by K. L. Kreig
“Now it just sounds expensive,” I mumble. “I can pick up a six-pack of Hanes at Walmart for under twenty dollars.”
“Pfft.” She waves her hand at me in a dismissive manner. “A girl needs to splurge once in a while.”
“Easy for a girl to say who makes a healthy six figures a year as a top executive recruiter. Don’t forget I live on a teacher’s salary.”
“I haven’t. They even have sexy grannie panties,” she says in a singsong voice, trying to entice me. “We’ll shop the sale rack.”
“I’ll think about—” My phone vibrates and a banner across the top indicates it’s my mom trying to FaceTime me. “Great.”
“What?”
“It’s my mother.”
“Don’t take it.”
“I have to. This is the third time she’s called.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Laurel. Not before your big date. You know how your conversations with your mother go.”
She doesn’t need to remind me.
“I gotta go.” My phone chimes and chimes, as my mom tries to reach me. “She’ll just keep calling.”
“Fine. Don’t let her guilt you into anything.” Fat chance. “And text me when you get home, no matter how late. I want to hear how the big ‘d’ is.”
“The big d?”
“Yeah.” Carmen wags her microbladed brows up and down.
“Carmen,” I chastise, but it’s not entirely heartfelt, because I go warm in the center of my body at the mere thought. “I’m not going to have sex on the second date for crying out loud.” Although I may have thought about it a time or two…or twelve. But…no. For sure, no.
“I meant date, Ms. Prude. Get your head out of the gutter.”
“Sure, you did.”
Her grin widens. “Go talk to Candice. Text me later. Love you, chica.” Carmen puckers her lips, then presses them to the camera lens.
“Love you too.” I click over to catch my mom in time. “Hi,” I say, a little breathless, though I have no reason to be, except that it’s my mother and well, it’s my mother.
“Hi, sweetheart. Nice to see you.”
“You too.” I sit down on the edge of the bed, careful not to wrinkle my dress. As if she knows she’ll be needed, Meringue strolls into the room and gracefully jumps into my lap. I rub her from head to tail, then start over again, not even caring about the white dusting of hair she’ll leave behind.
“You sure must be busy these days.” Candice presses her dark coral coated lips together ever so slightly, waiting for a reply.
Aaand here we go. My mother has passive-aggressive down to an art form. From the sugary tone to the schooled facial expressions, she is a master at making you feel like a criminal for anything and everything, even when you’re innocent. I used to confess to most of what Esther did when we were kids…she is that good.
“Yeah, I’m sorry I missed your other calls. I’ve been a little busy.”
“What’s got you so…focused?”
“Oh, you know.” I shrug and attempt nonchalant. Not a date. Not a date. “Same old, same old. School. Books. Stuff.”
I don’t say a word about Roth. For one thing, it’s far too soon. For another, she would spend the next hour grilling me or start poking holes in a man she’s not even met yet.
“You look like you have makeup on, dear.” She brings her face closer to the screen, squinting. Oh nooo. “You do. What’s the special occasion?” She knows me. It’s rare that I wear makeup.
“Nothing, Mom. Just…ah, trying out some new stuff Carmen picked up.”
“Oh.” She pauses, and her pause gives me pause. “It looks nice, dear.”
Does it? I had thought so, but now…
I glance up to catch my reflection in the mirror. I blink a few times, not knowing what to think. My mother doesn’t dole out compliments unless they are on the back of her hand.
Is my foundation blotchy?
Is my eyeliner too thick?
I rub two fingers against my cheek, smudging the coat of blush I’d brushed along it. I thought it was just a touch but now I’m not so sure.
“What is that you’re wearing?”
“What?” I ask, still staring at myself.
“Do you have a dress on?”
“Ahhh…” How could she see the dress? I must have tilted the phone down just right. “Ah, yeah.”
“Makeup. A dress. And your hair…it looks like you’ve fixed it up. Do you have a date?”
Could she sound more surprised?
“No. No, of course not,” I tell her with a fake adamance I am quite proud of. “I…it’s a…a costume. For a school play.”
