Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

  The chime of my doorbell halts my progress back to the kitchen, a loud woof letting me know that Simon and, it would seem, Brutus are waiting impatiently.

  Daisy stiffens as I rush to the door and pull it open, only to have Brutus launch himself at me while Simon stands back and allows me to be tackled.

  "No, Brute! Down!" I yell in vain as Daisy hisses, back arched to show her displeasure, ears flattened against her head.

  The sound immediately attracts Brutus, who drops to the floor to sniff his way into Daisy's territory, ignoring her warning yowls as he gets closer.

  "Careful, Brute, no!" I yell as Daisy launches one paw in the air, swiping directly at the nose quivering before her with curiosity, making a direct hit.

  Brutus' slight yelp causes him to drop to his belly, nose to the ground, as he stares at her with sad, shocked eyes, whining for attention. Daisy hops sideways several times, back still arched, until finally, she shrinks back to normal. Her fur deflates as she lifts one delicate paw to wash herself, ignoring Brutus' enormous size, as if he doesn't have eighty pounds on her.

  Still whining, Brutus' tongue lolls from his mouth as he pants, focused on Daisy, as if his life depends on it.

  Lifting her tail and waving it back and forth in broad strokes, Daisy inches closer to Brutus, brushing against his nose with her fur. As he sneezes at the contact, she marches away, ass twitching like a supermodel on a catwalk.

  Realizing I've been holding my breath for the entire thirty seconds this drama played out, I finally relax and follow her to the kitchen as Simon enters, bending down to scratch Brutus' ears.

  A slight flush of embarrassment creeps up my neck as he looks around my house, eyes carefully checking out every picture, my laptop, and my beat up furniture, while I realize how shabby everything must look in comparison to what he's used to. Finally, his assessing eyes meet mine.

  "Some ace digs you have here, luv."

  "Right. I'm sure you're used to something a little more posh." I sigh as I try to view it through someone else's eyes. "But it's home."

  "I think it's brilliant. Colorful and cozy—like you."

  "Thanks. I think. Let me just feed Miss Daisy, and we can be on our way. Where is the car?"

  "I double-parked. Brute needed to water the tires, but we'll meet you out there. Let's go, Brute!"

  Floor, meet the immovable force of ninety pounds of stubborn pup. Whining, Brutus slides his belly along the floor closer to the kitchen as I watch Daisy freeze, ignoring him like a monster under the bed. Watchful, but nonchalant. Escape plan in place if needed, but standing her ground.

  Simon tugs the leash to pull him back, but it's clear I'm going to have to take control. Reaching into the refrigerator, I snag a piece of leftover bacon waiting for a salad that, let's be honest, I was never going to make, and command him to sit at attention.

  Darting upward like a rocket, he sits in perfect stillness, a small whine floating through the room as Simon drops the leash in surrender.

  How ironic that I have suddenly become the dog whisperer. Waving the bacon above his head, I lean down and wave a stern finger in front of his snout.

  "Go with Daddy, and I'll meet you in the car. Okay?" An answering whine greets my words as I relent and drop the bacon toward his mouth to have it snatched and consumed in one quick motion.

  Jumping to the top of the kitchen counter, Daisy's tail swishes in annoyance, passing judgment from on high.

  "Ok, boys, I'll meet you in the car."

  Brutus finally follows Simon's lead, head swiveling back as if to make sure that I'm going to follow. The closing of the front door elicits soft purring as Daisy relaxes and starts rubbing her body against my arm, waiting for me to pull down cans of food to tempt her.

  After that, I don't even ask. Two cans of food and some crunchy treats on top. After all, the spoils always go to the victor.

  * * *

  Hopping into the passenger seat, I'm struck again by the luxury of the soft leather. I can't afford to keep a car in the city, but I miss my trusty Honda, which hangs out in my parents’ driveway for the occasions when I need to get out of the city.

  I'm suddenly bewitched by the smell of chocolate and brown sugar, my nose twitching like Daisy when she scents her special can of salmon.

  "What is that smell?"

  "Oh, I made some biscuits for dessert."

  "You baked cookies?" Amused is too mild a word for my surprise. "It's a lovely gesture, but why?"

