Because I Can (Montgomery Manor)

by Tamara Morgan

  “Surprisingly well, actually. They didn’t break anything.”

  “Or anyone?”

  “No. They might have been tempted, but they didn’t act up. Not enough to cause problems.”

  In all honesty, it was she whose behavior was suspect. She was the one who brought a man home for sex afterward. She was the one who then failed at said sex. She was also the one studiously avoiding all thoughts related to the upcoming weekend, when the cycle could theoretically start over again.

  For the first time in her life, she hoped they got rained out.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I liked your young man.”

  “Mom.” She squirreled an entire cookie away in her cheek to avoid having to make eye contact. “He’s not my young man.”

  “Oh? Are you just using him, then?”

  It was a wonder more squirrels didn’t choke to death. By the time Georgia managed to clear the cookie from her trachea and wash down the crumbs with the glass of milk her mom poured for her, she’d regained some measure of calm.

  “I think it’s a good idea, to be honest,” her mom said, as though they’d never lost the thread of conversation. There was a reason Georgia’s brothers were such evil geniuses. The apples clung perversely to the tree. “It’s about time you cashed in on some of your fancy connections to start seeing results. I never understood the point of laboring so hard for those people if they won’t give you anything in return.”

  “Mom!”

  “They have money, Georgia. And power. It’s not wrong to be attracted to those things.”

  “It’s not the money or the power I’m attracted to,” she muttered. It was everything else she’d been lusting after. Still lusted after, if she was being honest.

  Maybe it had been foolish to put all her metaphorical eggs in Monty’s strong, capable, oh-so-big basket, but it was too late now. All the eggs were broken, just like her. He’d been this perfect, attentive lover—a gift from the gods, molded to survive any apocalyptic scenario—and she’d fizzled out. One second, he’d been filling her, his body driving her closer and closer to release, and the next...well. He’d still been filling her, but her body had reared up from the edge and was beating a hasty retreat.

  It was too much. He was too much.

  Everything inside her had clamped up at once, a familiar feeling of detachment taking over as her fifth grade Sex Ed teacher’s voice filled her head.

  When a man and a woman love each other very much, they get together and create a baby. Sometimes, though, they don’t want a baby. But they still get together, because that’s how strong their love is.

  To this day, it had to be one of the worst explanations for intercourse she’d ever heard—and with three older brothers, she’d heard plenty—but it was the one that had always stuck with her the most. Probably because it had been a crock of shit.

  Real sex—the grown-up kind, the modern kind—had little to do with love or babies. It was friction and fluid. It was a moment of mutual desire too quickly gone.

  “It’s not wrong to ask for help every now and then, you know,” her mom said softly. “Especially since John seems like the perfect solution to your problem.”

  Georgia’s gaze snapped up. How could her mom possibly know that? She’d never told anyone how deep her fantasies were rooted.

  “If anyone can get you the volunteers you need, it’s going to be that man and that family. What did he say when you approached him?”

  Oh, God. She bit back a groan. She’d done it again—confused business with sex, assumed everyone was as obsessed with orgasms as her. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

  “That is what you invited him for, though, right?” Her mom’s eyes narrowed, scanning Georgia’s face as if reading a book. “You told him they might replace you if you can’t get your numbers up?”

  She didn’t answer, not trusting herself to speak—and this from a woman who brazenly invited millionaires to share her bed. She almost wished her mom had been talking about sex. At least then she could pretend outrage and stomp away.

  “Georgia?” her mom echoed.

  She shoved another cookie into her mouth, unsure where to look or what she could say to make this conversation come to an end. It was one thing to admit she was defective in the sexual arena, to go to bed every night aware that she was warming no one’s thoughts, traipsing through no one’s dreams. Loneliness wasn’t her favorite thing, but she could handle it. She’d been handling it her entire life.

  But Homeward Bound wasn’t just a feeling of gnawing regret in the pit of her stomach, warning her that her best years were passing her by. It was the foundation of everything she did and everything she was.

  When she’d first signed up as a volunteer after Mr. Montgomery dropped a casual hint about how suited she was for the task, she’d had no idea what she was getting into. Building houses had seemed like a good way to hone her skills for the future, meet other people who shared her interests, pass the time—the usual things eighteen-year-olds were concerned with and didn’t give a second thought to.

  What she found, however, was so much more.

  It wasn’t acceptance, and it wasn’t enjoyment, though those things certainly played a role. It wasn’t professional success either, since the work continued unpaid and would for the foreseeable future. More than anything, it was the chance to lose her sense of self for a few hours of the day that drove her. All her problems, her desires, her shortcomings, the catastrophic crater that was her personal life—everything became secondary when she faced the pile of two-by-fours that would someday be a home.

  No one’s happiness depended on Georgia Lennox—this strange, awkward, unattractive human being she’d become—and she doubted it ever would. But for the space of a few months, she got to be an important part of some family’s story.

  That meant something. Maybe not much, but something.

