Love, Laughter and Happily Ever After: A Short Story Collection

by Daisy Prescott

  I note his fingers, neatly trimmed nails, and an expensive vintage watch. He only has a smattering of hair on his arms. I wonder if he has chest hair. I mentally slap myself for imagining his naked chest. Or cataloguing the barest glimpse of his skin like it’s my job.

  Married, not blind. No harm in looking.

  “I have the perfect thing.” He pushes back from the counter and I have the urge to fan myself.

  His nimble hands and fingers grab bottles, squeeze lemon and muddle sugar. I think he adds ginger and maybe a bit of red pepper to the shaker. My focus moves up to his biceps as he shakes the silver container with vigor.

  So much enthusiasm and energy goes into the mixing of my cocktail. It reminds me of a jackrabbit.

  I wonder if he’d be fast like that in bed.

  Young, full of energy, and too good looking to ever be told he was awful in bed could be a terrible combination.

  He gently twists a thin slice of lemon peel before carefully setting it on the edge of the chilled martini glass he’s placed in front of me. He pours the honey colored liquid slowly into the frosty glass, filling it almost to the edge, but not spilling a single drop.

  It’s the single most erotic thing I’ve witnessed in ages.

  I clearly don’t get out enough.

  He clears his throat and I realize he’s waiting for me to taste his concoction. I worry my hands might shake too much to lift the glass, so I lean forward, and take a small sip.

  I close my eyes as the sweet, intense flavor hits my tongue followed by the zing of heat despite the icy temperature of the drink.

  “It’s amazing.” I lick the corner of my lips before slowly opening my eyes.

  “Thank you. I love watching someone enjoy something I make.”

  I slowly blink at him. It must be the lack of oxygen, but one sip of alcohol has me feeling light and giddy.

  “Can I open a tab for you? Or charge it to your room?” His voice has a slight accent I can’t place. Could be South African or Australian. Or New Zealand.

  I give him our suite number and tell him to leave it open. He moves down the bar to help other customers, including a loud, giggling group of snow bunnies. They lean over the bar to flirt with him, exposing the cleavage barely hidden by their low-cut sweaters.

  He laughs and acts the part with them, but his glance keeps finding mine. He gives me a knowing smile and rolls his eyes when he reaches behind the bar to pour them another glass of prosecco.

  I could probably be the girls’ mother.

  It’s a sobering thought, and I finish my cocktail in a long swallow. I twist the stem of the martini glass, chastising myself for flirting with a bartender.

  Or wanting to.

  I love my husband.

  And here comes the but… but after twenty-years of the same man and the same penis and the same sex, we’re in a rut.

  We’ve probably been in this rut for years, but I’ve been in the haze of kids for a decade. With teenagers comes the realization that soon, we’ll be a pair again, and that’s a little strange.

  “Can I get you another? Or something different?” Gorgeous and off limits asks.

  “Another.” I smile with my lips closed.

  He sets up to make my drink in front of me, rather than work near the gaggle of twenty-somethings. “Where are you from?”

  “Connecticut. At least now.”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  “We’ve moved around.”

  “Me too,” he says, flashing a row of perfectly white teeth. They remind me of a shark. I bet he has a long list of one-night stands around the world.

  “I was trying to place your accent.” I admit, then feel my cheeks heat.

  “Cape Town.”

  Not a Kiwi. For some reason, this disappoints me.

  “What brought you to Aspen?” I can’t help my curiosity. The attention and ability to stare at his gorgeous face feeds my interest.

  “Rugby.”

  That’s a surprise. “Not the mountains?”

  He gives me a shy smile. “Rugby’s my first love, but I do all right on the slopes.”

  And off, I think. Rugby player? Could he get any hotter? I feel flushed, and I’m not sure if it’s the flirting, the alcohol, or an impending hot flash.

  “And you?”

  I blink at him, having no idea what he’s asking.

  “Me what?”

  “What brings you to Aspen?”

