Facing Mia, Allison laced her fingers together, took a deep breath, and said, "I had. . . The Feeling."
Her friend tilted her head, her long dark hair falling to the side as she considered Allison. "What feeling?"
"The Feeling. You know. The thing."
"The family thing?"
"Yeah."
Mia frowned again, running one delicate fingertip around the rim of her teacup, but instead of scoffing, she said, "Well, then. It sounds to me like Cupid's Cavalry might have made a love match."
Allison stared at her, nonplussed. What had happened to her pragmatic friend? "It wasn't Cupid, it was Dee, and it's not a match, it's a gigantic mistake. We're too different."
"So what?"
"I just don't see how it can work. I don't even know if he has a job. He took off for six years, Mia, he might take off again at any time. He's all wrong for me."
"The boy toys are all wrong for you. If he's that different from them, maybe he's not so wrong after all."
Trying to follow Mia's logic made the pounding in her head worse. Negating her friend's opinion with the swipe of a hand, Allison said, "Anyway, none of it matters, because I'm not ready for all that."
"What about your Kelly Intuition?"
"I thought you never believed in that stuff."
"I thought you never did," Mia countered. "Besides, I've, um, had a change of heart."
"Since Derrick, you mean."
Mia shrugged, her smile blooming. "You won't know until you give it a chance. It's obvious you're interested. Go get him, Alli."
CHAPTER SIX
Go get him. Right.
The next few days flew by with all the speed and excitement of a snail racing competition.
Waiting by the phone, something Allison couldn't remember ever doing in her life, sucked. She refused to call him on principle—Ben had said he'd call, so he'd better call. But that didn't mean she had to sit patiently by, waiting for the ring tone she'd assigned him to go off.
So she wouldn't. Anyway, cell phones being portable took a huge chunk of the Miss-Lonely-Hearts drama out of the whole ritual.
"You're being ridiculous, Alli," Mia said when she called Saturday morning. "It hasn't even been twenty-four hours."
"That's not the point."
Allison tapped her fingers impatiently on her kitchen table, wishing she hadn't brought Ben into the conversation in the first place. She needed to get ready for the events she had scheduled later in the day. There was no time to brood.
Still, Ben's silence irked.
If he thought she was sitting around pining for him, though, he was sadly mistaken. She had plenty of work lined up to keep her busy, and she vowed to say yes to every invitation she received to make up for the last two weeks of no dating. Maybe she did check her phone's battery and reception more often than usual, but that was no one's business but hers. Never mind that no one else seemed to have any trouble tracking her down.
She spent the rest of her Saturday working two different bar mitzvahs, one a luncheon and one an elaborate sit-down dinner and late night party. She followed the party by accepting an invitation for drinks at her favorite sport's bar with studly boy-toy, Brad Cooper. Afterward, he looked confused when she kissed him on the cheek at her front door, but Allison didn't ask him inside. She told herself she was tired from her earlier events.
Fatigue didn't help her sleep, however. She spent a long night tossing and turning, her body tingling with needs her vibrator couldn't soothe.
And the snails raced on.
Early Sunday morning, she blew off a stack of paperwork in favor of a trip to the local farmer's market with the very yummy Wendell Johnson. If his company seemed less stimulating than usual, at least she scored plenty of fresh produce.
A sixty-fifth wedding anniversary was scheduled to take up most of the day, giving her a handy excuse for leaving Wendell at the curb after their brunch, much to his disappointment.
Circling the crowd later that afternoon, Allison smiled with satisfaction. The party had gone off without a hitch, and her bitchy baker had behaved like a professional business woman instead of a fishwife. For once. The anniversary cake had been a piece of art, and delicious besides. Still, Allison gave a sigh of relief to be done with the woman.
The anniversary couple, both white-haired and stooped, but also spry and rather sassy, had stammered and blushed with delight as their friends and family toasted them, then stared into each other's eyes for hours while waltzing together around the dance floor.
