by Hazel James
“Aunt Tuesday, Brutus picked this one.” Olivia held up the case for the live-action version of Beauty and the Beast, and I practically leapt from my spot to start the movie. I would’ve been just as grateful if she told me Brutus pooped on my rug.
As I fed the disc into the player, Olivia said, “Jack, you can sit right here next to Aunt Tuesday.”
“Yes ma’am.” He slipped off his brown leather Oxfords, set the leash beside them, and followed Olivia’s directions to the far side of the couch. She and Brutus plunked down on the opposite cushion.
Sweet mother of pearl, he was actually staying. Stripping, too, except the impromptu show ended after he removed his jacket and tie, laying both of them over the arm of the couch.
I swallowed, forcing moisture back into my mouth, and reminded myself to breathe. So what if I’d just made a complete fool out of myself by the door? Obviously, Jack and his sexy-as-heck grin didn’t mind. And I wouldn’t need to talk for the next two hours, either.
Easy peasy.
“Don’t forget the popcorn!” Olivia said.
Right. I was glad one of us was the brains of this operation. I filled the bowl and tossed the microwave bag into the kitchen trash can, then flipped off the light switch and settled between them on the couch.
No big deal.
I could totally do this.
Except that by the end of the opening scene, Jack’s arm was pressed against mine so closely that I couldn’t slip a piece of paper between us if I tried. I once sat next to Andy Phillips in church like this. I’d walked on air all the way home, the electricity of our contact still coursing through me, and waited a full twenty-four hours before I took a shower just to be safe.
Given the fact that my body had turned into a live wire that could power the greater Boise area, maybe I should take the same precaution tonight.
“Hold my peckers.”
I peeked over both shoulders for the umpteenth time and reluctantly accepted a penis-shaped cake pan filled with phallic party supplies from Aunt Alma. I’d offer to get a cart, but they were at the front of the store where anyone passing by could see you in the floor-to-ceiling windows, and I didn’t want to encourage her to buy more stuff, thereby prolonging our visit.
Two scenarios kept running through my mind—someone recognizing me from my video blog or recognizing Aunt Alma because she was practically a town icon. Both had happened in the past. With my luck, they’d both happen before I could make it out of here. The mere thought sent tiny prickles of heat dancing up my neck.
The quicker we left The Pleasure Chest, the better.
“Relax. If you act any more paranoid, they’re going to think you’re shoplifting.”
“I’m plenty relaxed.” With my free hand, I pulled my phone out of my purse and almost groaned when I checked the time. We still had thirty minutes to kill before our pedicures, which was a small eternity when a seventy-three-year-old was holding you hostage in a sex shop.
Don’t get me wrong—I liked a good adult store as much as the next adventurous woman, but apparently Aunt Alma had never heard of a thing called online shopping. Discreet brown boxes were infinitely better than bright red bags featuring a busty pirate and the phrase, “We’ve got the best booty in town” printed below it.
The next time she wanted a spa day, I was driving.
Clueless to my crisis, she held up a crown-style veil with penis sequins randomly sewn all over it. “What do you think about this one?”
Tacky didn’t begin to describe the tulle monstrosity, but if it would get her to hurry up, I’d lie through my teeth. “It’s perfect.”
“Or maybe we should go with this one.” She reached for a veil that had penis antennae nestled into a feather-covered headband. The fabric draping down the back resembled a shaft and testicles. It looked like it belonged in an alien porn called The Bride of Uranus.
“Can you really picture her wearing that?”
Aunt Alma studied it for several seconds before returning it to the rack. “You’re right. Purple isn’t her color.”
I shook my head. Sometimes I really wondered about that woman.
She draped the first veil over her arm and continued down the aisle to the candy section, bending to examine a row of milk chocolate pecker pops. They ranged from cartoon-like to exact replicas and several of them sported strategically dribbled white chocolate on the tip.
