“Wow. That’s amazing.”
“Yeah. They’re great. I’d hate to let them down.”
He turned to face me, slinging an arm over the back of the couch. “So what about your folks? They freak out when you moved out here?”
“Uh, no, they were fine with it.” As if Mom even noticed. She was in her Bruce phase then and the whole world revolved around him. My sister was probably relieved she had one less person to keep out of trouble when I packed my stuff and left. I didn’t like to think about it, much less share.
I got up quickly and gathered up the ice cream container spoon and a couple of empty soda cans littering the top of the coffee table.
“Sorry, Becca,” Dillon said, a note of concern creeping in to his voice. “I didn’t mean to pry. I just wondered.”
I shrugged. Family was one topic that was totally off limits with me. Not even Syd knew about my mom and all the shit I went through as a kid. There were some doors best left shut. I hated that it always weirded me out whenever somebody asked, though. “No problem.”
The tension between my shoulder blades tightened and I rolled them, trying to ease up and relax while I ran water for the dishes.
I heard Dillon’s footsteps behind me. Then I felt his big, warm hands on my bare shoulders. Awareness zipped across my nerves, but the firm, warm pressure felt too good for me to examine the sensation further. I closed my eyes and dropped my head to let him work his magic.
“Feel good?”
“Uh-huh.”
I braced my hands on the countertop and relaxed into his massage. I didn’t remember the last time someone had given me a massage, or touched me at all, without the expectation of at least a hand job. It was nice. Weird, but nice.
“You’re so tense.” Dillon kept up the pressure and the slow, deep strokes into my muscles until I felt the knot of pressure slowly untie itself. I felt warm and relaxed and ready to curl up in bed for a good night’s sleep.
“There, how’s that?”
“Awesome,” I said.
Dillon dropped his hands and stepped back. “I am sorry, Becca, about before. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with the questions.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry about it. It’s my hang-up. No biggie.” I dried the dishes and put them away. “But where in the heck did you learn to give a massage like that?”
He grinned at me, the boyish charm of his out in full force. “Well, I am kind of famous for my massages.”
“I can see why. Every girl on campus must have been lining up outside your dorm room for one of those. Got any other tricks I should know about?”
Dillon grinned. “I may have a hidden talent or two.” He arched his brow suggestively.
I feigned shock. “A nice boy like you?”
He shrugged. “I’m not nice all the time.”
I smiled. “Seriously, thanks, Dillon.”
“Any time.” He stifled a yawn. “I think I’m going to hit the sack. We closed down Willie’s last night and I’ve got an early lesson tomorrow.” He started to turn, then stopped. “Hey, what time are you home tomorrow night?”
“I should be done at the studio around five thirty or so, then I have to work for Ricky. There’s an Oktoberfest thing down at Vanderbilt. I should be able to cut out early, though. Maybe around ten.”
“How about a late dinner? I mean, we’ve lived together for a month now and we never see each other. I thought it would be nice to have dinner or something.”
“Sure. Where do you want to go?”
“I’ll cook.”
“Great. I’ll eat.”
He smiled. “Night, Becca.”
After Dillon turned in, I wiped the counters and bundled up the garbage, all the while wondering why I still couldn’t talk about my family even after all these years. Was I so fucked up that I couldn’t even open up enough to have a friendship with someone?
I shook my head. It just went to show that what all those shrinks said was right. Childhood really did mess you up. Here I was about to turn the corner into my thirties and all the shit from when I was a kid still affected my life on a daily basis. It pissed me off, but there really wasn’t much I could do about it. Denial had worked for this long. It would keep the crazy at bay a bit longer. I hoped.
Chapter Three
I didn’t usually mind the catering gig. But sometimes it sucked. Especially when my boss, Ricky, made us wear truly humiliating costumes. It was sort of the thing that set his catering company apart from all the others in Nashville. His niche.