  “I can fix this on my own, Mom.” She spoke firmly, willing the words into fact. “I don’t need to wave a magic Montgomery wand to make everything better. I just need to work a little bit harder, that’s all.”

  Her mom sighed. “Georgia, I have never known a person to fight the wrong battles with as much tenacity as you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Her mom reached across the table and gave her hand a squeeze. “I love that you chose volunteer work over a career, and I couldn’t be prouder of all the things you’ve accomplished, but you don’t have to prove yourself by struggling all the time. You’re not your brothers.”

  Georgia slipped her hand out from under her mother’s and grabbed another cookie, but for once, she’d lost her appetite. She toyed with the coconut, breaking pieces between her fingers.

  “It’s also time you got a separate landline for your apartment,” her mom added. “There’s a message for you on the answering machine. I highly suggest you listen to it and delete it before Danny gets home.”

  Georgia never got phone calls that weren’t work related. That would require a social life first. “Who’s it from?”

  “He didn’t say. But don’t worry—I think you’ll be able to figure it out.”

  * * *

  “I want you to ask me what I’m wearing right now.”

  Monty groaned into the phone, pressing his free hand to his eyes, as if obscuring his vision might somehow also obscure his shame. “Hello, Georgia.”

  “It doesn’t have to be all that detailed. Just a quick, ‘What color are your panties?’ will do.”

  “I take it my recording went through.”

  “Recordings aren’t sexy. Don’t ask me about recordings. Ask me about my panties.”

  “It was an accident. I pushed the wrong button. My phone must have seen your name on the file and assumed I meant to send it to you.”

  “Okay, fine. W
hat are you wearing right now?”

  As he was already in his room for the night, he’d gone far enough to dress down in pajama pants and an undershirt, but neither one of those sounded all that thrilling to put into words. Neither did the fact that he’d sunk into his favorite armchair with a stack of legal documents to go over. He could have gone downstairs to join the rest of the family, but his father—in a fit of either cunning or madness—had invited Willa Trentwood for dinner.

  A man had his limits when it came to how much he was willing to let others dictate his life. And for the first time in his, Monty finally realized where that limit was.

  Right here. Right now. With a woman twenty-five years his senior sharing her treatise on ancient Roman irrigation techniques.

  “If you could erase that recording so your brother Danny can never get his hands on it and ruin me socially, financially and emotionally, I’d really appreciate it.”

  Georgia laughed, filling his ears and the room with a comforting aura. He hadn’t been aware until this moment just how much the sound of her voice affected him, like swimming in a pool of warm honey. What a nice way to wind down after a long day of work.

  “I’m not deleting that masterpiece,” she said. “I’m keeping it forever. I’m going to burn it on a CD so I can take it with me and listen while I work.”

  “You still listen to CDs? What decade are you living in?”

  “A smart one. Mp3s are nothing but a conspiracy that forces consumers to rely on downloadable content.”

  He tossed the stack of legal documents to the side, settling deeper into his armchair as Georgia explained how easy it was for corporations to sneak code into the online files that consumers were being encouraged to grow dependent upon. Considering what her brother was capable of, Monty had to admit there was a certain amount of logic to her argument.

  “Yet you have a computer and know how to download porn on it.”

  “I’m telling you—Danny meant that as a joke. A joke.” She paused. “But speaking of pornographic materials...”

  “Remember that time I came over to your house and you were dressed in nothing but a robe, and I was really nice about not making fun of you for it?”

  “You liar. You totally made fun of me.”

  “I did no such thing.” He sat up straighter. “I was a gentleman through and through.”

  “That day when you came to talk to me by my truck, you were totally mocking me with your eyes. Mockizing? Mizing? You twinkled, you asshole.”

  “I didn’t know I could twinkle.” He turned his head to examine his reflection in the mirror on the side wall, but all he could see was the same man who’d always stared back at him—firm and tense, unsmiling. Dull. But there was something else there too, a subtle transformation that started—yes—in his eyes, making everything seem less bleak by proximity.

  Well, look at that. That might actually be a twinkle.

  “Take my word for it. You can. But since I intend to be an actual gentleman through and through, I promise not to make fun of you for the dirty tape.”

  He noticed she didn’t compliment him either. “Was it bad?”

  “Well...” She hesitated, as if weighing her next words carefully. “You didn’t sound like you were enjoying it very much. It’s probably one of those things that’s more fun when you’ve got an appreciative audience.”

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  “I might be willing to appreciate you. If that’s something you want, I mean.”

  He didn’t answer right away. While he wouldn’t object to the occasional instructional moment from Georgia—especially as it related to what she liked in bed—he didn’t particularly relish the thought of highlighting his inadequacies. Especially not in an arena that already made him feel so far out of his depth. Who’d decided verbal communication was the most important thing, anyway?

  Georgia, apparently. “If you want to get better at talking dirty, you have to practice.”

  “And if you want to get better at having orgasms, you have to practice too,” he replied.