She grabbed two of each and added them to the cake pan I was still holding as I scanned the store again. So far, no one was paying us any attention. My shoulders relaxed a bit more. “Does your friend know you’re throwing her a bachelorette party?”
“Sort of.”
The mischievous twitch of her lips had me pushing further. “Define ‘sort of.’”
“I may have implied I was hosting a bachelorette brunch at Hemingway’s.”
That was one of the nicest restaurants in Newcastle. There was no way they’d let her in with anything we were carrying. “What’s the real story?”
She gave in to a wicked grin. “The brunch is at my house, and I’m flying the eight of us down to Vegas to see the Magic Mike show afterward.”
And there it was. My aunt, ladies and gentlemen. “You are something else.” I rolled my eyes but smiled and followed her to the next aisle.
“What good is having a boatload of money if you don’t do anything with it? Besides, Dottie deserves this after putting up with that bastard of a husband before Satan finally called him home.”
“And Uncle Alan doesn’t mind you galivanting down to Sin City to watch male strippers?”
“Are you kidding? He’ll be trout fishing all weekend. I wouldn’t be surprised if he told me to stay an extra couple of days.”
“What about Dottie’s fiancé?”
“It was his idea! Well…” she paused, shrugging, “I may’ve suggested it, but he was the one who agreed she’d love it.”
He wasn’t wrong there. I didn’t know any woman with a pulse who would object to being in the company of those dancers for an hour. The instant visual had my blood thrumming and before I knew it, I was picturing Jack on stage flexing the muscles I’d seen at the gym. God, that man was a work of art. He could start his performance in the navy blue suit he wore yesterday that looked like it’d been tailored by Goldilocks herself—not an inch too much or too little but juuust right.
I bet that described the rest of him, too.
In my fantasy, Business Jack plucked me from the crowd and sat me in a chair on stage. We were illuminated by a single spotlight. The rest of the audience faded away. Gripping the back of the chair, he dipped his body toward me and grinded his hips against my lap. I didn’t know what the rules were about touching, so I let my arms fall to my sides.
I jumped when the cake pan clattered to the floor, littering the aisle with our collection of penis-inspired party supplies. A few nearby customers stared at me.
“Sorry, it slipped,” I mumbled.
Aunt Alma patted my shoulder. I expected her to offer reassuring words, but what I got was another wicked grin and a loudly whispered, “That’s what he said.” I laughed despite the inferno on my cheeks. Aunt Alma had the best humor of anyone I knew.
She squatted beside me and helped gather what I’d dropped. “Is there any particular reason you’re looking hot and bothered? Daydreaming about that fella at the TV station, maybe?”
“Absolutely not.” I shook my head for emphasis. We’d talked over breakfast about the resumes I’d submitted and the possibility of me staying in Idaho. She tried hiding her excitement but eventually gave up and said they’d be stupid not to hire me. I agreed. “I want to work with Blaine, not under him. Big difference.”
“Smart girl. I’ve always been a big fan of not shitting where you eat.”
I wrinkled my nose. “Ew.”
“Unless I worked with Mike Rowe. That man is just…” She sighed wistfully as we made our way to the front of the store. He’d occupied the first three spaces on Aunt Alma’
s celebrity hall pass card for as long as I could remember. Given the long list of people she still kept in contact with from her previous life in Hollywood, that was saying something.
“Could you imagine if they invited him to do a guest appearance in the Magic Mike show? They’d need crash carts in the aisles for us old ladies.” She stopped short of the register and pulled her phone out of her purse.
“What are you doing?”
“Dreams come true in Vegas. I’m sending an email to my lawyer to update my will before I go.”
I knew things about Blaine Stavros that I shouldn’t.
Wait. That came out wrong.
I knew things about Blaine Stavros that most viewers probably didn’t because they weren’t very observant.
Example number one: He never tied his ties with the same knot two days in a row. When it came to fashion, men in the news industry definitely had it easier. (If you don’t believe me, look up Australian anchor who wore the same suit for a year.) But it also meant they had less opportunity to express themselves. Blaine took initiative where others didn’t, and I loved seeing what he’d come up with next.