  “The typical… vacation, skiing.” Husband, but I don’t say that part out loud. I’m wearing my wedding set, so it’s not like I’m trying to hide that I’m married. Although my left hand is hidden on my lap. It’s rude to put elbows on tables and bars.

  “First time?”

  Flirting with a hot bartender? No.

  “No, we’ve been here before. For years, we stayed in Snowmass, so it’s nice to be in Aspen again.” Snowmass is code for family vacation with its abundance of condos and easier trails for beginners. I wonder if he’ll pick up on it.

  He shakes my cocktail and I stare at his arms again. I notice a shadow of black peeking out from under his left cuff. It looks thick and tribal. My mind imagines dark bands wrapping around muscle and curling up his arm to his shoulder.

  “Do you still play?” I attempt to make conversation.

  “Rugby? Yeah. But I’m getting old.” He sets my fresh drink in front of me.

  I snort and cover my mouth with my hand.

  He laughs, deep and masculine. The sound washes over me and I cross my legs impulsively.

  “It’s true. It’s a difficult sport on the body.”

  Images of tough, thick male bodies covered in mud, thrashing and tackling each other on a field come to mind. I purse my lips and exhale, slow and steady, trying to calm my heart rate.

  It must be the altitude and lack of oxygen, but this nameless bartender has my head spinning. Not that I would ever do anything with him, but in a few short sentences, he’s done more for my libido than porn or erotica have for months.

  Where’s Ben? Remembering I do have a husband and he should be down here by now, I scan the long bar area for his familiar brown hair. The crowd is beginning to thin as people move on to dinner reservations or naps before a night of clubbing. I’d love to go dancing again. It’s been ages.

  “Where’s the best place to dance in town this year?” I ask Mr. Rugby, who is lingering near me.

  “What kind of dancing? Crazy club stuff with foam? Or honky-tonk with a live band?” He gives me a list of both types, listing some old Aspen standbys and new places.

  I snicker at honky-tonk and then cover it up with sipping my cocktail.

  “Don’t you say honky-tonk?” he smiles and leans back.

  “Not in Connecticut. Texas maybe. I’ve never been to one.”

  “No? Line dancing and country songs?” He studies my face. “No, you don’t seem the type.”

  “Oh, really? Go on.” I sip and wait for his assessment.

  He puts his elbow on the bar in front of me and tips his head. “The type who doesn’t go to honky-tonk bars. Or clubs. Or sits alone at bars.”

  He’s close enough that I can smell his cologne and his man scent. He gives good pheromones.

  “Am I close?”

  Too close. I shift away from him. “You’re very observant.”

  “It’s part of my job. Plus, I studied psychology at university. Comes into good use for playing rugby, and bartending.”

  A jock and smart. I set down my glass and settle into my seat. “Well, you’ve figured me out.”

  “You’re more difficult to read than most women who sit here alone.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He picks up a bar cloth and wipes down the counter to my right where two seats have opened. He places fresh bowls of almonds out for the next patrons.

  “You seem fine being alone. Happy about it even. Most single women have a slight edge of …” His words fade out as he thinks of the adjective he wants.

&nbs
p; “Desperation? Sadness? Loneliness?” I fill in the blank he’s left.

  He smirks and moves a bowl of almonds in front of me. “Maybe all three? Some women are all about the hunt, the game, the flirtation.”

  Put me in the last category. I’ve enjoyed chatting with him and his attention a little too much.

  “Some act like they’ll never get asked to dance, so they curl up and feel sorry for themselves. Won’t even make eye-contact.”

  I find myself locking eyes with him. He smirks.

  “It must be fascinating.”

  He gets called down to the gaggle of girls. They giggle and touch his arms where they rest on the bar. They’re bold and far more direct than I’ve ever been with men. Although it’s been decades since I was on the hunt.

  A man slips into the seat next to me. His body heat fills the space. I glance over out of curiosity, and am met with familiar brown eyes.

  “Hi,” I whisper, my cheeks warming.

  “Hello, Mrs. Grant.” His arm rests on the low back of my stool. “You’re beautiful when you smile and flirt.”

