Blueprints

by Barbara Delinsky

  She should have known that a relationship so slow to develop might, in fact, be more convenient than heartfelt. And that two people coming from such different places might just be too different.

  Whatever, he seemed so comfortable now with his independence that she stopped worrying about him, especially when greater worries came a short time later in a phone call from Claire. “Does the name Barth ring a bell?… What do you know about the company?… Do you personally know anyone there?” Apparently, one of the Barths had contacted her about doing a season of Gut It!

  Jamie was horrified. “A season?”

  “Not this fall or spring, but maybe in a year. I checked them out. They’re well regarded.”

  “But Gut It! has always been a MacAfee show. Are you thinking of switching to an entirely new cast? Because of the hosting issue?” She found it unthinkable, both change and cause.

  “No. This goes beyond that. Alternating crews may be another way of keeping things fresh. There would be continuity, since the Barths are in Williston, too.”

  “They’re not here. Not like we are. Besides, part of the appeal of Gut It! is that we’re women. They aren’t.”

  “Well, that’s a hook that could work to our benefit. It could be a competition between the sexes. Viewers could even vote on their favorite crews. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s awful,” Jamie cried, but Claire was unruffled.

  “It’s certainly something to consider if you don’t want to host. Okay. I just wanted to mention it. Call me when you’re up to it, so that we can lock things in.”

  Moments after ending the call, Jamie was on the phone with Caroline. “It’s a threat, baby,” she soothed, sounding sensible and calm. “She’s trying to intimidate us.”

  “With Dad not two weeks dead?”

  “Claire wants what she wants when she wants it. That’s part of what makes her good on the set.”

  “Well, I’m not hosting. Period.”

  “You’d be a good host.”

  “Not now.”

  “What if the choice is between your hosting or our losing the show?”

  “Hosting is your job.”

  “Yes,” Caroline said firmly, “and I do not like someone saying I’m too old to do it. But we’re not the bank, and if the bank is calling the shots, we may be stuck.”

  The bank? Jamie kept coming back to a single person. “It’s about power for Claire.”

  “Maybe,” Caroline agreed. “Maybe she’s getting pressure from someone above. It could be political, like she botched some other project and fears for her job if she can’t swing this change.”

  Jamie was amazed that her mother could be so casual, given how she had been screwed. “But aren’t you angry?”

  “Only when I let myself really think about why I’m losing something I love. I’m trying not to do that, Jamie. I’m trying to focus on other things I love, one of which is spending time with my daughter. And with her little boy. And in Toys “R” Us just now.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did. Dean and I were doing research in Warrenville.” That was the site of the fall show. “Claire would die if she knew, but whichever one of us hosts will need to know more about the town. Remember how tough it was the first few seasons when people had no clue what we were? Now they fall over themselves wanting to help, even with Dean looking slightly disreputable.”

  Hearing an odd fondness, Jamie said, “You used to hate that.”

  There was a pause, then an indulgent sigh. “So I did. But that look can be a turn-on. People who watch Gut It! know Dean and love him, but trust me, baby, they wouldn’t open their hearts to any of the Barths that way. Claire’s done us a favor by tipping us off about them. I’ll let Linda know. She’s connected. She’ll do her best to shut them out.” The more Jamie listened, the more she relaxed. “So, anyway, when we passed Toys “R” Us on the way home, I made Dean stop.”

  Jamie tried to picture it, but the truth was, she hadn’t dreamed this far. Having Caroline buy toys for her child was as new a concept as Jamie’s having a child at all. “Were you bad?”

  “Awful. Dean was worse. I was picking up practical things, like sippy cups and toddler utensils and crayons and a plastic pool. He got toys. He said he knows little boys better than me. He’s probably right.” She paused. “Have you seen Brad?”

  Warmed that Caroline was so accepting of Tad, Jamie was light-hearted. “Yes. No problem there. He’s moved on.”

  “That easily?”

  “I know. Seriously scary.”

  “Seriously upsetting.”

  “No. I’m relieved.”

  “Because of Chip?”

