by Wendy Warren
“I wasn’t going to read it now. I just thought you might like to relax a minute. And talk.”
“Talk?” Hic.
“Yes, Rosie. Talk. That’s when two people sit, sometimes opposite each other, sometimes side by side, and they converse about any topic that has meaning for them.” He looked at the envelope, a frown between his brows. “In this case, our marriage might be a good conversation starter.”
He closed his eyes briefly, brought his thumb and forefinger up and rubbed before looking at her again. “Sorry. Sarcasm is not my favorite mode of expression.”
She smiled. Who said things like “mode of expression” in normal conversation these days? Every now and again Dean would pop out some comment or action that made him seem as if he came from another era. Like his store downstairs. She liked it. “You’re not sarcastic. Usually.”
“Really? I feel sarcastic lately.”
The tilt to his lips and the wry, almost sad expression in his eyes gave the moment an intimacy that for a moment made Rosemary feel married to him.
Hic!
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered. Tossing the envelope onto a slim buffet table that stood against the back of the couch, he reached for her purse again without asking and tossed it onto the table, as well. “Give me your coat.”
Don’t wanna. Rosemary knew she should leave before her thoughts ran away with her, but she did have something—a little point she and Lucy had changed in the prenup—that she needed to mention to him.
“I’ll only stay a minute,” she assured him, unnecessarily as he didn’t seem concerned about getting back to work quickly this morning. Untying the belt of her trench coat, she let him grab it in one hand and toss it, too, over the buffet.
“Come on.” Taking her arm, he pulled her casually around the sofa, where he directed her to one of the leather cushions and seated himself beside her. “Turn,” he said.
“What?” Hic.
Shaking his head—I’m not doing this dance again, Rosie—he turned her shoulders, forcing her either to shift the rest of her body or to twist herself into a yoga pose guaranteed to squoosh the teeny tiny baby.
Dean’s hands settled onto her shoulders. She felt his palms through the thin material of the wrap dress she’d donned this morning. His touch was warm and heavy and grounding. Hic. Oh, man. Hic, hic, hic.
“I, um, I do have something…a little point…I need to discuss with—”
“Shh. We’ll talk in a minute. Relax first.” Sliding his hands down the outside of her arms, he lifted her shoulders until they were hunched around her ears, held them there a moment and then let them drop. Not at all a sexy move, which was rather reassuring, but definitely relaxing.
Stretching her shoulders back, he used his thumbs to work into the muscles, the massage rhythmic and efficient, and her body began to settle into his capable hands.
“Hiccups can be caused by tension in the diaphragmatic muscle,” he murmured, his mellow voice seeming like yet another aspect of the massage. “Once they begin, the muscle contraction takes on a life of its own.” His fingers walked slowly down either side of her spine. Rosemary had been tense for so many weeks, she almost moaned. “Some people try to relax the muscle by distracting themselves.”
“Like drinking apple juice upside down with their fingers in their ears.” She remembered Will’s suggestion.
Dean chuckled softly. “I’d never heard that one before. But yes, like that.” He used the entire surface of his hands to knead his way slowly back to her neck. That feels sooooo good. “Most people still believe in the scare tactic, catching someone by surprise.” He began to work on her nape…into her hairline…behind her ears… “I’ve never found that to be effective. Have you?”
She responded with something that sounded vaguely like, “Mmm-nnnnrrfflephlumph,” and didn’t trouble herself to clarify. He palmed the back of her head, his fingers pressing circles into her scalp like a hat with benefits. Nothing, nothing had ever felt this good, except…
Except for the last time he’d touched her with this kind of freedom. Well, more than this kind of freedom. Last time, he had touched her naked body, and relaxation wasn’t quite the release they’d been after.
Well on her way to cooked-noodle state, Rosemary couldn’t summon even a smidge of alarm over that thought. Why had touching never felt this good before? She’d been married, and for the ten years, everything had been hunky-dory—from her perspective. She’d had no complaints about sex, either the frequency or the intensity. Although…
In comparison to the fireworks Dean’s lovemaking had set off, her ex-husband was more of a…sparkler.