“Oh.” Now that tone I am used to. Resigned disappointment. “Well, I’m sure it will happen for you someday, dear.”
“I’m sure,” I mumble in stoic agreement. And for not the first time, that careless comment she flings about without thinking twice…it sticks, and it simmers and bubbles until my mind whirls and questions and worst of all…doubts.
“Did you know that Pastor Schefft’s wife was caught cheating on him with that sketchy tattoo shop owner? Can you believe it?”
“How would I know that?” or “Who didn’t see that one coming?” or “Maybe you don’t know the whole story,” are all replies I want to lob back. Instead, I answer, “Really?” as if I care who is cheating on who in Leone, Nebraska. And for the next twenty minutes while my mom babbles on about this illicit affair and the scuttlebutt it has caused throughout town, I listen with cool disinterest, because the entire time I am replaying her benign comment. I know, which one do I pick? But I go with, “It looks nice, dear,” and by the time I can get a word in edgewise to tell her I need to go to “play practice,” I am convinced I look anything but nice.
What was I thinking?
Plain Janes aren’t glamorized; they’re white noise.
The second I hang up, I head to the bathroom and scrub my face clean. I scrub until it’s irritated and red and I am almost in tears.
“I can’t do this,” I whisper to my empty apartment, defeated.
With a heavy heart and trembling hands, I snatch my phone from where I’d tossed it on the bed and start pounding out a Dear John text to Roth. I type and delete, type and delete and ultimately end up with You deserve glamorous. Only, the moment I go to hit send, my thumb hovers over the arrow and I hesitate. When I decide to delete that one too, the doorbell rings and scares the crap out of me and my thumb lands on the send button by accident.
“Shit,” I curse, and I hate cursing. It’s unladylike and I honestly don’t need any more help in that category.
And now I am in quite the dilemma, aren’t I?
How do I explain that text? Maybe I don’t answer the door? “But then he’ll worry, Laurel,” I say to myself. I pace the bedroom floor back and forth a few times, tapping the edge of the phone against my now-dry lips. I stop to apply some mint Chapstick that I keep on my nightstand. I coat my lips several times until the layers of wax are thick and my lips tingle.
Three quick raps on the front door startle Meringue and she scampers underneath the bed. She’s as much of a scaredy-cat as I am. We’re a perfect match.
“Laurel?” Roth’s deep voice penetrates my thoughts, but instead of answering him, I snap off my bedroom light and pretend I’m not home. Only, it’s a cowardly move, and he can’t see in the bedroom anyway, so it’s also stupid.
I pace and think. Think and pace.
He knocks again.
The easy decision would be to stay in the dark until he gives up and leaves. It’s appealing, but gosh, this man has earned far better treatment than that from me.
So, with rocks in my stomach and moths tickling the back of my tongue, I walk slowly to the front door and jerk it open, like I’m ripping off a Band-Aid. The moment Roth Keswick gets a look at me, this will all be over anyway, I convince myself.
But…that is not what happens. Not at all.
Roth lights up like a thousand
-watt bulb in a dark room, blinding me. Wait…what?
“Hi,” he says, his voice a little rough.
“Hi.” I shift uncomfortably from heel to toe, crossing my arms, one over the other.
As if he’s highly attuned to my crazy already, he reaches for my hand and lets it rest in his. It’s grounding and somehow manages to slow my heart to a dull roar. “Saving the planet?”
“Huh?”
He motions behind me.
I look over my shoulder into my gloomy apartment. “Oh, ah…power outage.”
“Really?” His gaze goes up above his head where the outside light glows and he joins it back with mine.
“Yeah,” I stutter, not able to hold our connection as I tell a completely unnecessary white lie. But once a web is spun… “It’s…a…sporadic. Happens all the time.”
“Maybe you should contact your landlord.”
“I’ll do that tomorrow.”
“Laurel.” I don’t want to look at him again, but the way he says my name with such tender concern compels me somehow. “Is everything okay?”
No. No, everything is not okay. I try to fight it, but my emotions have always been worn on both sleeves. Water blurs my vision and I say, “Yes,” at the same time I find interest in my mauveish Mary Janes.