Example number two: I knew his phone number thanks to a selfie he posted on Instagram with his cocker spaniel. I asked Selena if I should message him to point out that Mickey’s identification tag was flipped around. She said doing that would be even creepier than me noticing it in the first place. She had a point.
Example number three: He collected lapel pins. My conservative estimate was around two dozen, though his favorites seemed to be a baseball, a wreath made of gold leaves, and a potato in the shape of Idaho.
What were the stories behind them? I could probably ask since I was about to walk past him, but that would make for the world’s most awkward first conversation.
“Excuse me, Blaine, is there a story behind your potato pin? Is it an heirloom that was passed down through generations of farmers? Was it a gift to remind you of your roots, no pun intended of course?”
Nope. After my verbal diarrhea experience with Jack on Friday night, I was adapting a speak-when-spoken-to policy. It was much safer that way. With my game-face on, I ran a hand down the front of my blazer and pretended Blaine didn’t exist as I approached the entrance to Channel 3.
I’d spent the last twenty minutes in the parking lot reviewing potential interview questions—thank you, Google—and formulating responses. Working as an associate producer wasn’t my goal, but even Diane Sawyer started small. If she could work her way up, I could too.
I was several steps from the door when Blaine looked up from his cell phone and smiled. My lips curved to match his, but I managed to keep them closed. I gave myself five bonus points for the effort.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
According to my own rules, I was allowed to respond. I wasn’t an idiot though. Short and sweet was the only way to go. “Hi.”
“You’re Tuesday, right?”
I froze mid-step and gawked because holy stinkin’ crap, BLAINE STAVROS KNEW WHO I WAS! Even if I didn’t get this job, the day wasn’t a total loss. “Yes, Tuesday Collins.”
“Blaine Stavros. It’s nice to meet you.”
I calmly shook his hand while Inner-Me spontaneously combusted. I couldn’t wait to tell Selena about this. “How’d you know my name?”
“My friend Scott is the chief of HR. He was telling me about the interviews he scheduled this afternoon. I probably shouldn’t say anything, but…” Blaine glanced around before leaning in. “Off the record, you’re the frontrunner.”
I was pretty sure he was joking but I appreciated his attempt at boosting my confidence. “Thanks for the inside scoop.”
“What inside scoop?” he asked, grinning devilishly.
I played along with an innocent shrug. “I’d better head inside.” He stopped me when I turned toward the door.
“Hey Tuesday?”
“Yes?”
“I have a feeling I’ll be seeing you again.”
God, I hoped he was right.
Jack
My phone buzzed with a text from Tuesday.
Are you busy?
Technically, I was. Diego and Erin came over to help me with some guerilla marketing, also known as slapping stickers with the library’s info onto fun-sized bags of candy for trick-or-treaters. We were nowhere near done, but that didn’t stop me from responding with, “Nope. What’s up?” because Tuesday had been stuck with the closing shift at Cleopatra’s all week, which meant I hadn’t seen her since last Friday night at her apartment.
Cara had started calling me Mopey, the eighth dwarf, and didn’t understand why I didn’t stop by the mall on my way home if I wanted to see Tuesday that badly. I explained that there were certain things single men shouldn’t do and showing up alone at Cleopatra’s was one of them.
At least we had texting, though. That was the only thing keeping me sane. In the last seven days, I’d probably increased my words per minute by about thirty percent. I’d also skipped this morning’s workout because I slept like shit and didn’t feel like dragging myself out of bed and working out when I knew she wouldn’t be there.
As far as Diego knew, I was stressed out over Halloween next Wednesday. If he knew the real source of my irritation, he’d call me out for being pussy-whipped and bust my ass for not doing anything about it. In my defense, it didn’t seem appropriate to ask Tuesday on a date through a text message or while her niece sat a foot away on the couch.