For the Oktoberfest celebration, it was a sexy take on a traditional German costume. Sort of. The skirt was short, barely hitting me mid-thigh. The bodice was a black lace-up thing and I wore a white cap-sleeved blouse underneath. The top was low cut and with my push-up bra, I was showing a good amount of cleavage. Thigh-high white tights and clear hooker-heels completed the look.
By the time my friend dropped me off in front of my apartment after four hours of oom-pah music and toting heavy beer steins, I was bushed. I almost forgot Dillon was cooking until I got about halfway up the stairway and the scent of spicy red sauce and roasted garlic hit me.
“Oh. My. God,” I said when I unlocked the door and stepped inside my apartment. I inhaled deeply. “That smells amazing.”
Dillon stood at the pre-war stove in the tiny galley kitchen but turned when I spoke. “Hey…Becca.” His gaze roamed down my tacky outfit then back to my face. “Nice dress.” The crooked grin on his face was almost cute.
I curtsied. “Danke, Herr Phillips.” Dillon wore a pair of jeans and his customary blue button-down, but he’d thrown on a white apron I’d never seen before over it. Red smears over the black “Dressed to Grill” logo indicated he wasn’t the neatest chef. “You, too.”
“Are you supposed to be Heidi or something?”
“Or something,” I said, kicking off the heels and heading to the fridge for a beer.
“The stockings are kind of sexy.”
I arched a brow. “You think so?”
“Yeah. And the braids,” he said, pointing to my head with his spatula.
“Ricky had these cheap blond wigs he wanted all the wait staff to wear. We told him no way, but compromised with the braids.”
“Good call. The pigtails remind me of Mary Ann from Gilligan’s Island. Sweet and sexy and just a little bit naughty. Besides, I can’t see you as a blonde.”
“What do you mean? I look awesome as a blonde.” I grabbed my purse off the table and dug through receipts and tampons and dusty change until I found the small picture album I always carried. I flipped to the page with me and Syd dressed as Marilyn Monroe for a ’50s theme party we’d worked for Ricky. “Here.”
Dillon wiped his hands on the apron and took the book. I had looked sexy that night, even standing next to Syd. My boobs pushed over the low neckline of my hot pink bandeau-style dress, my lipstick was perfect, and the short blond wig, with a wave of platinum hair hanging just over one eye, brought color to my cheeks.
“Halloween?”
“Nope, just another night at work. The girls were Marilyn, the guys James Dean.”
Dillon flipped to the next page. “Greek goddesses. Nice.”
“Yeah, that was a good night,” I said, remembering the guy I had gone home with after the party at the Parthenon. “Keep going, there’s a shot of Syd and me as zombie nurses from last Halloween towards the back.”
“Your boss is a sick, sick man.” He flipped to the end. “Who’s this?” he asked, turning the book towards me.
“Oh, that’s my niece and nephew.” I took the album back and tucked it into my purse.
“Cute. How old are they?”
“Four or five, maybe? Six? Not sure. I don’t think they’re in school yet.”
“You don’t get to see them much, then.”
I shrugged. “Maybe once or twice a year. My sister sends me pictures, though. She takes them to Wal-Mart for new ones like every month.”
Di
llon pulled out his wallet and pulled out a huge bundle of pictures. He flipped to the middle of the stack. “Here are my nieces.”
Two sandy-haired little girls smiled back at me from beneath the plastic sleeve. The portrait was professionally done with a plain white background and giant ABC block props that matched the girls’ red and blue sweaters. They sat side by side, legs curled. Shiny black Mary Janes peeked out from the matching plaid skirts they wore.
“Cute,” I said. Kids really weren’t my thing.
“Yeah. My brother’s girls. Kaitlyn and Kerri. They’re eight now and way into Hannah Montana.”
“You’re close to them?”
He touched the picture and smiled. “Yeah. I miss them.” Dillon flipped his wallet closed and tucked in back into his pocket. “I always try to get home for their birthday and for Christmas.”
“Oh.”
It had been years since I’d spent Christmas with the family. Usually Mom was totally obsessed with whatever mooch of a man she was living with at the time, or working the Christmas shift at the truck stop she’d waitressed at for as a long as I could remember.
