by Lisa Plumley
Damon was ashamed to realize he’d never thought about it before. “I was just grateful for Natasha. Right from the start. I lived in fear of the day she’d leave me. Then it happened.”
Carol crossed her arms. “Was it as bad as you thought?”
“It was worse. Much worse.”
“Well, that makes sense. You probably deserved it.” With an air of conclusiveness, Carol picked up her dog-eared paperbacks. “Natasha always says that only one person is allowed to be irresponsible at any given time. For years, that person was Paul. Then it was you. This morning, it was Natasha.” Carol nodded at Milo, obviously referring to the fact that Damon had allowed Natasha to sleep in today. “You probably shouldn’t let her get used to that treatment, though,” Carol told him. “Once someone’s accustomed to getting whatever they want, whenever they want it, they find that habit almost impossible to break.”
It didn’t require a Mensa membership to figure out what she was getting at. Carol didn’t believe Damon could change.
Duly chastened—by a woman who knew how to do the job right—Damon grinned. “Natasha said you didn’t pull any punches.”
“Only when it comes to watching out for the people I love. Natasha is one of the few and the proud.” Carol tousled Milo’s hair. “And this little monkey is another one. I love them a lot. But you …” Here, she gave Damon a warning look. “The jury’s still out on you, Mr. Torrance. Don’t you forget—I’m watching you.”
“Hey, look all you want.” Damon winked. “I want to be seen.”
“I just bet you do.” Carol nodded at him, a girlish blush brightening her cheeks. “I don’t know if she’s realized it yet, but Natasha is playing with fire by having you here.”
“Not necessarily. I’m determined to change, remember?” Damon gave her another smile. “Speaking of which … I have a project I hope you’ll help me with. Are you interested?”
“Am I interested? In a potentially devious project?” Carol perked up. “Do the neighborhood cats poop in my azaleas?”
Damon stared blankly. Azaleas were flowers, so …
“Poop!” Milo repeated with a chortle, glancing up bright-eyed from his guide. “Poop, poop, poop! You said ‘poop,’ Grandma!”
This time, Carol’s grin matched Damon’s. “Yes, dear,” she told Damon in a patient, wholly unambiguous tone. “Fill me in on your dastardly plans, and I’ll see what I can do to help.”
Chapter 17
As was typical for every busy parent on the planet, Natasha realized too late that just because she’d taken on a new project—namely, Damon—her existing responsibilities didn’t exactly shuffle aside to make room.
The day didn’t offer up a bonus twenty-six-hour cycle just for her. The laundry didn’t leap into her Maytag on its own. The traffic didn’t part like the Red Sea. The groceries, despite her wishing they would, weren’t planning to purchase or cook themselves.
That’s why, after a long and illuminating talk with Jimmy at Torrance Chocolates, Natasha found herself parking her Civic on a tree-lined neighborhood street, grabbing a handful of reusable canvas bags from her backseat, and heading toward the parking lot of a nearby school to visit the farmers market.
She wasn’t the only one. The festival atmosphere created by the weekly market drew locals and tourists alike. The vendors awaited at their colorful, awning-covered produce stands, which stretched in multiple rows across the temporarily repurposed lot. Banners flapped at the entryway; balloons bobbed on the breeze. Near the entrance that Natasha chose, a cluster of local musicians played an acoustic set, lending even more ambiance to the proceedings.
It might have been more practical to push a cart down the aisles of the neighborhood mega-mart, but it wouldn’t have been more fun—and by now, Natasha knew many of the growers and bakers and artisans who brought their wares to the market. She bought as many things as she could there. Because of Milo’s needs—
Just as Natasha thought of her son, he seemed to appear.
Squinting into the crowd, Natasha fought for another look. She could have sworn she’d glimpsed a towheaded boy of about Milo’s age, walking hand in hand with a dark-haired man … and a leashed black dog. It had to have been Finn, Damon, and Milo.
But here? Why?
Damon was about as likely to hang out at a farmers market as he was to grow his own rutabagas. And Natasha had left Milo in Carol’s capable hands—not Damon’s. Although she had taken pains to give Damon that food-allergy briefing first, just to be safe, she hadn’t asked him to babysit. So what was going on?