  “Because the relationship was wrong. The scary part is my not seeing that. Brad doesn’t want me telling anyone yet, not even Theo, but he’ll be leaving the company. Will that be a problem?” Caroline did seem to be the one to ask, the one in the know, the one closest to Theo.

  “Definitely leaving?”

  “Oh yeah. Amazing, isn’t it? He says he wants to go back to Minneapolis, which is the last thing I would’ve thought, which goes to show how much I did not know this guy. Theo won’t be happy with me.”

  “I can handle Theo,” Caroline assured her. “That’s one advantage of being bumped up into the C-suite.” She paused before asking in a gentler voice, “Does Chip know your engagement’s off?”

  “Not yet. He’s at school till three.”

  “Jamie…” A warning.

  “Caution. I know.”

  * * *

  Caution haunted Jamie as the afternoon passed. Between meeting on-site with one homeowner and talking on the phone with two others, it occurred to her that she might have misread things and imagined something more than momentary lust on Chip’s part. When that discouraged her, she pulled up her dream file, which contained whimsical plans for the Weymouth property. She added an arbor to the community amenities, had the computer insert wisteria, a few grapes, even a wedding reception. The last was telling. She hadn’t been able to plan her own wedding. Caroline was right. Subconscious reasoning must have been at work.

  And now? Caution meant leaving nothing to the subconscious, which meant understanding that Chip might have decided she wasn’t his type at all, and that other than meeting at the playground, he didn’t want to be involved with a single mom, which was likely the responsible thing, the grown-up thing.

  Still, her excitement grew as the afternoon passed. It helped that Tad’s day had been better—no crying jags and a nice long nap, his teacher reported. He had finger-painted Jamie a beautiful piece of art and chattered about it during the drive home. The chattering actually surprised her. Two days in daycare seemed to have jump-started his speech. Much of what he said was unintelligible, but his enthusiasm was catching. In that spirit, Jamie could always give an excited Really? or That’s so good, Taddy, or I love it! And she chattered right back at him—she’d read a study during lunch about how toddlers benefited from hearing complete sentences with good grammar.

  Of course, her own talking might have been from nerves.

  Was from nerves.

  Back at the condo, she changed from skirt, blouse, and heels to T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops. Once Tad had snacked and pooped, and the clock reached five, she packed him back in the car and drove to the playground.

  They were there. At the swings, Chip pushing Buddy at the same time that he coached, “Pump! That’s it, Bud, use the legs.” Tad ran toward them as if he knew the drill, his head down, arms and legs going for speed. Jamie followed more sedately, reliving every fear that what she had assumed to be mutual was not.

  One look at the vivid blue eyes that watched her approach, though, and she knew she hadn’t been wrong. Suddenly shy, she simply smiled and said, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he said with an answering smile. He gave his son a push, then caught up Tad, lowered him into the bucket, and got him swinging. He easily handled both buckets, with his wide arm span. “I wasn’t sure you’d c
ome.”

  “It’s hell hour.” The term held new meaning now; the temptation to be with Chip was greater than ever. Caution, she reminded herself and swallowed. “How was your day?”

  “Challenging.” He gave another two pushes, darting looks at her between. “Less than a week until summer break, and the kids are ready. They were antsy as hell.” He looked her over. “I wasn’t much better than they were today. Kept thinking about you.” His gaze stuck on her hand. “Where’s your ring?”

  No one at work had asked that. Not one single person. They simply assumed she was with Brad, ring or no.

  “Gone.” He looked at her quizzically. “I broke my engagement.”

  “For me?” he asked with endearing excitement.

  “For me. He and I had other issues, but once I realized I was drawn to you, I couldn’t let it go on.”

  He smirked. “‘Drawn’ to is putting it mildly. At least on my side.” He kept double-handing the swings.

  “Mine, too.”

  He shot her a wary look. “I may be a lousy bet.”

  “And I’m not? I haven’t ever done anything remotely like this.”

  “You’re a MacAfee, I’m a Kobik. You’re Phi Beta Kappa, I’m a party animal—”

  “Am?”

  “Was, but still, you’re a TV star, I’m a gym teacher. You can do better than me.”

  “How do you know?” she asked with enough indignation to shut him up.

