of later when he divorces her.”
“How do you know he'll divorce her?”
He made a “huh” face and shrugged. “He's got a pattern. He’s a serial divorcer—”
“Serial divorcer—what a funny word.”
“It fits.”
“Miss A., my boss, would agree with you. We discussed the sanctity of marriage.” I frowned. “She looked unbelievably…appalled when I told her about Jonson’s prior vows. She has hard and fast opinions about the sanctity of marriage.”
“Speaking of”—he put a slice of bread on his plate—“what are your beliefs on, uh, marriage?”
My face grew hot. I had a hard time looking at Allan. I stared into the depths of my wineglass. “At first, looks attract two people to each other. They like what they see and feel, and lust comes into the picture.”
“Kinda like us.”
I rolled my eyes. “But to stay together, two people must have values they respect and a willingness to compromise and work together. But most of all, no lying. Ever.”
The waitress set the garden salad in front of us. Not very imaginative, but fresh, not bagged, assorted lettuce, a few curls of carrots, a token tomato slice, and garnished with one black olive. After a liberal dose of ground black pepper and light zing of salad dressing, but no extra cheese, I picked up my fork and took a bite, relishing the zesty tang.
Allan stabbed his tomato. “Very wise assessment.”
“Some people say commonalities, too. Like us—”
He raised one brow. “As far as I know, no us.”
His serious eye-look wasn’t working on me. I pointed my lettuce-loaded fork his way. “Just for an example, say we’re together. We both like movies.”
He speared his fork in the mixed greens, giving it a go-over before eating. “I tolerated your romantic comedies.”
I rolled my eyes a second time. “One time. One time we watched something I preferred. I don’t savor the blood-and-guts police dramas you favor. Sarcasm in case you were wondering.”
Allan set his utensil on his plate and wrapped his fingers on the glass’ stem. “I think we were teenagers when we watched one cop show. If I recollect correctly, your mother called, and you hid the remote.”
I giggled. “My plan all along. No channel surfing.”
“It worked.”
Our lasagna arrived. Setting my hands on either side of my plate, I stared at the hot yumminess, ignoring our marriage conversation for the important stuff—eating. I inhaled all the tomatoey, garlicky goodness and dived in. No talking, just appreciating.
I saved half a portion for dinner the following night, because everyone knew pasta tasted better the next day and because I needed tummy room for dessert.
Allan and I negotiated and shared a good-sized wedge of chocolate cherry cake with a fudge-y frosting.
I polished off the last swallow of the white wine with a shoulder lift. “Mmm. I feel better. No hostilities toward you.”
“Then, my job’s done.” He set his empty glass next to the dirty dishes. “Anything else?”
“No.”
“I’m shocked. You ate like a horse.”
“Ooh, a compliment from the sainted one.”
“Cut that out. You know I’m not ‘saintly’ anything.”
“Your mom and my mom think so.”
Allan frowned and switched to drinking water.
I should quit harassing him. “Thank you for saving me from Ms. Yolanda.” I folded my napkin. “You didn’t have to be so rough.”
“You know, I’m sick of how every time we do those stupid dance lessons, everyone stares. I’ve never seen so many eyeballs, except fake ones in the Halloween punch.”
“Please.” I snorted. “You know why.”
He canted his head.
“Allan, you’re no dimwit.”
His foot grazed my ankle.
I jiggled. “What—”
He did it again only harder.
“Hey, stop.” I narrowed my eyes into viper slits. “What’s going on?”
“Just trying to get your attention.” He bounced his brow. “So, who’s the dimwit now?”
Right. He’s playing Mr. Non-Nonchalant. I drank some water, then folded my napkin. “It’s possible, you’re trying too hard, bud. You had me at ravenous.”
Standing, he tossed money on the table. “We’re wasting time, sweetheart.”
Oh boy. A twinkle in the eye plus footsie under the table equaled romp in a bed. I asked coyly, “Where to?”
“How ’bout your place? It’s…closer.”
My favorite plan. A small, secretive smile shaped my lips. I looped my handbag over my arm.
Like a perfect gentleman, he aided me in scooting from the banquette, then covered my shoulders with my coat.
As I found my way to the front door, his hand glided across my lower spine and rested, sending my heart into palpitations. Girly giggly bubbles burst inside me. Now? Now? Now?
Outside, an old-fashioned streetlamp lighted our way to his truck. At the passenger side, I paused only a moment, and in the small space of time, I moved within his arms and brushed a light peck across his jaw, sensing stubble rough my lips. I liked what he offered and wanted—desired—craved more.
After his arms wrapped around me, he tilted his head. “Try messing with me again, young lady, and I won’t be responsible.”
Mighty pleasing invitation.
He asked, “So straight to your place or your car first?”