In the distance, the trio wandered past a stand featuring piles of vibrant citrus. It was definitely them, Natasha saw.
As she headed toward them, the woman behind the makeshift counter of the farm stand spotted them, too. She did a double take at Damon, spied Finn, then utterly melted over Milo. The whole scenario was obvious: She thought Damon was a single dad out for a day at the farmers market with his son and puppy.
Natasha couldn’t help taking umbrage at that. That was her adorable son! That was her fluffy black puppy! That was her—
Well, Damon wasn’t hers exactly, Natasha reminded herself with deliberate, painstaking accuracy as she slung her canvas bags over her shoulder and picked up speed. Damon was free to do as he pleased. Technically. But that didn’t mean Natasha was going to let some marketplace floozy get all giggly and hot-to-trot with him right under her nose. Especially with Milo standing there.
There was … farmers market decorum to think of! There was common decency to be considered, Natasha told herself indignantly. There had to be standards of behavior, or else …
Or else frisky farmers market employees would seize on any opportunity to squeeze Damon’s biceps like under-ripe melons—and then coo and laugh as though they were heirloom-quality fruit.
At this rate, Natasha realized, that farm-stand employee was going to rub off all the sunscreen she had so meticulously applied. That simply couldn’t be allowed to happen, she decided as she marched onward through the throngs of people. Otherwise …
Otherwise, Damon might need even more sunscreen when he got home. Hmm. Tentatively, Natasha slowed her pace. That was tempting. After all, Damon would require her to apply it, so—
The woman leaned forward to show Damon some grapefruits—in the literal (as in, she sold grapefruits) and the figurative (as in, she flaunted some Penthouse-worthy breasts) sense of the word—and Natasha quit thinking altogether. She just marched faster. This had gone just about far enough for her.
People at the farmers market were so friendly, Damon mused as, for the fourth time that afternoon, he found himself surrounded by smiling, chattering, down-to-earth fellow marketgoers. They were so talkative and helpful. He’d never been to the farmers market before (his housekeeper did all his shopping during those rare times when he was at home long enough to require groceries). But so far, he liked the place. He liked the stalls and veggies and music. He liked the arrays of freshly baked bread, the samples of jalapeño jelly and locally produced preserves, and the fact that, if you wanted, you could have lunch at a food cart right there, and watch someone fix you a tamale on the spot.
“These are very ripe,” the woman selling grapefruits told him. She picked up a round, pink-tinged specimen, then held it out to Damon while brashly making eye contact. “Go ahead. Give this one a squeeze. Feel for yourself how juicy it’ll be.”
Damon smiled. Under other circumstances, he’d have thought the grapefruit seller was flirting with him. But since he’d lost his good-luck streak and his mojo, things like that didn’t happen to him anymore. Probably she was simply being helpful.
Agreeably, he accepted the grapefruit. Experimentally, he gave it a squeeze. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for,” Damon admitted. “It feels heavy for its size. Is that good?”
“That’s very good.” She thrust out her breasts, leaned over to select another grapefruit, then passed it to him. “Try this.”
He did. With bot
h hands full, Damon gave a double squeeze.
A woman nearby sighed. Audibly. And sort of dreamily.
Damon glanced at her. She started, then smiled at him. That was when Damon noticed that the crowd had grown a little bigger.
“You should try the oranges,” the other woman suggested, inadvertently pushing forward her own, more petite breasts as she chose two oranges for him. “They’re not as big, but they’re a lot sweeter. Some people like them more than grapefruits.”
“Oh. Okay.” Again, Damon had the sense she was flirting with him, but he knew that couldn’t be true. Obligingly, he put down the grapefruits and accepted the woman’s oranges. He gave them an experimental squeeze, then lifted them to his nose. He closed his eyes, then inhaled. “Yes, they do seem sweeter.”