  She stood close beside him, acutely aware of his long body flexing and reflexing as he pushed, and for several minutes, there was only the whoosh of the swings, the laughter of two little girls playing princess on the adjacent jungle gym, and the occasional “Higher!” from Buddy. When the latter became demands for the sandbox, they made the switch.

  Then they sat side by side on a nearby bench, leaning forward, each with elbows on knees and fingers laced. Their thighs—his muscled and hair-spattered, hers lean and clear—were inches apart, yet the heat was enough to make her tremble.

  When he muttered, “I need to touch you,” she went up in flames.

  She couldn’t find breath enough to speak, she was shaking so inside. The best she could do was to lean that little distance closer until skin met skin.

  Moaning, he shot her a sizzling look, then hollered at the boys, “Anyone in that sandbox hungry?”

  “Me!” shouted Buddy and scrambled out of the sand. Tad imitated both the shout and the scrambling exit.

  “Is pizza pickup on the way home okay?” Chip asked Jamie.

  “Perfect.” Anything would be. She was so not thinking about food, but there were the boys to consider, and Chip was much better than she was that way.

  She followed the Honda to the pizza shop, then to his house. Once inside, she helped set out plates, napkins, and glasses—tonight Fred and Barney for the boys, no choices there. Other than catching the pocket of her shorts on a drawer pull, which she couldn’t have done a second time if she’d tried, she breezed around his kitchen. Working together, they quickly joined the boys in the breakfast nook.

  Did Jamie know what she ate? No. Nor did she know what she said, though she kept up her part, dovetailing with Chip through a running conversation designed to include the boys. All the while, if she wasn’t looking at Chip’s hands, she was looking at his mouth, or his once-broken nose, or the shadow on his jaw. Everything about him was forcefully male, including, once dinner was done, the commanding voice that got the boys into the living room to watch Diego rescue dinosaurs.

  “You guys stay here while Jamie and I clean up,” he said with commendable nonchalance and, returning to the kitchen, promptly backed Jamie up to the sink. Framing her face with both hands, he tipped it up and held it steady, and a good thing that was. His kiss was hungry, slanting one way, then the other, using tongue, teeth, and lips in the undisciplined way of the starving—until Jamie was wild with need.

  “Okay?” he whispered against her mouth. She had barely begun to nod when his hands were under her tee, and while he pushed up her bra and thumbed her nipples, he kissed her again. This time it was all tongue, provocative and deep.

  Jamie had been fisting his shirt, then rubbing her palms over his chest, but she needed more. The thrust of his hips drove her. Frantic, she breached the waist of his sports shorts and found him with both hands. He was so magnificently erect that she gasped.

  “Nnnnnn,” he groaned into her mouth. Then he bodily lifted her, guiding her legs around his waist, so that he was right where she needed him to be, or almost. Having clothes in the way didn’t work.

  Breathing hard, he put his forehead to hers. “Buddy has a bunk bed. Can Tad sleep on the bottom?”

  “He’ll have to,” Jamie said with a low laugh, because there was no way she was returning to her condo without having Chip inside her first, and there was no way that could happen until the boys were down for the night.

  “Okay.” He seemed in pain. “Okay.” He sounded determined. “I’m a lousy dad for having pizza too often and for not knowing what in the hell we were saying to them at dinner and for sticking them in front of the TV while we do this, but right now I’m going to redeem myself by cleaning up here and then running their bath.”

  With measured movements, he set her on the counter. Determined to be similarly disciplined, she slid forward and promptly overshot the edge. She would have tumbled if he hadn’t caught her, but he was kind enough not to say that. Without a word, he crushed the empty pizza box and put it aside, then began to load the dishwasher as she ferried things from table to sink.

  “Do you think it’s okay for Tad to be sleeping somewhere different again?” she whispered as they corralled the boys upstairs for a bath.

  He began filling the tub. “I don’t know, but I can’t think of another option.”

  She couldn’t either, and Lord knew she had tried to find one. She tried once more as she retrieved Moose and the diaper bag from downstairs, but she didn’t have a sitter who would come instantly and stay late on a Thursday night, and she certainly couldn’t ask Caroline. Caroline would talk about caution, but Jamie’s body wouldn’t listen.