I don’t know what my sister did for the holidays. I assumed she did the whole Christmas morning thing, but I really wasn’t sure. I should probably feel bad about that, but we had never been a group of people hung up on all that family holiday crap. We cared about each other, but we didn’t have to make every holiday into a Hallmark moment.
Looking at Dillon’s expression, though, I knew he’d never understand that, even if I’d been inclined to explain it. Which I wasn’t.
The oven beeped and Dillon slid on an oven mitt. I didn’t even know the oven could beep.
I peeked around Dillon to see what he was pulling out.
“Perfect.” He set the pan of homemade lasagna on top of the stove and kicked the oven door shut. Steam rose from the bed of thick noodles, sauce, and bubbling melted cheese.
My stomach rumbled again. “I’m going to go change,” I said.
“And ruin a perfectly good male fantasy?”
“’Fraid so. I reached up the back, but couldn’t quite reach the zipper. “Could you give me a hand?” I presented my back to Dillon.
“Sure.” He brushed my hair to the side and slowly lowered the dress’s cheap plastic zipper. Cool air hit my back, raising goose bumps. Dillon’s hand felt warm where it rested on my shoulder. His knuckle brushed the bare skin of my back when the zipper got to the end of its track and I jumped a little at the contact. The touch was innocent, but the way my body responded wasn’t.
“There,” he said. His voice sounded a little husky and he cleared his throat. “All set.” He turned back to the counter and began slicing a loaf of French bread.
“Thanks.” I headed to my bedroom, where I ditched the Swiss Miss streetwalker dress, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and oversized Vandy T-shirt, and wondered what the hell had just happened. My skin still felt warm where Dillon’s finger had brushed it and the opening strains of awareness tickled my senses, making it difficult to breathe regularly. I dismissed it, though. Dillon. Nice guy, but not my type.
It had been nothing, I decided. Just too long since I’d hooked up with a guy. Lack of sex was bound to make anyone a little twitchy. Dillon was my roommate, my buddy, not the kind of guy I’d take home and do naughty things to all night long. And even if I had been attracted to him in that way, there was no way I was getting involved with someone I lived with. That was just asking for trouble.
Besides, Dillon probably hadn’t even noticed that moment of whatever had passed between us. He’d never come on to me or tried anything other than in a joking-around sort of way. I’m sure he felt exactly the same as I did.
I pulled on my Hound Dog slippers and started to tug the rubber bands off the ends of my braids. I smiled, thinking about Dillon’s Mary Ann comment, and decided to leave them in. I’d give the boy a little thrill. Why the hell not?
When I returned to the kitchen, Dillon had already set the table and was setting the pan of sweet savage sin on the table.
“There’s some mail on the counter for you,” Dillon said, pulling off his apron. He seemed perfectly normal, unaffected or completely oblivious to the Thing. Good. No weirdness. “It’s the invitation to Sydney’s charity gig. Mine came today, too.”
I groaned. Syd had warned me that she and Dex were hosting a charity ball and that my attendance would be required.
“What’s wrong?” Dillon asked.
We settled into our chairs at the table.
“Fancy ball? Lots of rich people? Champagne? Not my scene.”
“Oh, it’ll be fun. Something different.”
“Right. Whatever. Maybe I’ll come down with smallpox and have to decline.” I took a bite of the lasagna and closed my eyes in pure bliss. The sauce was tangy and meaty and rich, with a hint of sweetness. The noodles were cooked perfectly and the cheese, well, I was a cheese junkie so cheese of any stripe was foreplay to my taste buds.
“Wow. I’ve never made a woman moan at the dinner table before.”
I swallowed. “Then you’ve never cooked this for a woman before. She’d be naked before dessert.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I finished my square of lasagna and Dillon cut another and slid it onto my plate.
“So are you taking a date?” he asked.
I looked up at him “Date?”
“To Syd’s ball.”
