by Poppy Dunne
And all that on a cell phone, folks. Why is this man capable of bringing me almost to my knees with the help of only his voice and Verizon?
“Are you enjoying how much of a dumbass I am?” I ask. I’ve got to keep on the offensive. Can’t let him know how out of control the mere sound of his voice makes me.
“I’m enjoying you, Emma. Very much.”
This feels like the right place for a snappy comeback. However, I got a bit lost on the word ‘come,’ and now I’m of no use to anybody.
“Can I help you, Fras?”
Hey, that shuts him up a little. Emma, you moron.
“I simply wanted to know what time Sawyer’s recital starts tomorrow.”
Right, Sawyer’s dance recital. She’s something of a prima ballerina, I’m proud to announce. She’s got the lead in the Sleeping Beauty scene with the four princes. She tells me it’s one of the most difficult numbers for a ballerina, so I’m showing up with plenty of roses and band-aids, in case her feet need them. The band-aids, of course, not the roses.
And Fraser freakin’ Drake wants to come along?
“You’re coming to the recital?” I ask, because nothing is too obvious where I’m concerned.
“No, I merely wanted to know the time for my own personal clarity,” he drawls in response. Ah, there’s the maddening Fraser I know. The maddeningly sensual Fras—stop it, Emma.
“You could’ve clarified with Justin.”
“Indeed. I chose you.”
Is it my imagination, or does his voice get even richer and deeper on the words ‘chose you’? Trick question. It doesn’t matter; I’m too turned on to care. There are questions I could ask right now, such as ‘how did you get my number’ or ‘will you take me now, you gorgeous beast’ but neither seems like something I want the NSA to hear.
“Show starts at seven. I’ll be surprised if you show up.”
Challenge him, just the way I like it. Challenge him so he’ll be sure to turn up, just to spite me. The hot, spiteful bastard.
“Seven it is. I’ll see you then.”
He hangs up, and I shove the phone back in my pocket, heart tap-dancing in my chest. That is not medically safe, by the way. As I stand there, staring up at the streetlights as they come on down the block, I consider. Here I was, musing about the perfect type of man, and Fraser Drake happens to call my phone. It’s got to be a coincidence. There’s no way the universe is sending me such a loud and clear signal.
But having a drink with me at the bar? Calling me, and not Justin about Sawyer’s recital? Coming to Sawyer’s recital, when he knows I’ll be there?
Could be Mr. Drake is sending some clear signals of his own.
7
Emma
My phone’s all charged up, and the camera’s all ready to record. I pan my iPhone around the room, taking in the hordes of expectant parents and over-perfumed grandmothers making up the audience in the school’s gymnasium. The acoustics are better suited for middle school cheerleading than high art, but I’m a little biased. Sawyer Brightman could walk onstage, do armpit farts for two hours, and I would consider it art of the very highest quality.
The fact that my baby niece is genuinely talented is just icing on the cake of love.
“I don’t know if I’m pissed or glad your mother can’t make it,” Charlotte grumbles as she digs through Sebastian’s diaper bag. My nephew is standing on my lap and trying to take my phone away. He chortles, getting in the way of the shot. Aw, my favorite photobomber. “She makes that whole big speech about how important family is, and then she goes to cocktail hour with her ladies’ club.”
“Think about how happy you’re going to be watching your daughter dance Sleeping Beauty without my mother whispering about which of the princes she ought to marry.” I nudge Charlotte in the shoulder, and she snorts. Sebastian wobbles over onto her lap, and now she’s got her arms full.
“Remind me again how your mom and dad ever got married? They seem like such total opposites.” Charlotte passes me the blue gingham bag. “Can you find my compact? I swear whatever I need is always sucked away into the alternate dimension I’ve got in the bottom of this thing.”
“Law of the woman. All handbags must violate rules of time and space.” I search while I answer her first question. “The way Dad tells it, he met Mom at a faculty mixer. He thought she was the prettiest woman in the room, and they got married two weeks later. Problem was he also thought Mom was a junior faculty member like him; turns out she was there husband hunting for a rich, lonely man. Barring that, she’d go for a lonely man with a tenured position.”