I vowed to change that the next time I saw her, which, according to my still-silent phone, wasn’t going to be tonight. Fuck. Maybe she meant to ask someone else if they were busy and hit my name by accident. Maybe she—
I caught something red out of the corner of my eye right before it smacked me in the forehead and fell to my lap. Diego was laughing his ass off. You threw Skittles at me? I signed to him.
You gonna quit sulking and get back to work?
I wasn’t sulking.
He grabbed his phone and scowled at the screen, mocking me, so, like a mature adult, I grabbed mine and fired off a text that said, “You’re an asshole.” Except his phone didn’t light up with a new text.
I looked at my messages again and saw my error staring back at me in black and white.
Oh shit.
“You okay, Jack?” Erin’s concern filtered in through the volley of insults I hurled at myself as I tapped out a string of haphazard texts to the woman I’d just insulted.
Me: I didn’t mean to send that to you.
Me: It was supposed to go to my friend.
Me: And it was a joke. He’s not really an asshole.
Me: Anyway, I’m really sorry!
Me: Tuesday?
Diego waved his hand to get my attention. What happened?
Let’s see. I may have blown my chances with an incredible woman and proved my communication skills were as shitty as ever. Just another average day for Jack Price. “I accidentally sent a text to Tuesday calling her an asshole and now she’s not responding,” I replied, while signing for Diego. “I think she’s pissed.”
He laughed again and shook his head.
“It’s not funny. And that text was meant for you, by the way.”
Ever the optimist, Erin offered a reassuring smile and patted my arm. “She’s probably busy. And from what you’ve told us about her, she seems like she has a great sense of humor.”
True, but something told me insulting her didn’t fall into the same category. Maybe I should call her. If she didn’t answer, I could leave a voicemail so she’d at least hear how sorry I was. That had to count for something, right?
I stared at my phone, weighing my options, when someone knocked on the front door. The only people I was expecting tonight were already here, and I hadn’t ordered anything for delivery. Maybe it was Mrs. Fairchild looking for some gossip. I’d love to report that Tuesday and I were now a happy couple, but all I could offer her was a sad tale of self-sabotage and regret.
I held up
a finger to Diego indicating I’d be right back, then trudged through the small kitchen and across the living room, yanking the door open.
“Surprise!” Tuesday stood on the welcome mat with a foil-covered dish in one arm and a bottle of wine in the other. Her grin told me she must not have seen my text, and that filled me with immense relief. All I had to do was distract her long enough to find her phone and smash it. The cost of a replacement was nothing if it meant I could keep her from opening that message.
“Surprise indeed.” I stepped back to let her in. “I’m impressed by your stalking skills, Ms. Collins.”
She laughed as I shut the door behind her. “More like my reading assigned parking spaces skills.”
“Thank God no one stole my spot today.” I took the dish from her and peeked under the foil. “Brownies?”
“And wine.” She held up the bottle and waggled her brows. Before I could ask what the occasion was, Erin’s laugh filtered in from the dining room, killing the confident smile on Tuesday’s face. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you had… I’ll just…” Her cheeks turned into a kaleidoscope of pink as she hooked a thumb over her shoulder, motioning toward the door. I hated that she’d gone from excited to dejected because I was a chicken shit who hadn’t told her how I felt. From now on, assertive was my middle name.
“Not so fast.” I shifted to the left to block her retreat. “First, that’s Diego’s wife, Erin. They came over tonight to help me get ready for Halloween.”
“Oh,” she said to the wine bottle.
“And second…” I lifted her chin and waited until her kryptonite eyes met mine. “There’s no one else. Not before I met you, and sure as hell not now. Okay?”
Tuesday released a quiet breath and nodded. “Okay.”
My gaze dropped to her lips as they curved upward again. More than anything, I wanted to close the distance between us and finally kiss her, but another burst of laughter from the dining room reminded me that we weren’t alone. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.” I grabbed her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world and led her through the living room. In fact, the only unnatural thing about this moment was her clothing. Instead of wearing pink, Tuesday was clad in all black.