  Caught, I give him a deer in the headlights look.

  “No need to be guilty. I’ve enjoyed watching you.”

  “You have?” I swallow. “From where?”

  He points to a small table with a banquette in the corner behind me. I didn’t see him when I scanned the bar earlier.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  “Long enough.” His fingers play down my spine and splay across the base, right above my ass. “You’re the most beautiful woman in here.” His breath skims across my skin right before he kisses my cheek near my ear.

  My gaze flicks to his and then down the bar.

  “He’s very handsome, but what’s with the bun?” Ben asks, munching on some almonds.

  “Ella calls them man buns.”

  “Looks like something Gil would have worn in college in that grunge band.”

  I chuckle, but nod. “He so would’ve.”

  The rugby god returns to us and, without missing a beat or looking surprised that I’m no longer alone, asks for Ben’s drink order. A Manhattan up. Always.

  I catch myself watching Rugby’s arms again. I can’t help it.

  Another perfect cocktail is poured in front of us.

  “Thanks…” Ben pauses, waiting for a name.

  “Stan.”

  “Thank you, Stan. Excellent drink.”

  Stan. Stanley.

  Not a sexy name. At all.

  My fantasy begins to fade with reality. Fantasies are best kept to the imagination.

  We drink our cocktails and Ben chatters about his conference call and business dinner. The familiarity of his voice lulls me, soothing the heat building under my skin.

  “Shall we?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  Ben settles up our tab, thanking Stan for keeping me company. I give a little wave when we walk past him and the gang of available women. I wonder which one will end up in his bed tonight.

  Part of me says a silent thank you. I can’t imagine having first time sex with someone new. All the awkwardness of not knowing what to expect, or discovering the weird foibles and fetishes of the other person.

  I lean up and kiss Ben’s cheek as we walk through the restaurant to our table.

  “What was that for?”

  “For being my forever.”

  “You’re not leaving me and the kids for Stan the Man… bun?” He gives me his serious face.

  “It never crossed my mind.” I reassure him, knowing it isn’t necessary.

  As we sit and eat, I hatch a plan for the weekend. I realize my relationship ennui isn’t about wanting something else; it’s about wanting something fresh.

  And I have the perfect plot to give us a little spark.

  Chapter 3

  Ben puts on his ridiculously brightly colored red parka, gloves and ski pants while I laugh at him from the sofa.

  “It’s in case I go off trail and into the woods. I want them to find my unconscious body as quickly as possible.”

  “Stop!” I can’t breathe from laughing at him so hard. “That’s a terrible thing to think about.”

  “If I told you the guy at the ski shop sold me this outfit this morning because I told him to give me what all the cool snowboarders are wearing these days, you might asphyxiate yourself with laughter.”

  I stop laughing and hold my hand over my mouth. “No.”

  He nods and spins for me. “I’m worried I’ll run into some X Games champion in the same jacket. Who would that be more embarrassing for?”

  I fall off the sofa in a fit of cackling snorts. “What was wrong with your North Face stuff? Isn’t that still cool?”

  “It’s too east coast or last year, or something.” He checks out the wild pattern of his jacket in the mirror. “I look like a moron.”

  “But you’ll be the first one found. I’ll be able to spot you from our window. Or the après ski deck.”

  He laughs at himself and pulls out his coordinating gloves. He’s the most ridiculous vision of a middle age man trying too hard.

  “Hold on!” I run into the bedroom to grab my phone. “Pose,” I tell him as my finger hovers, ready to take his pic.

  “No social media.” He makes a serious face and at the last minute adds duck lips.

  The picture is blurry from my laughter. “Stop. Just be serious.”

  I snap another pic and text it to the kids. “I promise, no social media, but I might have to send it to Maggie and Selah.” My best friends from college will get a laugh over the guy they dubbed Mr. Republican in freshman year.

  “Fine.” He kisses my cheek, but I turn and catch his lips for a real kiss. His surprise makes him pause, before returning it and swiping his tongue into my mouth. We kiss and he wraps his arm around my back.