But Roth isn’t having it. He gently lifts my chin until our eyes meet again. I blink and tears run down each makeup-free cheek, the turncoats.
Now, at this point any other man would suddenly remember that he left his refrigerator running and make haste, but Roth is not just any man, as he keeps reminding me. He wipes them away and says quietly, “How about we stay in instead?”
“I—no. I don’t want to ruin the night any more than I already have.”
“Laurel, you haven’t ruined anything.”
I have, but I have nothing else to offer except a weak, “I’m sorry.”
Roth cocks his head slightly. “Sorry? There is absolutely no reason to be sorry.”
“I’m…” Clearly a hot mess. “A little out of sorts at the moment, I guess.”
He drops his hand away, leaving me a bit bereft. And with the absence of his touch, I try hard not to start spinning again.
“Happens to me all the time,” he tells me.
I highly doubt there’s anything that could get this man out of sorts, yet I give him a swift smile that falls way short of my eyes.
“I’m afraid I may not be the best of company if you want to take a raincheck.”
I don’t want him to leave, but offering an out seems like the right thing to do.
“I appreciate the warning. If it’s all the same, though, I’ll stay. I have very much been looking forward to spending the evening with you.”
“You have? Even like this?” I take a giant step back, surprised. Here I am, a makeupless, wild-eyed, snivelly disaster decked out in a shade of confidence that I don’t feel at all, and yet he’s still here, as though none of that matters a lick.
“Like what?”
That knot my mother expertly winds up inside my gut loosens marginally. “Like this.” I wave a hand up down myself, wondering if those sexy glasses are for looks only.
“If by glamorous, then the answer is unequivocally yes.” The corners of my mouth tip up. The ball unravels more. “Did I already say how very much I was looking forward to this evening?”
I don’t answer for a few seconds, dumbstruck. Or maybe awestruck. “You may have said that, yes.”
“You heard me say very, right?”
I giggle. No man has ever made me giggle before Roth Warren Keswick. “Yes. I heard.”
“Good.”
He ushers me back inside and reaches around to the switch on the inside wall. Giving it a flip, he hides a grin when the light obeys his command. I bite my lip and avert my gaze.
“Looks like it’s working now,” he announces.
“What do you know,” I mumble, flushing all over in embarrassment.
Though I know he knows I’m totally busted, his teasing does the trick. Everything I was feeling before I opened the door completely vanishes into thin air. Because of him and a resolve that’s like nothing I’ve known before.
We stand in comfortable silence, both probably with silly smiles on our faces. Mine feels silly, anyway. His is incredibly sexy. Maybe staying in is a bad idea.
“Do you want to order some dinner?” he asks me. I see the second he spots a half-used tissue I left lying on the counter. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to use them multiple times before I throw them in the garbage. Half-used tissues are lying all over the house. I snatch it up and wad it in my fist, because even I can admit it’s a weird, unexplainable habit.
“Dinner. Yes. Food is good.” In my head, I roll my eyes. Back to your usual bumbling, I see, Laurel.
“I agree. Food is good,” he parrots. Chuckling, he pulls his phone from his back pocket and asks me what I want. We settle on Mexican, a decision I’ll likely regret in a few hours, but I’ve been craving it all week.
While we wait for our delivery, I show him around my eight-hundred-square-foot apartment, begging him to ignore my unmade bed since I wasn’t expecting company. We end up on the sofa, him in one corner, me in the middle.
He pats the arm in quick rhythm. “Little more room on this one.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” I reply. Actually, I was wishing this sofa was a cushion smaller.
“I hope it’s sturdier or I might have to ask to see the manager.”
I wedge an elbow on the back of the couch and rest my head in my palm. I’m hoping it comes across as flirty and not wooden. Imagining what an idiot I look like, I drop my arm back into my lap. “Maybe she’d offer you drinks on the house for a year.”
“Hmm.” His voice falls an octave and if I’m not mistaken, he suddenly looks rather smoldering. Maybe I was flirty before. “I may ask for an open-ended arrangement.”