“Did they never have a conversation before they drove to Vegas?” Charlotte winces as Sebastian tugs on her ponytail.
“I, er, think Justin was born exactly nine months later. I don’t think there was a lot of time for talk.” Because as Mom’ll tell you, that’s how God intended it: saddle yourself to a penis and ride into the sunset and the security of his 401k.
Oh crap, just imagined my parents having sex. Please hold, I need to get a new brain. On the bright side, I graze my hand on Charlotte’s compact, and pull it out. “Milady, your mirror.” I hand it to Charlotte as she groans.
“Ugh, don’t say ‘milady.’ It sounds like you need to tip your fedora at me as well.”
“You don’t like a classy, fedora-wearing nice guy, milady?” I pretend-tip a fedora, and Charlotte pretends to sound like she’s coughing up a hairball. We keep it classy, folks. Sebastian giggles and tries to stick his finger up my nose.
“Hey, you’re the one who has to deal with the dating pool. I’m happily married with three kids, which is all your mother cares about.” She grumbles that last bit, which worries me. Charlotte and Justin have been the cutest couple in the family since, well, since they first became a couple. I want to ask her about the job situation—when did he lose it, how, what are they planning? But then she might ask how I know, and then I have to confess to the pantry eavesdropping (which sounds like the greatest cozy spy novel of all time, incidentally) and then we have to sit taping Sawyer’s recital with our stomachs knotted like fists, and I’m overthinking, aren’t I? Sometimes I do that.
While Charlotte examines her makeup in her mirror, Sebastian falls back into my lap. I have to lay the bouquet of pink roses I got for Sawyer on the folding seat next to me—come on, Justin, where are you? Finally, I hear some very heavy, masculine footsteps squeaking up the gym floor towards us. I also notice that the squeaker is turning heads—specifically female heads. A lot of moms are shifting around to gape at the man who’s walking this way. In fact, one of them takes out her phone and not so discreetly takes a photo of him.
Honestly, you’d think they’d never seen a man before. Since it’s probably Justin, they’ve seen him all the time at school events.
Unless, of course, it’s not Justin. Unless, of course, it’s a tall, dark, and brooding slab of handsome named Fraser Drake.
“Emma. Charlotte. Hello.” Yep, I was right. Fraser is standing right there, looking “casual” in a dark green button up with a jacket. I swear, what does this man wear to exercise? Polos and khaki shorts?
Because that’s what he wore for gym when we were kids, and it was hilarious.
“Hey! Is Justin with you?” Charlotte sticks her compact back in her purse as Fraser lifts my roses off the seat and sits down right next to me. My heart rate ratchets up to a hundred beats per second. A little painful, but I can’t help it. Sebastian even puts my cheeks between his two baby hands and smooshes.
“Annie Ebba gotta fevew!” Then he chortles and knocks his forehead against mine. If you don’t speak toddler, that was ‘Auntie Emma got a fever,’ and I do, kiddo. It’s a fever of a hundred and one, and the only remedy is more Fraser.
“Justin might be late. He told me to come ahead anyway.” Fraser glowers at me, looking both surly-hot and absurdly ridiculous with that bouquet of pink roses, tied with a pink bow, and topped with a little dancing Snoopy balloon. I whisper in his
ear,
“You drew a lot of eyes.” He looks smugly pleased with that, so I have to burst his enthusiasm. It’s who I am. “With the flowers, it looks like you’re trying to pick up the hottest preteen in the chorus.”
Fraser makes a horrified, disgusted face. “Emma, that’s foul,” he says.
The combination of rugged, broad-shouldered man, unfeigned disgust, and the word ‘foul’ is both completely hilarious and unexpectedly arousing. Sebastian starts clutching at Fraser’s hair. “Better be careful. This one’s got the Baby Hands of Steel. Once he clamps on, you’ll need the jaws of life.” I take my flowers back, and pass Sebastian onto Fraser’s lap. “Here. You look much less conspicuous now. Much more ‘everyday dad.’”
“He’s so…sticky.” Fraser looks at Sebastian with growing horror.
“Yep. Just had a lollipop.” I get nudged in the ribs by Charlotte, and throw her a sweet, innocent wink. Look at me, the picture of sweetness and light who just happens to love tormenting hot men.