Desire had crashed upon her like a tsunami when she and Dean were on the dance floor. Her body had needed him, or so it had seemed at the time, the way bread needed flour to exist. Don’t dance with him, not ever again, she’d commanded herself the morning after.
Dimly she realized that letting him massage her was not in line with her decision never to lose control again. But this massage wasn’t about tsunami-like sexual heat. No, no, it was…gentle. Relaxing. Platonic, right?
His hands made a return trip down her spine, stopping to work an extra minute on her lower back. As she was wearing a dress rather than pants, Dean did not need to fight a waistband in order for his magic fingers to press and knead, working into her hips. A haze of sensation dulled Rosemary’s thoughts until they felt about as fluid as oatmeal.
Never felt sooo good…
Do… Not… Stop, she thought.
“I won’t,” Dean whispered back.
Oops.
When his palms slipped up her back like smoke, Rosemary leaned into them. She didn’t mean to, really… Although she didn’t exactly mean not to. Regardless of how she tried to care about the future and about not being weak or impulsive, she couldn’t seem to access the principles her mother and sisters wore like a second skin.
True to his promise, Dean did not stop massaging. When he tilted her neck, pressing his thumb and fingers along the stiff muscles, cupping her jaw in a palm as warm and soothing as a summer day, Rosemary sighed and leaned into the caress. She turned her head to say, “Thank you,” but no words emerged. Instead they locked gazes, and the words she should have spoken became a kiss she should not have given.
Really should not have.
Should not have brought her hand up to reach for his neck and pull him closer…
Should not have moaned into his lips as she tasted him for the first time in months.
This was what had stunned her so the night they’d gotten together, this hunger. It made her feel alive, strong. It made her feel daring and bold and free. And she’d never felt that way, not even as a kid. Life had always been a field filled with land mines to avoid. Caution had to be exercised, and her family’s brand of caution generally involved “healthy cynicism,” which translated to “Trust no one.”
But none of that mattered now, with Dean. As the eddying sensation pulled her deeper and deeper to its center, Rosemary knew the physical spell he cast was not the sole reason she was abandoning her cloak of protection; she couldn’t ignore the way he interacted with his family, his Mr. Rogers naturalness with children….
Bet you never wanted to shag Mr. Rogers, though, did you?
It was Dean who brought them face-to-face. And Dean who pulled back long enough to look into her eyes, to make sure she knew that this was no mere indiscriminate lust, not on his part.
He began kissing her again, his mouth hot and ravenous, and soon they were lying on his couch, their legs tangling discourteously, her hands running up his sides and traveling across his back as she noted for the first time that he’d ditched the lab coat.
Rosemary’s breasts tightened and tingled even before his hand found the generous mounds. As he touched her, managing to tease her nipples through her thin dress and lacy bra, she thought she might levitate off the couch.
She began to yank his shirt from his trousers, needing to feel his s
kin…needing, really, to feel his skin on her skin…and recognizing the precise moment when she decided she couldn’t stop, wasn’t going to stop until the sharp, painful ache inside her had been soothed—
Then, suddenly, it was over.
Rosemary wasn’t sure what had happened at first. Her eyes were closed, so all she knew was that one moment her body felt like an inferno with a gasoline drip and the next moment she was cold, floundering, wondering what was wrong.
She opened her eyelids with extreme effort, blinked at the light coming through the windows on the other side of the apartment and saw Dean sitting up, one of his hands on her tummy as if he required the continuity, his chest rising and falling visibly as he panted his way back to normal.
When he was sufficiently recovered, he helped her sit, straightened her dress at the shoulders and with a small smile noted, “This probably isn’t a good way to kick off a celibate marriage.” Running first one hand then the other through his hair, he expelled a breath filled with pent-up energy. “How are those hiccups?”