  "Why not? Don't you fancy biscuits?"

  "Of course I do, it just seems a bit incongruous—the thought of you baking cookies." I stare at his sexy smirk, fascinated. "Do you do it often?"

  The uncomfortable shifting of his body in the driver's seat tells me I've hit a sensitive topic.

  "When I was young, I used to bake with my mum. I have a hard time sleeping sometimes, so I bake. It passes the time."

  "Wow. You continue to surprise me, Simon."

  Smiling back, Simon taps my knee as I try to hold back my amusement.

  "I bake simple stuff—biscuits, basic sponges. It's not like I'm making a spotted dick every night."

  "You Brits are so peculiar," I complain. "Why would someone ever want to eat something called spotted dick? It hardly sounds appetizing."

  "What, not a dick lover?" Simon teases, fingers suddenly gripping my knee. "Maybe you've just been eating the wrong kind. Having trouble choking it down, are you?"

  "That's just wrong on so many levels, and I refuse to even give you the satisfaction of answering."

  I swear he has no shame. He excels at sexy banter, his chocolate eyes dancing with mischief. How do you resist someone that unapologetically improper? Putting him firmly back in the friend zone, I skip to a safer topic.

  "How often do you find yourself baking? Or not sleeping?"

  "A bit. I only sleep four or five hours a night. I've been bingeing seasons of The Great British Baking Show to kill time. It makes me feel close to my mum. I've been testing my hand a bit, but I need to stock my kitchen better. Can't make a proper sponge without the right trays."

  "Well, come into the store one day, or let me know what you need, and I'll hook you up. Not that you need my employee discount, I'm sure." I smile at the thought of Simon meeting Nate, then realize what a bad idea that is. "On second thought, make me a list. I'll have it delivered. Wouldn't want to start a riot in the store. I already have Mark for that."

  "Yeah, what's that about?"

  "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Have you ever heard of RBF?"

  * * *

  It felt good to laugh with Simon. My stories about Kenzie rolled into some of his own experiences with girls who would do anything for the band. It seems that there's always some self-absorbed girl whose brains reside in her boobs, and who is willing to use those magical appendages to get what she thinks she needs.

  I don't hate girls like that. I feel more of a sadness that they feel so little value for their words and intelligence, and at their lack of an inner voice that should be telling them they have something more to offer.

  Of course, what do I know? Girls like Kenzie usually end up as trophy wives with community property and summer homes when they eventually leave their starter marriages and move on to their newest boy-toy. Whereas I live in a land of shuffling bills and trying to figure out how to squeeze enough money from my budget for a decent vacation once a year. I occasionally wonder who's living the flawed strategy.

  Perhaps if I spent more time berating men and shoving my F cup boobs in their faces, I wouldn't be living in a small condo with mostly hand-me-down furniture, feeding my cat gourmet food while I live off of pizza and Chinese take out. Reluctantly, I acknowledge that I wouldn't have it any other way, but I'd sure love to feel that freedom from worry for one brief, shining moment or two.

  Maybe this is your chance, my subconscious prods.

  Be gone, Jezebel! You know we don't have that kind of surrender in our soul. We'll make it on our own…but t
hat doesn't mean that we can't enjoy some yummy eye candy along the way. If they have great hands and a willing tongue as well, then let's just be happy we've hit the mother lode.

  Simon navigates the turn into Heath's driveway, allowing me the first glimpse of Heath's house and conventional life. I'm charmed by the small Tudor style home with its short walkway and Heath's Explorer parked in the drive. Bright chrysanthemums flank the garage, the last remnants of fall blooming in defiance of the colder evenings that have begun to turn our breath a bit frosty.

  As neighborhoods go, this looks like any other white-collar nexus of happy homemakers, although it's hard to tell in the waning light. Too bad Lori showed it for the lie it is. Still, the urban simplicity fits Heath.

  Taking a deep breath, I mentally prepare myself to meet Tracey. I don't know why I find the thought of her so intimidating, but perhaps it's knowing that if I really want things to work out with Heath, I need to win her over into the bargain. I mean, there's no need for marriage, but no one wants to be the wicked 'whatever'—stepmother be damned. She's his number one priority, so there’s no need to create conflict when you can reign in peace.

