Hot Stuff

by C. J. Fosdick

  “Biting your luscious lips.” He tilted my chin and rubbed his thumb over my mouth. “Seducing an officer is another very serious offense.”

  He kissed me again, and my lips stretched into an unintended smile, absorbing the heat of his mouth. We both sighed in repletion, as if we were enjoying a gourmet meal. Like teenagers pleased with their first kiss, we both blushed when it was over, and our gazes locked for a fleeting moment in awkward silence.

  “I’ve got the rest of the day off,” he finally said, pivoting me to smack his hand on my backside. “And y’all are finally dressed for a ride on my hog—and dinner at my apartment, if you can stand bachelor beans and ribs.” He chuckled. “Bib included, of course.”

  Gran appeared at the door, holding a plate of warm cinnamon cookies. When she saw my cuffed hands, she stiffened, her mouth dropping, along with cookies that slid off the plate one by one.

  We both laughed at her reaction. “It’s okay, Gran.” I glanced at him again, seeing mutual conviction when I searched his face. “Everything will be okay.”

  He picked me up and carried me to his Harley, pausing to kiss my forehead before settling me on the seat.

  As if practiced to the move, I lifted my arms over his head to hook them around his waist after he straddled the cycle in front of me.

  Gaping with an empty plate in her hands, Gran gave a weak little wave from the porch.

  Over the roar of the cycle, I don’t think she heard me yell, “Don’t wait up” as we sped away.

  Epilogue

  Six months later, on one of the coldest Valentine’s Days in memory, I stood ready to walk the aisle at the Chapel of the Falls, linking arms with my teary grandmother and carrying a small bouquet of peach roses. Nerves, or the new strappy heels I wore, gave me a slight wobble, hopefully camouflaged by the length of my gown. The gown Dallas had picked out for me.

  “I think you’ll need something stain resistant,” he had teased, when we stood in awe before the Bridal Shop window displaying the latest wedding fashions. Most were strapless or backless, floor length with full Cinderella skirts and bodice beading. All were terribly expensive. They looked great on the long-necked mannequins. I couldn’t picture me in any of them. Neither could Dallas.

  We settled on an off-white gown with a modest neckline, elbow-length sleeves, and no train or veil—just a tiny fascinator I made myself from wired velvet ribbon. Hidden inside the bow, I had glued two candy hearts: I’m Yours and Forever.

  While he had previewed my dress, he’d given me no clues about his choice of attire. We were both closet-poor when a situation called for dressing up, and he wanted to surprise me. I imagined him in an economical choice. Maybe the dress uniform cops wore for funerals and special citations, or his only sport jacket with the black shirt—mobster chic—I teased when he asked for an opinion.

  The chapel aisle made for a short walk. Looking like a stiff penguin, with dilated eyes and a grim smile, Evan, in a new black suit and white shirt with black bow tie, stood as best man. One hand flinched at his side; the other was buried in his pocket.

  Gran and I had patiently answered his questions all morning, repeated on the drive to the chapel. “Yes, Evan, when you hear the Pastor ask for the ring, you take it from your pocket and hand it to Dallas.”

  Molly was my attendant, wearing a lacy black cocktail dress of her own. Grinning in her place at the altar, she surreptitiously gave me two thumbs-up while still clasping a posy of peach-colored flowers.

  Not many people filled the bride’s side of pews: my candy boss, a few friends and neighbors and Molly’s husband, Rick, holding their three-month-old sleeping baby boy. Dallas’s parents and a married sister and her family headed up the groom’s side in the first pew, followed by a few rows of police officers in dress blues, including Captain Billington.

  After taking it all in, I sucked in a deep breath and when I heard the piano processional begin, I focused only on Dallas as Gran and I moved slowly down the aisle. He also wore a black suit, with a sapphire shirt that matched the color of his eyes, shining with emotion as he watched me advance. His dark hair was slicked back and his clean-shaven face and dreamy smile gave him the look of someone much younger than thirty. Vulnerable. Endearing. I almost laughed out loud when I saw that his tie was something you might find in a novelty store—a colorful collage of Valentine candy hearts. My own heart fluttered as our focus locked out the world, and our mouths uttered the words that would bind us together forever.

  By the time we turned as man and wife to face our small group of witnesses, my vision was glazed, and I could feel a happy tear shake loose and glide down my cheek.

  Dallas reached out to catch it with his thumb, then scooped me up and carried me swiftly down the aisle and out of the chapel into the brisk wintry air.

  Park trees webbed in ice crystals grew out of a sea of crusty snow glittering like diamonds in the afternoon sun. Upon arriving at the chapel, I hadn’t noticed such pristine fairyland, but Dallas brought it to my attention when he set me down and wrapped his jacket around my shoulders. This had to be a rare vista for someone from a climate lacking the icy wonders of northern nature, and I marveled at the sight even more because of his appreciation. I gazed at the diamonds on my left hand. The day already had a lock on beautiful memories.

  Dallas pulled his smart phone out of his pocket and took some photos of the landscape, and a few selfies of us.

  When I began to feel the cold, I suggested we go back inside.

  Instead, he put his arms around me and pointed skyward with his trademark grin.

  Amplified by the snow and cold air, I heard a distant drone grow louder and louder until a small plane appeared over the treetops, tugging a trail of hearts and a banner message: “I love Peaches!”

  Several people drifted out of the chapel, surrounding us on the steps, pointing to the plane with a tittering chorus of ahs and ohs, as they hugged themselves against the cold.

  I laughed in delight. “How did you manage? The timing and everything, and what if it snowed or…” He stopped my questions with a kiss that spiraled into me like electricity. Whatever chill I may have felt—wrapped in the strong arms of the man of my dreams—was quelled by the summer in my heart. Ignited in any weather, our love would always be Hot Stuff.

  “My wife,” he breathed in a cloud of vapor against my ear.

  “I love you more,” I choked, dabbing my eyes with his silky Valentine tie.

  A word about the author…

  Born and raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, CJ Fosdick has freelanced for over thirty years, writing award-winning stories and articles for local and national publications. She has stories published in three anthologies, including Minnesota’s Blossoms & Blizzards.

  Look for her sequel to The Accidental Wife, and a progress report in her newsletter/blog as her novel dreams continue on a wooded country hilltop in Rochester, MN, with husband, family, and a menagerie of wild and domestic animals.

  http://cjfosdick.com

  Thank you for purchasing

  this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.