“I’ll take him. He may be sticky, but he’s my sticky guy.” She reaches over and lifts Sebastian into her arms as the lights finally dim and the orchestra strikes up.
By orchestra, I mean one harried looking middle-aged woman on piano and three kids sawing away on violin. One of them looks like he has pink eye, and the smallest girl seems like she’s on the verge of tears. The night can only go up from here.
Unsurprisingly, Sawyer is a sensation. The second she floats across the stage in her white tutu, holding a long-stemmed rose in her hand and waving it like a wand, everyone in the audience kind of ‘ooh’s.’ Doesn’t hurt that she’s the cutest red-haired kid on the planet, though maybe I’m biased on that part.
The princes, however, are all half a head shorter than she is, and they don’t seem to know where to put their feet. At one point in the choreography, two of them walk into each other, and I think a fight breaks out over by the golden throne. Someone gets his hair pulled, and a noogie for good measure. Meanwhile, the majestic faerie queen is standing by the side of the stage, texting away.
But like I said, Sawyer’s amazing, so that’s all that matters.
As the performance unfolds, I lean over to whisper in Fraser’s ear. “Still think making it out for a kids’ dance recital was the best use of your evening?”
“It beats whatever’s currently on Netflix,” he growls back.
“Let me guess, you only watch nature documentaries and biopics of sad white men throughout history.” I knock my knee against his; all in good fun, you know?
“I’d say you don’t know me nearly as well as you think you do, Emma.” Then he presses his knee against mine as well. But it’s not the sort of ‘I declare a knee war’ thing that we might’ve engaged in as kids. The pressure of his thigh against mine sends pulses of heat up through my body. My heart beats faster; damn, I think even my palms are sweating. The touch of Fraser’s body against mine takes all my teasing and throws it out the window. Then it follows out said window, drags my teasing back into the bathroom and gives it a swirly so that all the other kids can make fun of it.
This combination of reckless lust and middle school gymnasium is doing weird things to my brain.
Eventually, the lights come back on and the musician kids take their bows. The dancers trot onstage—one of them is already trying to take her tights off under her leotard, which is a look all its own. We give a standing ovation, of course, and then the kids come bumping and leaping off the stage and into the loving arms of their extended families. Sawyer dashes over to us, giddy with performance adrenaline. Charlotte hands me the baby, then wraps her eldest in a bear hug.
“You were the best one.” Charlotte’s not one for excessive emotion, but her face is all blotchy and her eyes red. She covers Sawyer’s face in kisses, while my niece squirms and tries to get away. Finally, I get to give her a hug and the flowers. Her bright green eyes light up.
“Pink roses! My favorite. Thanks, Aunt Emma.” She beams, melting me to my core. Then she sees Fraser, and says, “I remember you! I don’t think you’re nearly as much a stiff as my aunt does, for what it’s worth.”
He looks pained, but only slightly. Like, it’s a manly wince. “I’ll cherish that.”
Out of the mouths of babes, folks. “I’m gonna take those flowers back.” I snatch at them, but Sawyer dances away. Literally dances. She’s quite good at it.
“Nuh uh! I’ve, er, got to go. Everest’s with his friends.” She shoots me an excited look, then dashes off toward the front of the gym. Charlotte takes Sebastian back from me, puffing out her cheeks.
“Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll wait for Romeo and Juliet to stop facechatting or whatever they do these days.” She jostles Sebastian on her hip as I give her a quick side hug. “Have fun,” she murmurs in my ear. Hey now, do I look like the type of lady to start humping in an elementary school parking lot? No. I wait until I’m roughly thirty yards away, then it’s hump city.
Why do I let myself go anywhere? All I do is think terrible things.
“You, er, want to wait for Justin?” I ask Fraser, trying to sound super casual about it. Justin’s the reason he came, of course. They used to be best friends; probably have a lot of man bonding to do, things like planning fantasy football and punching each other in the shoulder.