  Brutus bounds from the back seat while Simon hands me his baked goods to snap the leash to Brutus' collar before we all head to the front door. With a quick press of the doorbell, the sound of bare feet pattering toward the opposite side of the door releases a frenzy of barking, Brutus clipping me behind the knees and causing me to fall directly on my ass.

  Two sets of hazel eyes survey me in various states of amusement, while Brutus licks me joyfully and I grimace from where I've fallen on the stoop.

  Offering up Simon's package of bribes, I try to keep a straight face and preserve my dignity.

  So much for first impressions.

  Chapter 26

  Great Vibez

  One strong hand grasps both of mine, while Heath's toes line up against my own as an anchor, pulling me to my feet. Heat rushes to my face as I steady myself in front of him. That was not the graceful entrance I had planned. Luckily, it seems I'm the only one embarrassed, since Tracey has completely ignored my presence, falling to her knees beside me.

  Chatting animatedly to Simon, her arms wind around Brutus' neck, laughing as he licks her face. I guess I'm not Brutus' favorite toy after all. Hopefully, that means that Simon can be equally distracted.

  Even more amusing is the fact that Tracey appears more impressed by Brutus than she is by Simon. No starstruck teenybopper squealing for Heath's daughter. Instead, she's gone straight to the joyous source of friendly abandon that is Brutus.

  Looking at Simon's sexy stubble and careless locks, I wonder if she hasn't hit that full stage of awareness yet that girls reach in early puberty, or if she's going to be one of the level-headed ones who are hard to impress. I'm hoping for the latter. A pretty face does not necessarily include a kind heart, and the sooner she learns that the better.

  I'm happy to accept Heath's arms wrapping around me, his arms pulling my back to his chest, before he taps Tracey lightly on the head.

  "Hey, do you want to greet our guests first? Say hi to Josie and Simon."

  "Hi, Josie." Laughter punctuates her words as she falls in a heap, lying on the floor with Brutus straddling her chest, continuing to smother her face with sloppy licks.

  "Can you say hello to Simon, too? It's only polite since you're making out with his dog."

  "Ewwwww…Dad! Don't be gross!"

  Simon finally gains control over Brutus as Tracey struggles to sit upright, allowing her to stand.

  "Hi, Simon. I like your dog. What's his name?"

  "Hello. This barmy boy is Brutus. He's a bit dodgy but he's harmless, and he'll keep trying to steal kisses if you let him. Ask Josie."

  Like daddy, like dog, I think as I grin. They certainly know how to make themselves at home. Simon is slouching casually against the wall, while Brutus sniffs his way around the foyer, leash now trailing along the floor.

  While Tracey watches Brutus with interest as if eager for another round, she finally shifts her attention back to the rest of us to resume her hostess duties.

  "Dinner's almost ready. I hope you like pasta, but Dad burned the garlic bread."

  The eye roll is so dramatic, I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing.

  Releasing me, Heath reaches across and pulls Tracey in for a bear hug.

  "Throwing me under the bus already, huh? Fine. I didn't bring up the flourless cake that wasn't meant to be flourless."

  "Daaaaad. How was I supposed to know we were out of flour?"

  "I'm guessing Mark would say that should have been part of your mise en place." I smile at her disgruntled expression, amused to watch father and daughter face off.

  Tracey is clearly Heath's daughter. I've never seen pictures of Lori, but the hazel eyes and expressive eyebrows, the stubborn chin, are all just a more feminine version of her dad's. At thirteen, it's clear that she's going to be tall as well, already matching my five foot five inches. Her features still have a touch of softness—the fullness that predates full puberty. You can see glimpses of the beauty that's waiting to break through the awkward adolescent stage.

  Dressed in sweats and a Gryffindor t-shirt, she looks like any average teen girl, with her blonde hair in a messy bun and fuzzy bunny slippers on her feet.

  "Have you cooked with Uncle Mark?" Curiosity lights her face at my comment.