Caught up in the beauty of the moment, Allison had had to dash to the ladies' room to dab away unexpected tears.
Later that night, she'd leapt at the offer of dinner out with Seamus Fitzpatrick.
Maybe each of her three weekend dates had ended with little more than pecks on the cheek for her manly distractions, but that had nothing to do with Ben. She wasn't saving herself for him, for cripes sake. She simply hadn't been in the mood.
Until later. When she'd been thinking about Ben.
Damn it.
He'd better call soon. Her imagination and battery-powered lover could only take her so far. As Sunday night faded into Monday morning, it didn't seem far enough.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"Are you going to call her or what?"
"Don't nag, Sally," Ben said.
A frown creased his forehead as he studied the latest memo from Trent Koenig, currently his biggest investor in the clean water project he was developing. The contractor Trent had tapped to oversee the project—at cost—was on board, which was great, but his completion date would interfere with several others and put the rest of Ben's projects too far behind schedule. They'd have to tweak the timeframe.
"Nagging stems from love."
"Huh," Ben scoffed, not really listening.
"Seriously, Ben, you can't expect a woman like that to just sit around waiting."
"It's only been three days." And Allison was certainly not waiting around for him—he'd seen the steady stream of men going to and from her house.
"Four," Sally corrected. "I thought you said you liked her."
Throwing his pen aside, Ben pinned Sally with a look. "I do like her, and I intend to call her. I need to clear a few things off my slate first, if that's all right with you."
"I just meant—"
Ben held up a hand. "Look, I appreciate everything you've done for me since I've been back. Even getting me into that ridiculous dating service." How many emails from single-and-looking women had he fielded in the last three days? One or two he might even have been interested in if he'd met them before Allison. Now, they were just unwelcome distractions, taking time away from work he wanted completed before he knocked on Allison's door. "I'll handle the rest my way."
They'd had words when he'd returned from the lunch with Allison. Sally had confessed to a certain amount of private glee in knowing his first date was with her red-hot neighbor. And she'd been right—if he'd handled the situation himself, he probably wouldn't have gone out with the party-princess in the first place. And he would have missed out.
Regardless, he'd insisted on taking over managing the dating service's emails himself, even if they cut into his already limited time. One surprise like Allison was about all his heart could handle. Besides which, if he had to tell Sally she was right one more time, her head would get too big to fit through her front door.
"Just don't wait too long, Ben. If you really like her, you've already got your work cut out for you. She's used to—"
"I know. Stop worrying, Sally. I've got it covered."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Work, Allison, focus on work.
Traditionally, January was a slow month for her, but aside from her canceled New Year's Eve contract—which technically fell under December—she had a decent amount of events coming up through the end of the month, and February was always busy. Every happy client was a special thrill, one more satisfied customer building her business and reputation.
/> Still, even with all that business, her friends' weddings to work on, and a date every night if she wanted, she found herself staring at the clock more than she'd like. Because her inclination was to moon around like a lovesick teenager, she overcompensated by throwing herself even more fully into her work.
Negotiating with a new baker to replace the bitch went smoothly. Her bookkeeping was up to date. She had feelers out on a few other vendors. Her bills were paid, her house was clean. DeeDee sent her a baby shower and a bachelorette party for past clients of Cupid's Cavalry, but they weren't scheduled until March and April, respectively.
By Thursday afternoon, tension knots had formed ridges along her shoulders. The muscles in her thighs clenched tight every time she thought of Ben, which was every fourth minute, and her patience with both him and herself was nearing an end. Allison sighed. Another glance at the clock showed thirty-five whole seconds had sped by since she'd last checked. Tick-tock.
Tapping her pen on the blotter on her desk, she pondered a new course of action. She could call him. It wasn't like she'd never called a man in her life. Of course she had. She was a modern woman, after all. She could—
The phone rang, its shrill tone startling her out of her funk. She pounced on it before it could ring a second time.