When he opened his eyes again, Damon felt as if the rapt attention of the whole world was focused on him. Smiles abounded. There was another noticeable sigh, then a murmur from two women standing nearby. One woman winked at him, then took a few surreptitious cell phone snapshots of him. Another waved. It was as if they’d guessed he was a newbie here and wanted to make him feel as welcome as possible. That was nice.
“Try the lemons!” someone shouted. “Or the tangelos!”
“Or the limes!” came another voice. “Stroke the limes!”
Well. That sounded kind of weird. Confused, Damon shot an imploring glance at the grapefruit seller. “Maybe if I tasted something?” He gestured at the multiple overstuffed canvas bags—and one cardboard box—at his feet. Near his bounty—which he’d purchased with some of his necktie-selling cash—Finn flopped in the shade. Milo stood happily eating apple slices from a paper cup given him by the previous farm-stand proprietor. “I’ve already bought a lot more than I came for,” Damon explained. “The person who told me about the market”—Carol, who’d hijacked Damon’s original plan to innocently try grocery shopping at Ralph’s—“didn’t tell me there would be so many options here.”
“There are a lot of different options.” Another woman sidled up. Smiling, she caressed his oranges. “Take your pick.”
Belatedly, it occurred to Damon that there were a disproportionate number of women at the farmers market. Either that, or women really liked citrus. Also, apples, honey, kale, broccoli, and salad greens, which were the other things he and Milo had examined—and eventually purchased—this afternoon.
“Sure,” the seller said helpfully. “You can taste anything you like. Anything at all.”
Again, there was that kittenish tone. But Damon had to be imagining it. Because he didn’t attract women in that same effortless way anymore. Besides, he hadn’t been flirting.
It always took two to flirt. It was a mutually participatory activity. That was part of what made it fun.
In his book, fun couldn’t possibly be wrong. Fun always wins, he’d told a skeptical Jason more than once. Wes agreed.
“You’ve got to try a pomelo at least once in your life.” Another woman chose what looked like a head-size grapefruit from the stand. With a suggestive smile, she offered it to Damon. “Go ahead. Feel it! It’s the biggest and the best. You’ll see.”
“Thanks. I’m … going to taste the oranges first.” Feeling unusually rattled, Damon accepted a wedge of sliced orange from the seller. While she bent to offer one to Milo, too, Damon did his best to treat her produce with the respect it deserved. That seemed to be the protocol here at the market. He turned the orange wedge this way and that, admiring its color. A trickle of sticky juice flowed over his thumb. “Ooh, looks juicy!”
Automatically, Damon brought the heel of his thumb to his mouth. He eagerly sucked away the juice. “Mmm. Delicious.”
The crowd of farmers market shoppers moaned in agreement.
Feeling encouraged—because maybe he was doing this responsible-shopping routine correctly after all—Damon inhaled the orange’s fragrance. He nodded in appreciation. He lifted the wedge in the air, frowned in concentration, then licked it.
“Yes!” someone cried. “Lick it again!”
Well, that was weird too. He only wanted to get a fuller sense of the orange’s tart-sweet flavor. A chef friend had once told him that a lot of taste buds were concentrated on the tip of the tongue. Hence, the licking. But now that that was finished …
With his teeth, Damon peeled the orange’s flesh from its rind. Happily, he chomped away. He swallowed. He nodded.
“Yes, really good.” Seriously, he glanced down at Milo.
“I think we should buy a mixed dozen or two. What do you think?”
The boy pointed. “I think my mom is here.”
Damon looked in the direction Milo indicated. Natasha, inexplicably, really was there. She was headed toward them.
Helplessly, Damon grinned from ear to ear. He just loved seeing Natasha coming his way. She was beautiful. She was sweet. She was … possibly feeling kind of cranky again, if her slight frown and hasty stomping footsteps were any indication.
Well, if he’d ever needed to regain his ability to charm someone, it was right now. Damon hoped against hope that would happen. But the fact that all the women surrounding him took several steps away from him at that very moment gave him pause.
Now, he was not only not charming, but also potentially offensive? What the hell? He’d taken a shower after doing the yard work. He’d put on some Speed Stick. He’d tried to be amiable and receptive since he’d been here. He’d succeeded, too! Damon told himself. For fuck’s sake, a second ago, the other farmers market customers had practically been moshing with him!