Oh boy, his idea sounded better and better. I stepped in his truck.
He rounded the front end and climbed in, too.
“Would you mind”—I gave him a sideways smile—“if we picked up my car first? Otherwise, we might get silly texts from friends.”
He chuckled. “No problem.”
I grinned back. After starting the car, he reversed out the lot, shifted into ge
ar, and drove back to Ms. Yolanda’s. Not long later, he slotted his 4-Runner next to my Jeep in the studio’s parking lot.
Someone took pity on Jenny and gave her a ride home because I didn’t see her standing on the curb, tapping her foot in an “about to blow my top” manner. Before I exited, my gaze met his.
His hand covered mine and squeezed.
Whatever magic dancing in his eyes had me bending his way and kissing him. He cradled my body against his chest, his hand cupping the back of my head before drifting along the column of my neck and to my shoulder. He pulled me tighter. Our long, luscious, and lovely kiss promised everything—everything a man and woman wanted from each other.
Him. Only him.
And sex. Like, sex without Allan’s phone interrupting.
Our kiss deepened with intensity and responded with meaning and depth to sear my heart.
Allan threaded his hands through my hair.
I tipped back my head, and small moans escaped my throat. Swirls occupied my brain. My girl parts thrummed.
“I can’t believe,” he said, his breathing heavy, “I let you talk me…into dropping you off…first.”
His fingers toyed with a hair strand at my temple and followed the length to the ends. God, his touch brought incredible intimacy.
I extricated myself from his arms. The corners of my mouth quirked, even though he most likely couldn’t see my expression in the low lights. I exited the truck and walked to the Jeep’s passenger door, where I powered open the locks. “Won’t be long. I promise. I'll be right behind you.”
Something white lodged under my windshield wiper blade caught my eye. I tugged and unfolded the paper: Told you so.
Jenny. I laughed and flapped the missive at Allan. Inside my car, I turned the engine over, adjusting the temperature knob. With longing and anticipation in my heart, I looked his way only to see him slap his phone to his ear.
Holy crap. A sinking bottomed in my belly. So not good.
A nanosecond later, he mouthed, “Sorry.”
Duty. His goddamn duty called. In a flash, everything—every emotion, every sensation, every feeling—circled down the drain to pool in my feet. I pounded the steering wheel. No. No. NO!
Disgust, coupled with disappointment, filled my throat. I wanted to curse like a sailor and, certainly, ram his truck with mine. But not really. I wouldn't want to injure my Jeep baby.
He shifted his vehicle into Drive. He barely looked at me as he drove away.
Nobody would be surprised. When work summoned, Allan was Johnny-on-the-spot.
And I was Josephine-in-the-dump.
Damn. I flopped against my seat and fanned my face. Would sex with Allan ever happen?
I shifted my car into gear and pointed her home. “Sorry,” he’d said.
A kernel of gloom and doom rooted in my belly. Yes, indeedy, I was sorry. He was sorry. The whole universe was sorry. Are we ill-fated romantically?
Chapter Ten
The next day at Wedding Wonderland, I carried a load of cleaning supplies to the front entry. My cell buzzed. I fumbled for my phone in my coat pocket. A fast glance at caller ID told me who phoned—ma mère. Like I wanted to talk with her right now. However, ignoring her would be futile.
With all the wedding stuff, she’ll never leave me alone. Never.
With a sigh, I dropped the roll of paper towels and window spray at my feet. I connected, shoving my phone under my chin. “Just a minute.”
I grasped the bottle of window cleaner and tore off a few towels. I spritzed the door’s glass inset. “What, Mom?”
“You don’t have to be so rude,” she said.
I polished the entry door window to a streak-free shine, just like the product claimed. “Mom. I’m working. You’ve got to stop calling me about Tracey and Stuart’s wedding.”
“You’re so contrary. We have important things to do.”
Mom’s “contrary” remark ruffled my feathers, but I wouldn’t engage her. “For example?”
“I have a question.”
“Only one question?” She undoubtedly had drafted a long, long, looong list to consult.
No reply.
Lordy. “Fire away.” While she chatted on and on and on, I admired my work and shifted to pretty-up the glass in the second door. As I wiped, I saw a truck slotting into a spot next to the handicap sign positioned in front of the store. I stared harder and grimaced. Not an ordinary vehicle, in fact, a Toyota 4-Runner in granite driven by the man I didn't have a rendezvous with last night, thanks to his almighty cellphone. My non-sex bedtime whatever—Allan.
I straightened my spine. The dirty rotten rat. This morning, Allan sent an early stupid text with one solitary word—“Sorry.” The man needed better communication skills. “Sorry” sounded so lame, like lame with a capital “L.” He better have stashed an apology up his sleeve. A big fat one. And flowers. And an expensive handbag would be welcomed, too.