  He could hear her shuffling in the background, hopefully in her apartment and far away from her brothers’ prying ears. “You think we should try again?”

  “I do.”

  “And you want to try again?”

  “More than anything in the world.”

  She let out a strangled gurgle, which he was familiar enough with by now to take as a good sign. Georgia made very strange, difficult-to-interpret sounds sometimes, but that one he knew.

  See? He was a fast learner.

  “And you’ll let me help you in return?” she asked. “I’ll feel a lot less weird about this if I can also do something for you.”

  He wanted to tell her that she’d already done enough—given him tangible goals, sex god confidence, a spark in an otherwise dreary existence—but he doubted she’d count those as anything worth having. Georgia was very much a physical woman, capable and grounded, and she put a lot more stock in the ability to arm wrestle than she did a less substantial kind of strength.

  That was probably why it was so frustrating for her not to have mastery over her body in bed. He was no expert in sexual relations, but it seemed to him that she valued physical intimacy far more than emotional intimacy. And that maybe she hadn’t yet learned the two were often intertwined.

  “It’s a deal,” he promised.

  “Excellent. Now ask me what I’m wearing.”

  He sighed and gave in, torn between amusement at her determination and apprehension about the efficacy of this plan. “What color is your underwear?”

  “Don’t call it underwear. It has too many syllables and makes me feel like I’m either nine or ninety years old.”

  “I don’t like the other word.”

  “Panties.”

  “Yes. That one.”

  Her laughter filled the phone again, this time accompanied by a cellophane crinkle. He could almost picture her, sitting on her bed and casually eating snack foods while he struggled to say the most rudimentary of words. She was probably recording this for her CD too. “Can I offer some advice?”

  “I doubt I can stop you,” he said.

  “Don’t think so much about what you’re going to say.” Georgia moved the phone handset to a more comfortable crook in her neck as she settled against her headboard. She hadn’t been prepared for a lengthy conversation—she’d almost expected Monty to hang up on her, to be honest—so it took a minute before she found a comfortable spot. “No offense, but when I listened to that recording earlier, I could almost hear your thought process unfolding.”

  She’d also laughed herself silly. Wondered how long her mother had plugged in. And been so touched by Monty’s diligence she’d stared at the wall for an hour instead of going to the build site as she’d planned. With the exception of her family, she couldn’t think of anyone who’d ever worked that hard on her behalf. He’d said cunt for her.

  “Just push it out. Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking. Don’t filter it first.”

  He paused, clearly filtering. “What should I say?”

  “Why don’t you start with something easy? How was your day?” A good ten seconds passed without a sound, compelling her to laugh. “It’s only going to get harder from here, Monty. That one was supposed to be a gimme.”

  “I don’t mean to take so long to respond to things,” he said. “It’s always been this way for me. By the time I understand all the facts and come up with a response that values the conversation the way I feel it deserves, everyone else has moved on. I’ve never been one for flippancy.”

  Georgia dropped the potato chip that had been making its way into her mouth, and she didn’t even care when it left crumbs on her favorite sweatpants. Monty made his confession without pride or pity, his words
as matter-of-fact as almost everything else that came out of his mouth, and she felt like an ass for not realizing it sooner. Of course he wasn’t one for flippancy. He didn’t always join the repartee around him—not because he didn’t want to or because he thought himself above it—but because he wasn’t the sort of man to speak without first weighing the risks to both himself and his company.

  Monty wasn’t boring. He was careful. He was kind.

  What the hell kind of world did they live in where that distinction was almost impossible to make?

  “Then I’ll wait,” she said, and even went so far as to push the chips away to give him her full attention. Anyone who knew her dietary habits would realize what a sacrifice that was. “As long as you need, for as many pauses as you want. How was your day today?”

  This time, as she anticipated his reply, she didn’t allow herself to dwell on anything except how nice it felt to have a strong, handsome, considerate man on the other end of the line—a man whose conversation she did value, even if she hadn’t realized it before. His conversation was probably the most valuable thing in her life right now, because unlike most people she talked to, he meant every word.

  “I didn’t love the parts where I got into an argument with my father or accidentally sent you that recording, but I’m feeling much better now that I’m talking to you. Relaxed.”

  She was about to ask him what kind of argument he’d had when it dawned on her that talking about his family wasn’t going to help them get to the dirty part of the conversation. “How relaxed?”

  He chuckled, tickling her ear. “Relaxed enough to understand your meaning on my first try.”

  “And what sorts of things do you like to do when you’re relaxed?”

  “Do you want me to answer that honestly, or am I supposed to sex it up?”

  Well, hell. She wasn’t going to be nearly as good of a teacher at this as she thought. Even the word sex from his lips had her thighs trembling—which was the overall goal, she supposed, so she shouldn’t complain. “Sex it up, my friend. As much as you’re comfortable doing.”

  “Let me see...” He took a slow, careful breath. “If I’m relaxed and I’ve got some time on my hands, I might try jumping into the shower.”