Does that mean what I think it means?
Actually, what does that mean?
“You may?” My heart pounds so hard against my chest I am sure the neighbors can hear it. I have to swallow before I ask, “Can I ask what you are thinking?”
“Oh, Laurel.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m afraid if I told you what I was thinking, you’d ask me to leave.”
“Would I?”
Do I sound breathless? I do. I am. I am totally out of breaths.
Roth leans toward me until I feel his exhales inch down my cheeks. His pupils have exploded. His mouth is pursed just so. Good gravy, this man has sensual down to an art form. I think he’s going to kiss me, but he runs two fingers through a few strands of hair and holds up a fuzz ball.
“Oh,” I manage to push out. My chest expands and contracts in crisp, shallow movements.
“I want to, believe me.”
“You want to what?” My lids are at half-mast and my face is tilted upward, waiting. I must appear either desperate or inexperienced. I may be a little of both.
“Kiss you, Laurel.” Then dooo. Please, do. “But if I start kissing you now, ten feet from your unmade bed…well…”
Well, what’s the problem? I wouldn’t say no.
“You may think this a little unconventional…” Cool air crashes into the space he’s now left between us by shifting away. “But I’m okay taking things slowly. I like you, Laurel. Too much to screw this up by moving too fast.”
The disappointment and rejection that gripped me in the first part of his sentence is replaced by heat firing through my blood at the last part.
“You do?”
“Yes.” His hand covers mine. He wraps his fingers tightly around the edges.
“But…why?” I ask, confused.
He drops his head and shakes it, a smile on his face. “I think we need to work on this compliment thing.”
“Do we?”
He nods, his eyes now flitting back and forth between mine. “You are like a unicorn, Laurel, you know that?”
My eyebrows s
crunch together. That does not feel like a compliment.
“And what I mean by that,” he goes on, as if sensing exactly where my mind went, “is that unicorns are thought not to exist. They are fantasy, legend. Mythological symbols of purity and grace.” When I don’t say anything, he twists his fingers in mine. “I never thought someone like you existed, Laurel. You’re like a fairy tale come to life.”
I almost break down right on the spot. No one has ever said anything so nice to me. Not ever. I mean what Carmen said was amazing, but this…
Wow.
Before I have a chance to even form an adequate reply, Meringue makes her presence known by leaping right into Roth’s arms. I immediately go to grab her but stop the second she starts purring under his touch…much like I do.
“Huh,” I say in complete shock. “She doesn’t like anyone.”
“Well, I’m not just anyone.”
I chew on that for several beats before whispering, “No, I suppose you’re not.”
And that is that. If Roth has Meringue’s approval, he most certainly has mine. I mentally kick doubt to the curb and hope she stays there this time.
“Where were you taking me tonight?”
“That is a surprise.”
I want to kiss the smirk off of his face. “But we’re not going now, so you can tell me.”
“We’re going. We’re just delayed.”
Oh. “But I don’t like surprises.”
He tilts his head to the side and runs his eyes over my face. It might as well be his fingertips, it’s so erotic. I bite the inside of my cheek, unbelievably turned on. “You do, Laurel.” I open my mouth to disagree, but he sets a hand over it to stop me. “Don’t bother denying it. The excitement in your eyes is a dead giveaway.”
Hate to break it to you, Roth, but that excitement you’re seeing is not because of a surprise. But when he runs the pad of his finger lightly along my cheek before going back to petting Meringue, I don’t have the heart to argue.
The rest of the evening is like a dream. We eat chips, guac, and enchiladas and drink a margarita or two. We snuggle under a blanket, hold hands like teenagers, and laugh through Guardians of the Galaxy and Guardians of the Galaxy Vol 2. We lavish affection on Meringue and make popcorn. I am giddy the entire time. It was absolutely perfect. And when he finally tells me good night after 2:00 a.m., he holds my face in his hands and kisses me like I’ve not been kissed before. It’s not chaste, like the first time. It’s fervent and intense and pent up. I want him to stay, that messy bed calling his name, but I don’t at the same time. I, too, want to take it slow.