But now their hesitance to actually touch him continued.
So did their sudden reluctance to look at him. Damon didn’t get it.
Even as Natasha arrived, the grapefruit seller gave him an apologetic shake of her head. “Sorry. I misunderstood.”
With that mumbled apology, she got busy bagging up a bunch of assorted citrus. The shoppers nearby, having put several additional feet between themselves and Damon, watched Natasha.
Damon merely opened his arms to greet her. “Tasha!” If the other shoppers didn’t actually retreat even farther, Damon would have sworn they receded from his field of vision.
All he could see was Natasha … and the fact that, even though she’d put on a different pair of jeans, a nontransparent shirt, and a lightweight, complicatedly tied scarf as protection against the variable San Diego weather, she still looked good enough to eat. Or hug. Or kiss. Or mop the floors for.
Mop? What in the world was the matter with him, anyway?
Damon knew what a mop looked like, and he did know how to use one. He’d mopped at Torrance Chocolates, back in his days working the counter at the original sweetshop. But he’d never before tried to seduce a woman with his mad mopping skills.
On the other hand, he could probably do it. With a burst of unexpected nostalgia, Damon remembered his teenage discovery that he liked helping customers—that he knew what they wanted almost before they did. That people liked him and he liked them and that made good things happen. That revelation had led to his career in marketing Torrance Chocolates. It had changed his life. But Damon didn’t care about Torrance Chocolates anymore.
Not now. Not when he could spend time with Milo and Finn and Natasha. Maybe, it occurred to Damon, he should include cleaning in his secret plan—his secret plan to become as helpful to Natasha as possible and thereby prove to her that he’d really changed. That was the plan he’d confided to Carol. That was the plan that had brought him to the farmers market in the first place.
But all the best plans were made to be cast aside. Right?
After all, he wouldn’t be himself if he hewed too closely to the straight and narrow. He had to mix up things sometimes.
“I just had a great idea.” Damon pulled Natasha close for a vaguely stiff-feeling hug. Jovially, he released her. “Let’s you and I take Milo and Finn for a picnic. I know a perfect spot.”
“A picnic?” Natasha arched her brows. “I don’t know, Damon
. Can you get away? You seem pretty busy here with your harem.”
Harem? Perplexed, Damon looked around. One by one, the lingering shoppers seemed to size up Natasha. They stared intently at Damon’s face. They glanced back at Natasha, then sighed. One by one, they drifted away. He didn’t know why.
Maybe they wanted to give him and Natasha more privacy for the squabble she appeared determined to have with him. Right there. Near the pomelos. With the fragrance of cut oranges in the air and the band playing a reggae version of an eighties tune.
“I’m just shopping.” Damon gestured toward his afternoon’s haul of produce. “I thought it would help you. I thought you’d be pleased. I thought Milo and Finn would have a good time.”
“We did have a good time!” Milo piped up. He waved his sticky, apple-scented fingers like a pocket-size Broadway star doing jazz hands. He clapped his goopy hands on Natasha’s sleeve. “Let’s do it, Mom! Let’s go on a picnic with Damon!”
Damon gazed at her in equally obvious entreaty. He didn’t care who knew how much he wanted Natasha to agree. “Come on,” he coaxed with a smile. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Natasha repeated incredulously, staring at Damon’s happy face. “That’s easy.”
I could fall in love with you twice as hard, she told herself in silent answer to Damon’s question. I could find it twice as difficult to say no to you than I already do.
Because her long-standing affection for Damon had already morphed into a new kind of closeness between them … a closeness that came packaged with risqué talk, full-body rubs, and a kiss. She probably shouldn’t encourage any more tempting behavior.
That would only make it more difficult when, inevitably, Damon went on his way later. Natasha only had to look at the women surrounding him to know that Damon could have his pick of them. Just like Paul, Damon could choose someone else instead of her. He could leave. She wanted him to leave. She needed to. She needed to let him go before he broke her heart all over again.