Rosemary figured her options at this moment were a) embarrassment, b) relief or c) frustration. Since she’d always been rotten at multiple choice, she aimed merely for coherent. “Fine.” Her voice sounded hoarse and thready. “Gone.” Attempting an urbane laugh, she said, “I think you found a new cure.”
“I doubt it’s new.” Reaching out, he looped one of her curls around his forefinger. “Effective, though.” Hovering on the brink of speaking again, he changed his mind, released her hair and stood. “I’ll take a look at that document after work.” Again she had the sense he had something more on his mind.
Rosemary couldn’t regroup nearly as quickly as he seemed able to and stood more slowly. Lucy had told her to tell Dean something about the prenup, but what was it…? She frowned. Oh, yeah—
“Um, my sister wanted me to mention something that’s a bit different from what we discussed. About the marriage. A little detail.”
“Oh. Uh-huh.” Dean cleared his throat. “Yeah…. Changes—they happen.”
“Yes.”
His tie had loosened during their…activity…and yet he tugged on it now as if it was choking him. “In fact, I was going to talk to you about… I wanted to mention…” He shook his head. “What’s the change?”
Rosemary stared at him. Up to now he’d always seemed enviably sure of himself. “What do you want to ask?”
“What’s the change in the prenuptial agreement?”
“Oh, it’s not actually written into the prenup. It’s part of our verbal agreement…about the length of time we’re going to be together. Married.”
His brows rose abruptly then swooped lower than before as he awaited elaboration.
Rosemary hadn’t thought the change would be a problem since this marriage was destined to have a short shelf life from the get-go, but now anxiety fizzed inside her.
Silly. It’s not going to matter. Just tell him. “Well, originally, we agreed to one and a half years of marriage from our wedding day, if you remember? But Lucy said the divorce might be smoother if we stick it out two years. I think she considers two years some kind of magic number for proving you gave the marriage the old college try.” Rosemary swooped her fist through the air. Cute. That made you look like an idiot. Dropping the smile and her hand, she shrugged at him. “Are you okay with that?”
Dean lowered his head and pressed two fingers to his eyes. Imminent migraine. Probably not a good sign. Although he was the one who’d been pro-marriage from the start, anything could have changed since they’d spoken about it. Maybe it appeared to him that she was trying to manipulate their agreement to her advantage, which…well, she was. Sighing, Rosemary told herself to be prepared if he was perturbed.
Despite that note to self, she was not prepared when Dean started laughing. Laughing.
“What?” she asked, watching him warily. Was that ha-ha-funny laughter or demonic “I’ll be damned if I let you screw with my life, sister,” laughter? “Um, look, if it’s not going to work for you, just say so, because it was Lucy’s idea, anyway. She’s probably just being extracautious. She’s like that. Personally, I think it’s a little silly to assume that a few more months—”
Dean sobered abruptly. “It’s Lucy’s idea?” Looking away, he nodded to himself, wiping a hand down the face that only seconds before was wreathed in laughter. “You, of course, would have preferred not to add six more months to this marriage.” He didn’t wait for her to answer. Rising as if he were very tired, he walked around the sofa, grabbed his lab coat and shrugged into it. “Two years suits me fine. Another six months in the same house with my child—can’t argue with that, can I?” He smiled, but it failed to reach his eyes. “I’ll be happy to sign.”
Rosemary didn’t know how to respond, which seemed to be a continual state for her lately.
“You want me to bring the papers to you or send them to your sister?” he asked.
“Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
Without telling her what that would be, he crossed to the door, leaving Rosemary still buzzing with lust and confusion.
With empty eyes, Dean gave her a brief nod. “I’ve got to get back to work. Come down when you’re ready. Just pull the door shut on your way out.”
Chapter Ten
Things moved fairly quickly after that. Dean sent the signed prenuptial agreement directly to Lucy, who texted Rosemary, “He signed. 0 changes. Lucky U.”
Rosemary applied herself to her work at the library, but her mind never strayed far from the realization that it wouldn’t take long for her pregnancy to show, so if she and Dean planned to go public as a couple, it would behoove them to do it sooner rather than later.