“It’s fine. I’ll see him later this week.” Fraser strolls with me towards the door, and I swear I have never before swooned at a man strolling. As we leave, a sea of heads turns in Fraser’s wake. I almost want to turn around and shout, ‘I know, it’s weird he’s leaving with me, but I swear we’re not doing it. Not yet. I’ll keep you posted.’
If I had the flask of vodka I’d planned on bringing to this recital, those thoughts would now be spoken words. I’ve never been so glad for sobriety.
We leave the gym and exit the parking lot. I parked on the street, and Fraser walks alongside me. The Los Angeles air is gorgeous this evening, scented with honeysuckle and jasmine. Fraser’s cologne, which is probably called Proper British Sex Magic™, also adds a spicy, earthy note. I am now just cataloguing smells as I walk down this side street. I’m like a horny beagle.
Heh. “The horny beagle would make a good superhero, wouldn’t it?” I ask Fraser. He looks at me like I just flashed him in the middle of the street.
“I…I think so?” he replies.
The only way out of embarrassment at this point is to clock him and take off running, but I don’t want to add charges of assault to the evening. Finally, we arrive at my cute little Mini Cooper. It’s bright blue—I call it the TARDIS. I’d love to tell Fraser all about my unrequited love for Matt Smith, but I’m pretty sure I don’t need to push any more weirdness on him this evening.
“So.” He crosses his arms as we stand by my passenger door. “Don’t you need to get behind the wheel?”
Right, because my steering wheel is on the opposite side. Of course. “I, er, I’m just trying to make you feel more at home. You know, England? You all drive on the wrong side of the road?” I laugh a little. It’s a sound that wants to be sensual, but comes off sort of braying. Like a sexy donkey, that is I. Fraser, meanwhile, blinks like he can’t believe he’s still standing here talking to me. I can barely believe it myself.
“You seem nervous,” he says at last. Am I nuts, or does he sound…pleased? There appears to be a gleam of desire in those smoldering brown eyes of his. Blue and green eyes, they have the crackle or the shimmer, but brown eyes, phew. Who knew they’d make you think of a fire on a chilled winter night, enjoyed while you lounge in front of the hearth on a faux bearskin rug with a glass of spiced wine in hand?
In this rugged woodland fantasy, I am also naked, and so is Fraser. Just so the picture is clear.
“Should I be nervous?” That’s my cunning contribution to the conversation. My breath catches as Fraser draws nearer, pressing me against the car.
“Only if the feeling excites you.”
He brushes a strand of hair from my fa
ce, the touch of his skin against mine a line of blazing, glorious heat. He presses me against the car, his other hand snaking around my waist. We’re inches apart now. In fact, his lips are so near mine that I can feel the crackle of electricity and the wash of warmth between us. My breath catches as his lips skim over mine, just once. Delicately. It’s a reconnaissance mission: the lips are checking out whether it’s okay to go in for a kiss. The kiss will be scorching hot, destroying all past kisses. It will be an absolute kiss victory, thanks to the kissing scouts.
I do not want to think about war right as I am about to kiss Fraser Drake. But then I would not be myself.
“Does it?” he murmurs, lips grazing mine once more. My body is pressed against his, aligned perfectly. His hand tightens at my back, his thumb trailing circles. I’m about to go all in, folks. It is kiss time.
“I feel.” I swallow, lick my lips. “Smexcited.”
That was somewhere between sexy and excited; they both got lodged in my brain at the same time. Fraser pauses.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he growls, and then he brings his mouth over mine.
It takes half a second from the time our lips touch before I’ve got my arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him against me. We kiss like we’ve forgotten what breathing is; in fact, I nearly pass out until I remember I need to draw breath. With every kiss, he claims another, longer one. I’m lost in this man—my feet leave the ground as he lifts me up. He moans when my tongue slips inside his mouth, then returns stroke for stroke. My whole body is heavy with unspent lust, wet and aching between my legs. If he laid me down on the sidewalk right now, I’d give in to wild, screaming sex while the neighborhood pigeons watched. His stubble rasps against my cheek. His lips claim mine over and over, until finally we disengage from each other. I’m in Fraser’s arms, and he’s looking at me with a wild, reckless light in his eyes. There’s nothing sexier on earth than making an uptight man turn into a savage, rutting beast.