"Hello?"
"Hey, babe. It's Scott. Want to grab a bite tonight and. . . whatever?"
Scott Meyers, from the gym. Not Ben. Damn it. That's what she got for not checking the caller ID before picking up. On the other hand, she'd blown off the last three guys who'd called after the Sunday night date with Seamus, and she was sick of sitting by the phone after promising herself she wouldn't.
What the hell.
She needed another distraction. Maybe a date with the very hot, very built—if somewhat nerdy—Scott was just the ticket.
"Sure," she said, putting as much enthusiasm into her voice as possible. "Six o'clock?"
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Scott wolf-whistled when he picked her up at her front door, gratifying her vanity. Wrapping his hands around her waist, he pulled her in for an ardent kiss she did her best to return. She wondered if anyone looking out the window of a house four doors down could see them silhouetted in her doorway, then banished the thought as beneath her. Ben had had his chance, and she didn't owe him anything. But still. It wouldn't hurt for Mr. Benjamin Turner to get a good look at what he was missing.
Her wool-blend, long-sleeved dress in forest green skimmed her torso in form-fitting perfection. With her hair piled on top of her head, the keyhole back and plunging neckline showed enough skin to entice, and the full, swirly skirt ended just above her knees. She'd paired it with her favorite knee-high black boots in deference to the coolness of the night. Tiny gold Celtic love knots glowed in her ears.
"Ready?" Scott asked, and she followed him to his car.
An aerospace engineer, Scott's dinner conversation could be scintillating when he talked about anything other than work, which tended to make Allison's eyes glaze over. Happily, he was in the mood to discuss sports, so they spent most of their time debating the prospects for the teams in the upcoming Super Bowl and the likely moves of various free agents during the off season.
Allison dipped another bite of lobster in melted butter and considered her companion. The low lighting gleamed in Scott's liquid brown eyes. He wasn't as muscular as Ben, and at six-feet tall, Allison topped him by several inches in her boots, but he had strong, aristocratic features, a sensual mouth, and wicked hands that knew their way around a woman's body.
She'd enjoyed those hands several times. And she knew his 'whatever' on the phone had referenced another round of. . . hands. She hadn't decided if said hands were on the agenda for the evening or not, but she hadn't discounted the possibility. Yet.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
After dinner, Scott took her to an indie film showing at Cal State Fullerton. The movie didn't hold her attention, which gave her far too much time to think about Ben, whose face didn't seem to want to vacate her mental real estate, even after nearly a week of zero contact. She didn't want a guy who wouldn't even give her the courtesy of a phone call taking up that space. Damn it. As the movie progressed, she found her irritation with the him growing.
In fact, it was making her sick to her stomach. No simple lunch date had ever churned her up the way he had and then left her without a backward glance or second thought. How could she have been so wrong? The Kelly Family Intuition. Right.
Scott's thumb rubbing the inside of her palm increased her irritation instead of soothing. She pulled her fingers away to rub both damp hands along the skirt of her dress. She didn't feel like being touched.
How long was this fricking movie, anyway? And why was it so hot in here? Sweat beaded her upper lip and brow, and her stomach rolled in a greasy ball. She couldn't sit still. Swallowing heavily, she prayed for the film to end.
Leaning over to her, Scott whispered, "Are you all right?"
Lips clamped tightly shut, she nodded briefly, trying to banish Ben and her queasy belly from her thoughts.
Finally, the credits rolled, and they made their way out to the fresh night air. Allison breathed deeply, feeling instantly better out of the overheated theater. When Scott took her hand again, she didn't let go.
They chatted about the movie on the short drive home—or rather, Scott talked and Allison pretended to listen, her mind still full of Ben. Headlights flashed across her vision, making her head hurt. Her annoyance with Ben and the motion of the car wasn't helping her stomach, but Scott hinted heavily at wanting to come inside. She decided she might just let him. The movie hadn't been as long as she'd thought, and she clearly still needed a distraction. She hadn't had a good. . . distraction since before her party on New Year's Eve. It was still shy of nine-thirty when Scott pulled into her driveway.