Even though there was a family physician right here in Honeyford, Rosemary had begun seeing an ob-gyn in Bend. Perhaps after she and Dean came out of the closet (or bedroom?), so to speak, she would change doctors and save herself the drive.
Listening to the library’s grandfather clock chime noon, Rosemary reached for one of the peppermints she kept in her drawer at the reference desk. Thus far on her list of fun ways to spend the day, pregnancy and salmonella were running neck and neck.
Nearing the end of her first trimester, she expected her morning sickness to abate. That was what the books she’d purchased from Amazon suggested (Dean still had the library’s best pregnancy guides). Unfortunately, Rosemary’s nausea had increased in the past few days, and now it seemed to be a loyal companion. Gone were the ravenous nights that allowed her to fill up on the food she couldn’t even squint at during the day. She’d lost a pound this week.
No one stopped by the library on his lunch hour to wave a pastrami sandwich under her nose, either. She hadn’t seen or heard from Dean for several days, not since she’d dropped off the prenuptial agreement.
Interestingly, just thinking about their romp on the couch ignited inside her an inferno of sexual heat that temporarily burned off the nausea. And made her hiccup.
“Are you hiccuping again?” Her clerk, Abby, joined her at the reference desk. Abby’s wardrobe changed along with her choice in reading material. Currently she was devouring The Catcher in the Rye at Rosemary’s suggestion and had replaced the 1940s shoulder pads with a pearl-buttoned sweater set, full skirt and saddle shoes. “You should get those hiccups checked out,” she said. “My boyfriend’s brother hiccuped for thirty-five days straight and didn’t stop until they took him to the hospital.”
“What did the hospital do for him?”
Abby helped herself to a mint. “They ran a CAT scan and found out he’d swallowed a quarter at his cousin’s bar mitzvah.”
A shiver of alarm pattered up Rosemary’s back. Hic. “That’s what was causing him to hiccup?”
Working the mint around her mouth, Abby shrugged. “Doubtful. He’d gone to the bar mitzvah two years earlier. Good to know there was a quarter in there, though. I think they operated. I’ll ask. In the meantime, want me to scare you?”
&nb
sp; “You just did.” Hic. “I’m going to refill my water bottle.”
“Okay. Oh!” Reaching into the folds of her pink skirt, Abby withdrew an envelope. “Here. For you.”
Rosemary accepted the square linen envelope, noting her name—and nothing more—printed neatly on the front. “Where’d you get this?”
“My friend Polly brought it by when she came to drop off books.”
“Polly?” Frowning, Rosemary tried to remember if she’d met a Polly in town.
“She’s in high school with my cousin Emily. Polly works at the pharmacy.”
The tips of Rosemary’s fingers began to itch with the desire to rip open the envelope. Controlling herself, she shrugged her eyebrows and said, “Hmm.” Look at me, all indifferent.
Forcing herself to toss—not place carefully, but actually toss—the envelope next to the keyboard on her desk, as if she wasn’t the least bit curious, Rosemary feigned a businesslike glance at her watch.
“Why don’t you take lunch now,” she suggested. “I’ll hold down the fort until story hour.”
“Okay. Cool. I brought leftovers, so I’ll be in the back, reading, if you need me.”
Rosemary sat calmly until Abby was out of eyesight and then, because no one else was nearby, she fumbled the envelope open with shaky fingers and pulled out a simple ivory card with an embossed K at the top. She hiccuped once before she read the message:
Rosemary,
Hoping you will join me for dinner tomorrow evening at the Honeyford Inn, 7 p.m. Regrets only.
Dean
Above the too-rapid beat of her heart, Rosemary reread the inked lines. This was the first time she’d seen Dean’s hand-writing—clear, bold letters, not too fancy yet with a distinct style. He’d drawn a small happy face after “Regrets only.”
This was also the first time he had formally invited her on a date.
Rosemary’s hand wandered to her tummy. She patted the baby. “Sorry we’ve done this backward, sweetie pie. Mama has never had a good sense of direction where men are concerned.”