  "I wouldn't dare. I prefer to watch him cook while I eat." I wiggle my eyebrows playfully, eliciting a laugh from Tracey. "But I'm pretty sure I can make garlic bread without burning it." My loud whisper earns a grunt from Heath's direction as he acknowledges the hit and Tracey giggles harder.

  "He yells at me about how I chop things up. He says I'm dangerous with a knife. I wish he could have come tonight, because he promised to teach me how to make fresh pasta. Too bad he hasn't taught me yet, but maybe by the next time you come.”

  "I'm sure he's sorry to be missing it, too," I reassure, a little startled at the assumption that I'll be back. It makes me wonder just how much she's heard about me from Heath.

  Her cheerful enthusiasm for Uncle Mark is touching. I'm always more comfortable with people when I know that they are good with kids and pets. It speaks of a level of tolerance that I find extremely sexy.

  Clearly, Mark has endeared himself to Tracey and, looking around the room, I realize I've found two other such specimens. Quite the trifecta I've managed, considering what a drought I had been living in for so long. Too bad I need to throw one back. The little harlot in my head whispers, do you really? Pushing her firmly into the background, I assure myself that I do before turning Tracey's attention back to Simon.

  "Guess what?" I whisper conspiratorially. "Simon baked you cookies."

  Two sets of hazel eyes turn to Simon in surprise, before Tracey remembers the box that someone rescued during my earlier fall. Heath's wince at her high-pitched squeal is eclipsed by her flurry of motion as she lifts the lid in delight, staring at all of the golden discs within.

  "Are these shortbread?" Her words are mumbled by her crunching, even though the answer should be obvious now that she's worked her way through several bites.

  "Yeah, with a touch of ginger. You fancy them?" Simon asks as he follows Tracey into the kitchen, the box of cookies clutched to her chest. Brutus lumbers ahead of them, and Heath and I are left standing alone in the foyer.

  "Hey." Heath's arm snakes out to pull me back to him, except this time, we're aligned toe to toe again as I tilt my head up to meet his gaze.

  "Hey, yourself. I think we've been abandoned."

  "Too bad it won't last," Heath jokes, lips swooping down to cover mine, rubbing softly. The pressure of his tongue swiping softly at the seam of my lips disappears just as quickly when Tracey's voice calls us from the kitchen.

  Sighing, his breath mingling with mine, he places one last sweet kiss on my lips before linking his arm with mine.

  "He made cookies?" The rumble of laugh
ter in his chest vibrates against my shoulder as we head off to see what kind of trouble awaits in the kitchen.

  "He certainly knows how to impress the ladies."

  * * *

  Clutching my stomach, I double over in laughter as Simon tells us what is a carefully edited, PG, but still highly entertaining story about his time on tour. I'm hoping Tracey doesn't understand all the references about how stoned his bandmates must have been at the time. Or isn't picturing what Simon would look like wearing nothing but boots and a guitar strap. Especially since that mental image makes me sweat.

  As I glance at Heath, I'm relieved to find him laughing with me over Simon's escapades. Any potential sign of jealousy from the other day seems to have been squashed for now.

  These are the moments in life that surprise you. Who would have ever thought that a situation like this could be so comfortable? No awkward silences, no teenage resentment.

  Either Tracey is happy to see her dad dating, or she doesn't see me as a threat. Whatever the case, I consider it a win. For my part, I enjoyed debating the merits of Twilight versus The Hunger Games, bless her bookish little heart, even if her frame of reference came mostly from the movies.

  The bigger surprise is seeing how well Heath and Simon get along. There's an unexpected ease there, so perhaps they're more alike than I guessed. I'm becoming more attuned to a loneliness, or maybe a restlessness, in Simon that makes me believe he needs more connection in his life. Perhaps Heath caught it as well before he invited Simon to join us.

  No matter how old we get, sometimes we still long for home and what it represents. Simon's happy banter with Tracey has a lightness I haven't seen yet. It's possible he simply misses a sense of family.

  "Ok, enough dessert, it's getting late. Time to clean up. Have you finished your homework?" Heath pins his daughter with his stare.

  Tracey turns wide, innocent eyes toward her dad while reluctantly admitting, "Not quite."