  “Let’s see how he does,” Chip said when she returned. “We’ll only be two doors down.”

  Two doors down. In his bedroom. In his bed. Naked.

  Hit with another flare of heat in her belly, she rocked lightly back and forth as she knelt by the tub, and though there was some foreplay—way wrong word—with a dozen rubber dinosaurs, they quickly got down to soaping the boys. She did Tad. Chip did Buddy. There was conversation in which Jamie did participate, though she didn’t retain any more of what was said than Chip claimed to have taken in at supper. She did read the boys a story. It seemed only right to do that. She sat on the lower bunk with Tad tucked against her from the start, and though Buddy kept an initial distance, by the time Peter Pan backed Captain Hook off the plank and into the water, where the tick-tocking croc awaited, he was sitting nearly as close as Tad.

  Chip sat cross-legged on the floor, a distraction there. But he got to his feet—bare, lean, masculine feet—as soon as the story was done, nixed Buddy’s request for a second, and hoisted him up over the safety rail and into the top bunk. There were kisses, instructions, promises, and good nights. Moments later, Jamie and Chip stood with their backs to the wall just outside the room.

  Chip whispered, “He’ll come down the ladder at least once for another animal.” He took her hand. She could barely think over the thunder of her pulse and the pooling of heat in her body, certainly couldn’t make out the low murmuring in the bedroom, but Chip did. “Giving Tad something,” he whispered. “Likely a teddy.”

  Jamie wanted to say what a sweet child Buddy was, but Chip had swung around to press her into the wall and capture her mouth. Clearly still listening, he kissed her quietly, lips sliding along her neck and down to her chest. He paused when a sound came from the boys. Jamie felt his ragged breath and tried to tame the thud of her heart, but forget that. His mouth was warm on he
r skin and so close to her breasts that her insides sizzled.

  She dragged him up by the hair. “I need,” she whispered in desperation, and still he waited another one, two, three minutes, rubbing against her in the most subtle undulation as those blue eyes seared hers. When no further sound came, he lifted her as he had done in the kitchen and carried her into his bedroom with her legs wrapped around his waist.

  Freeing one hand to close the door, he lowered her to the bed and followed her down, and, that quickly, restraint vanished. His hands were everywhere, fighting with hers to remove clothes, touch what was bared, and see each part between kisses. It was frenzied, but not without care. As awed as she was by his size and by the rough texture of his skin, there was an answering wonder in his hands as they moved over her body.

  His gentleness undid her. She was so ready for him that her body was weeping with need, but when he rose above her and thrust deep, she cried out. The fullness was beyond anything she had ever known, a sense of completion that brought even greater hunger. In a tangle of arms and legs, they rolled over, then over again, seeming to share the same need to feel more, deeper, harder, and when they came, it was in quick succession, overlapping, endless.

  He landed on top, but when he made to roll off, she held him still. “Don’t.”

  “I’m too heavy.”

  “You feel good.” She loved his solidity, loved the musky scent of his skin and the way the late-day sun glanced off one broad shoulder. As her breathing leveled, though, a germ of responsibility returned and, conscience-stricken, she sought his eyes—blue eyes that looked down at her with satisfaction, admiration, and such incredible warmth that she forgot what she was going to say.

  “Taddy,” he prompted gently.

  “He’s not used to a bed,” she said in a rush before she lost it again. They had padded the floor with cushions, but still he was used to having sides and would be afraid if he fell. “Will we hear if he cries?”

  Holding her gaze, he stretched one long arm toward the nightstand. There was a click, then the whispery static of a monitor. When that long arm returned, it began to explore—and, oh, she’d been wrong about not wanting him to move. When he slid lower, his mouth did things to her she hadn’t dreamed it could. And how his hands held her? And his words of arousal and praise? The pleasure was unfathomable. When she came, she sobbed with the intensity of it. She might have been embarrassed if his throaty cry hadn’t quickly followed. He had waited for her, she realized. Both times, he had needed her to climax first.