“Right. Sorry. I’m on a cheese high here.” I wiped my mouth. “I’m not really the date type. I’ll probably go stag. You?”
“Nope. I was thinking of asking this girl at the music store. But I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.”
“That being?”
“That I was interested in her.” He moved his fork around his plate, not looking at me. “Besides, I thought it would be fun if maybe we went. Together.”
I paused and looked up at him. “Together?”
“Sure. As friends, of course. I’m not buying you a corsage or anything.” He grinned at me. “What do you say?”
“I say I’d rather serve a fraternity full of drunk frat guys wearing the Heidi outfit again than go to a ball and rub elbows with all the fancy people, but if I have to go, I guess it would be cool to go with you.” I shrugged. “Sure. Let’s suffer together.”
“It won’t be so bad. I’ll keep you entertained.”
“Promise?”
“I’m at your disposal. Anything you desire. Anything at all.” He gazed at me with a sparkle in his eye and that odd feeling of awareness leapt between us again.
I swallowed the lump of lasagna stuck in my throat and washed it down with a big gulp of sweet tea. If he knew what I desired right at that moment, he’d totally flip out.
* * * *
Stuffy sales people and inflated prices had never been my thing, but a few weeks after receiving the invitation, Syd insisted I go to a fancy little boutique with her to pick out a gown for the holiday ball. Okay, so the saleslady who was helping Sydney wasn’t all that stuffy. She was overly nice, actually, which was the first clue she worked on commission. I was always suspicious of people who worked on commission.
The boutique’s furnishings reminded me of the furniture and art in the lobby of Hotel Preston where I’d catered for Blue Moon last year. Lots of dark wood, puffy chairs, thick Oriental rugs, and freakin’ flowers everywhere to the point that the scent became overwhelming.
The boutique was the kind of place you had to have an appointment to even shop in, which seemed strange to me. How could a store make money if they weren’t even open on a regular basis? Then I heard the saleslady give Sydney a price on a gorgeous black number she’d tried on, and it all became clear.
“What do you think of this one, Becca?”
Sydney emerged from the changing room, which was actually a smaller room off the main showroom, filled with mirrors and a pedestal so the buyer could see herself from all angles.
“Wow. That�
�s amazing,” I said, impressed. With Syd’s model-like stature, flowing blond hair and flawless skin, she looked like something right out of the pages of Vogue. The gown was a black form-fitting number that emphasized her fair skin and impressive chest.
“What I don’t get,” I said, looking at a display of fancy dress gloves, “is why it’s a Christmas ball, if you’re having it in mid-November. Shouldn’t it be a fall ball or something?”
“It’s supposed to kick off the holiday season,” Syd said, turning to look at herself from another angle in the mirror. “Thinking of Christmas makes people more generous. And this way, some of the money we raise can go towards providing a Thanksgiving meal for the homeless as well as food and shelter throughout the winter.”
She’d thought of everything. “Seems like the kind of people who’ll show up could afford to be generous whether it was Christmas or Thanksgiving or Groundhog Day,” I said.
“They are. But rich people are surprisingly cheap.”
The saleslady flitted around her, tucking her, tugging there, frowning, then finally stood back, considering. “Well, we’ll have to alter it, of course, but I think after a fitting or two, it will be just the thing, Miss Stratton.”
Syd looked up at me, raising an eyebrow.
I nodded. “Yeah, thumbs up.”
She looked in the mirror a final time. “Do you think Dex will like it?”
I laughed. “Dex would think you looked delicious if you wore a paper bag, Syd.”
She smiled at me in the mirror and let out a soft, romantic, lovesick sigh. “Yeah. He would.”
I rolled my eyes. I was happy for Syd, really, but being around such a sap-fest could be seriously trying sometimes.
“You know,” Sydney said, stepping down from the pedestal. “Dex keeps saying how great your voice is and how he’d seriously like to produce an album for you.”
Dex had mentioned it in passing before when we were all hanging out, but I’d never really taken him seriously. “Really?”
Nashville Boxed Set #1-3 Page 16