He came around to open her car door—Ben wasn't the only gentleman around—and pulled her to her feet by both hands. Wrapping his arm around her waist on the way up the walk, she found herself grateful for the support. Her muscles seemed watery, unaccountably weak. She must be more tired than she'd realized.
Scott backed her into the front door and leaned in for a kiss, but she pressed her hand against his chest.
"Wait," she said, swallowing.
There was so much saliva in her mouth suddenly, and not from sexual anticipation. The sick oiliness had returned, coursing through her belly in a vile undulation not unlike a bout of seasickness she'd experienced as a child.
"Come on, babe," Scott said, brushing his hands into her hair and loosening the up-do she'd spent forty minutes arranging earlier that evening. He tried to kiss her again, but she evaded his mouth.
"No, I-I'm sorry, Scott. I'm not feeling well."
Dropping his hands to rub her arms up and down, he leaned back to study her face. "Are you sure?"
She wished he'd stop touching her. Stepping out of his arms, she nodded carefully. She breathed shallowly, in through her nose, out through her mouth. "Yes, I'm sorry. Another time, okay?"
"'K." He dropped a kiss on her damp forehead. "Feel better."
"Thanks."
Scott turned to leave. Over his shoulder, Allison watched the orange hippie bus pull into Sally's driveway. A surge of anger momentarily conquered the queasiness. Ben stepped out of the vehicle looking right at her and lifted his hand in a friendly wave, just as if he hadn't kept her waiting for six whole days.
Hmph.
Perfect timing. Maybe she'd march right over and give Mr. Ben Turner a piece of her mind. She waved Scott on his way, never taking her eyes off Ben, though she could hardly make out his features in the pitch-black night, his face barely illuminated by the streetlight at the edge of Sally's driveway.
No, she wouldn't have to go to him. Ben was on the move, coming straight toward her. The nausea rolled back on a surge of nerves. What should she say? What should she do? What if he tried to kiss her? Her stomach lurched with the thought, and her body broke out
in a full sweat. What was wrong with her? She'd never had anticipation—either of an impending fight or of impending sex—make her feel so ill with nerves.
"Hey," he said when he'd reached her.
"Hey," she said, her voice coming out in a tremulous whisper that embarrassed her right down to her toes. Clearing her throat, she pressed a hand to her roiling belly. Tried again. "Hey."
Rocking back on his heels, he scanned her top to bottom. "Nice dress. Date?"
"Uh-huh."
Oh, good, Allison, way to sock it to him. All the words she'd planned to hurl at him had mysteriously vanished.
Cocking his head to one side, Ben peered at her in the glow of her porch light. Its white glare sent a piercing shaft through her brain. Everything seemed over-bright, painful, and she was cold suddenly, shaking with it, but sweat ran down her back and between her breasts.
"Are you okay?" he asked. "You look a little green around the gills."
"Mmm," she managed. "Fine. I—"
Oh. Oh, God. No. No-no-no-no-no. . .
"Allison—" he began, but she waved a hand to cut him off.
"Listen, I'm, uh, pretty tired, and. . ."
She stopped, clapping a hand to her mouth. Her belly cramped, a vicious twist that almost made her cry out. She needed him to leave, now, needed to make an escape, because she was suddenly, desperately certain of one terrible fact. She was about to be very sick.
Half turning toward her door, she gasped, "I'm sorry, I—"
"Allison?"
But it was too late. The nausea she'd first noted in the movie theater slammed full-force through her body, and she staggered, nearly falling as she lurched to the nearest shrub beside her door. She propped both hands against the side of the house for support and was hideously, violently ill.
Tremors wracked her body and bile burned her throat and finally she understood.
Not nerves. Or anger. Food poisoning.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Cupid's Mistake Page 7