  This is no peck hello or good-bye. This is a real, sexual, could start something that might lead somewhere kiss. He ends it too soon.

  “Wow. Where’d that come from?” His breath is shallow.

  “I’m not sure. It might be the outfit.” My lips twitch as I fight my laughter. “But there is more of that for later. I have big plans for us tonight.”

  “You do? What are these plans?” He taps my nose with his index finger.

  “Not telling. But I’ll be confiscating your phone at seven sharp. No business on a Saturday night.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He kisses me again, a familiar peck, but that’s okay.

  I keep my mouth closed and kiss him back with a little more pressure. “You better leave before I strip you out of this clown suit and have my way with you.”

  “Can I still wear the hat?” He backs away to the door, pulling his ridiculous pom-pom adorned hat over his eyes.

  “Be safe out there this morning. I’ll meet you at one for lunch.” I turn and walk into the bedroom.

  While he skis and talks business, I’ll be having a massage and shopping. I have some things to pick up for tonight and there’s the perfect little lingerie shop a few blocks away.

  Massage over, I feel loose and noodley. The glass of prosecco after probably enhances whatever endorphins or dopamine my brain is releasing.

  Again, I think the lack of oxygen up here has something to do with it. Bright sunshine, not enough oxygen, and I’m feeling good.

  Really good. So good that when my mother texts from Florida with an update I don’t even have the urge to call and micro-manage their day.

  Definitely must be high from the altitude.

  I glide down the street, window-shopping all the incredible designer shops. Knowing Ben, his skiing ensemble probably cost more than new skis in this town.

  Arriving at the small alley, I duck down to the white door that encloses the most beautiful lingerie shop. Discreet, European and outrageously expensive, it’s everything I love.

  The saleswoman helps me pick out a few pieces and measures me to ma
ke sure I get the right size. She offers me another glass of prosecco, and I accept. As she wraps my purchase in the silver tissue, a case of toys catches my eye. I tell her to wait and walk over to the display.

  She explains the line of products without embarrassment or judgment. I buy three things, which she also wraps in tissue before placing them in a plain white bag, the shop’s equivalent of brown paper. It’s completely bland, but if you know this shop, immediately recognizable.

  I receive a small smile and nod from the doorman when he greets me back at the hotel. I’m certain I catch his eye on the bag. I mumble a thank you and enter the elevator. The woman in the car with me nods and smiles. “I love their things.”

  So much for discreet. I give her a smile in return. We’ve formed an immediate bond.

  In the room, I unwrap everything and tuck it away for later tonight.

  I join Ben and his business associates for lunch. There’s a lot of shop talk. All four men wear brightly colored ski ensembles. I wonder if they all had the same sales associate, and if he works on commission.

  I tune out their talk and face the sun, letting the strong rays heat my cheeks. Through the dark lenses of my sunglasses, I watch snowboarders and skiers fly down the mountain towards us. The patio is crowded with people taking a break from the slopes. Chatter about conditions and expected overnight snow mix with dreams of deep powder in the morning. It’s a foreign language to my ears. I begin to drift off.

  “Jo?” Ben’s voice sounds far away. “Honey?”

  I realize I’m half asleep at the table. I rouse myself and sit up, removing my sunglasses. “I apologize. I think the altitude is affecting me.” And two proseccos before lunch, but I don’t say that part out loud.

  Ben and the men don’t seem offended when they announce they’re heading back up the mountain for a few more runs. One of them, I think his name is Neal, tells us about a pop-up champagne bar.

  My ears perk up. “That sounds like my kind of skiing,” I say. “Maybe tomorrow. This afternoon, I need a nap.”

  The group chuckles as I excuse myself. All of them stand when I leave the table. For some strange reason, I give a slight bow.

  Ben raises his eyebrows at me and presses his lips together to keep from smiling. Or laughing. I bow to him again before saying goodbye to push his buttons. His jaw ticks with the effort he is using not to laugh.