Because his device wasn’t available for my use, I squashed the compulsion to run over mine with my car. Doing so would require buying a new one with money I couldn’t waste. Am I trending toward violent tendencies because of him?
He exited his vehicle, looking past his truck to the street. He wore a navy suit, red tie, and black Oxfords.
Adding his car plus good looker plus business clothes, I didn’t have a hard time determining Detective Allan Wellborn hadn’t come for a social call. No sir-ree, “business” was written all over him.
I opened the right door and sprayed a cleaning product on the outside glass. Mom’s “Hattie” in my ear shifted my focus back to our conversation. Dumping her could be difficult. In my whole life, she left conversations when she wanted to. Considering the subject—Tracey—and the upcoming tying of the knot, she would be hard to shake.
“Hey,” I mouthed, pointing my finger as he stepped to the sidewalk in front of the store. I paused long enough to take a little sidelong look at Allan, pointing to my phone. “Mom.”
He nodded and walked away.
I slanted an under-the-eyelash look. Getting no nookie required major punishment, and tormenting Allan would be very satisfying, like playing a wicked game of Twister. I said, “No, Mother. I won’t try on wedding gowns for you.” I slid another sideways peek.
Instantly, his eyes morphed into lizard-like slits. The smallest tightening to his jaw indicated what I said had unnerved him. Ha. I loved watching him squirm.
After a long pause, he relaxed and pretended not to listen while fingering the reproduction limestone façade surrounding the next-door store’s windows.
Serves him right after all the things he’s done to me, the biggest one being the lack of a stupendous orgasm.
I gave my sport another “go.” “Yes, Mother, I agree. A good style for my figure. I like the lace over the see-through underwear look. All my valuable body parts would show through. Very sexy.”
Mom screamed loud enough for the entire universe to cover their ears. “Hattie, what are you saying? Are you and—”
Allan couldn’t ignore our conversation. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped, nearly slamming into the concrete under his feet. Undoubtedly, he heard more than he wanted and advanced closer to the men’s shop, probably easing his way to the parking lot.
“Mom, candlelight satin will be a better match for my skin tone. White is just too-too…white. Not everyone can pull it off. I’m sure Allan will be happy with whatever I pick.”
A grim, flat-lipped look slowly replaced the stunned one on his face.
I choked back all so I wouldn’t laugh. I turned sideways to add, “Okay, I’ll find something soon, and remember, pink is my favorite color.”
I dropped my phone in my white Wedding Wonderland jacket pocket. I so didn’t have anything to say. We pretty much covered all over tango lessons and dinner. Well, except for the playdate part.
He bent closer to the haberdashery window. A beat or two later, he looked at me.
I glared at him with my hands on my wa
ist and my foot tapping.
Straightening, he broadened his shoulders, and with determination, he returned to Wedding Wonderland, halting in front of my toes.
Somehow, I managed not to do an about-face and ride out of town. I focused on Allan’s shoes. Shiny, highly polished, expensive black oxfords. Eventually, I roved my gaze over his legs in his “authoritative” spread stance to the black belt with the silver buckle circling his waist, to the knot of his blood-red tie, and finally, landed on his face, trying to determine why he came to call.
Yup. His stare read “Detective” and “Detective” meant business.
“Hattie.”
“Allan.”
“Nice coat, Miss Hattie.” He ran his finger across my name embroidered in pink on the left shoulder of the jacket. “You look…professional.”
“The general idea.” I jerked the front placket into place, making his arm fall to his side. “What’s cookin’?”
He bobbed his head. “I need to speak with you.”
“About business or about no pleasure?” Rising to my toes, I pretended to peer behind his back, then rocked to my heels. “You didn't bring a box of chocolates or a bouquet; therefore, business.” I lifted my brow. “Am I right?”
“What you are is a smart ass.”
His finger returned, skating a long, very slow trail over my jaw. I suppressed the urge to moan like a woman in heat.
“It's important, sweetheart.”
“Oookaaay, saintly one—”
“Knock it off.”
Touchy, touchy. “Sorry. Out here or inside?”
He looked through the window into the store. “Anyone else here?”
“Not right now. Miss A., the owner, drove to the hardware store, but she’ll be back shortly. We need light bulbs and a few other things. Pretty funny how she’s always misplacing the hammer.”
He said, “Let’s go in.”
“Fine. But don't call me sweetheart.”
He barely curled the corner of his mouth. “Yes, sweetheart.”
Rolling my eyes, I pulled open the door and paused to collect the cleaning supplies. Allan hadn’t been in the store before now, which gave me another opportunity to torment him. He-he-he. “Dying to see Wedding Wonderland?”
