Nothing Personal (The Kincaids)

by James, Rosalind

  And then he took her home, put her on the white bed like a cloud, and made love to her, long and slow and sweet. Not using the curtains at all, because he didn’t need to, although he did turn on those little lights, because he needed to see her.

  There would be another time for the curtains. For tonight, he wanted to touch her, and taste her, and feel her touching and tasting him. He wanted her hands, her mouth against his skin. He wanted to hear her breathy sighs, and, later, her cries, to know how much she wanted him, and to know that he knew exactly how to touch her, how to kiss her, how to please her. He wanted to love her.

  Lift Into Your Plank

  “That’s it,” he told her in the morning when they were drinking coffee and eating toast with jam in her comfortably upholstered dining chairs, the smell of peonies filling the air, the crystals in the chandelier overhead casting rainbows onto the wall next to them, the patio beyond the French doors all dappled sunlight and blooming lavender in terra-cotta pots. “I’m moving in.”

  “What?”

  He laughed at her startled expression. “Nah, just kidding. But I like your house better than mine.”

  “Well, so do I,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, I know it’s the best address, and I’m sure it’s all the latest thing, but . . .”

  “It’s cold,” he agreed. “And not . . . comfortable. How did you get everything to look like this? Did it come this way, or did somebody do it?”

  “Somebody did it. Me. With help from a contractor,” she hastened to say. “It was all carpeted, and it had fussy wallpaper everywhere when I bought it five years ago. It took me three years to do all this, to get it exactly the way I wanted it. I moved a lot when I was a kid, and I wanted someplace that was . . . all mine.”

  “Security,” he guessed.

  “Yes,” she said with surprise. “I guess, now that you say it . . . yes. Or maybe, you know . . .” She shrugged, a little embarrassed now. Why did she keep revealing herself to him like this? “Women, the nesting thing.”

  “Hey,” he said. “I’m impressed, I’m not criticizing. All I did myself was write a check, and you saw how that turned out. I can’t imagine how you had the time.”

  “I didn’t do it all at once,” she explained. “I went slowly, one room at a time when I knew what I wanted and I could afford it, and I found everything myself. My kitchen tiles, my light fixtures, my big bathtub, everything. I had magazine articles, and I looked at websites, and I went around and looked at open houses and stores and salvage places, and, well, everything, every chance I got. But the nice thing is, it’s so small, it was doable. Javier and Philip designed the garden,” she thought to add. “Because they’re into that. That’s why it blends so well with theirs.”

  “Turned out great,” he said. “I guess if you get tired of making my life easier, you could go into business for yourself.”

  She laughed at that. “I could, if anybody else liked what I like. I think it’s fairly obvious that my secret inner self is a 70-year-old grandma.”

  “No,” he corrected her. “Your secret inner self is a pretty girl who likes pretty things. And I’m pretty crazy about your secret inner self.”

  “Well, thanks.” Boy, did he know the right things to say. “But none of my selves can cook, so what do you want to do for breakfast?”

  “Eat,” he said promptly, making her laugh again. “What do you usually do?”

  “I normally go over to the farmers’ market in Ferry Plaza, Saturday mornings. Have a walk, get something to eat, pick up a few things for later.”

  “Let’s do that, then, if you want company. I have to go into the office today, but what do you think about my coming back again tonight? Since, as we know, I don’t like my apartment. Maybe we could even buy something and heat it up, and, I don’t know, watch a movie? Or I could take you out again,” he hastened to say.

  “No, that sounds good. I have work to do too, but later—that sounds good.”

  “So I’m wondering,” he asked when they were walking back through the Saturday-morning quiet of the Financial District, comfortably stuffed with various delicious delicacies and laden with their purchases. Fruit, salad vegetables, artisanal bread and cheese, Greek and Vietnamese and Italian treats, each in its own little container, ready to be heated. “Why don’t you cook, when you do everything else so well? I mean, I know why I don’t. My mom did it for us growing up, and then I started working pretty hard as soon as I was out of school, and there were restaurants, so . . .” He shrugged. “Gabe learned how, but I never did. But I’d have thought you would’ve had to.”

  She hated this kind of question. It always made her feel like a freak. But then, he didn’t cook either. And he hadn’t judged her yet, so she put one more cautious toe into the water.

  “I grew up eating frozen dinners,” she tried to explain. “And school lunches. Free school lunches, and breakfasts too. Food never tasted all that . . . tasty. Sometimes I’d go to somebody’s house, and they’d have this good food, you know? Mashed potatoes with little lumps in them that tasted like . . . potatoes. Gravy. In the morning, they’d have pancakes that fluffed up. I would wonder how they did that, how they got it all to taste that way, but I didn’t have a clue. So I just figured, that was something some people knew how to do, but I didn’t.”

  “Your grandma, though,” he suggested.

  “Umm . . . remember that Jell-O salad?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” He made a little face.

  “Well, that’s her best dish. That’s her signature. So there you go. She’s great, but cook? Not so much.”

  “And you never learned. Like me.”

  “Just like you, although I don’t eat out all the time like you do. I eat a lot of salads, things like that. Energy bars,” she said, and saw his smile. “And I can make eggs. But cooking needs special pans, and measuring cups, and ingredients. I don’t have any ingredients. And I don’t have time. I’ve hardly ever even used my oven. Maybe three times?”

  “Really? You bought a blue oven, and you don’t even use it?”

  “Nope. There you go, my guilty secret. How often have you used yours?”

  “I’ve heated things up,” he admitted. “And that’s about it.”

  “Well, you know,” she said, “that’s what they make the Ferry Plaza market for. So we can heat things up. You can be in charge of that.”

  He was quiet for a few minutes as they reached the steps and began to climb. She’d been right, he hadn’t seemed to judge, to her relief.

  “So this is what you do?” he asked as they finished the first block’s worth of stairs and started on the second. “For a workout, I mean? Walk the steps? Because I have to say . . .” he leaned back, shot a sly glance behind her. “It’s working great for you, though I suspect you were naturally gifted to begin with.”

  How did he manage to make a too-tall, too-slender woman feel so sexy? That was his gift. Well, one of them.

  “If you like it,” she said, trying not to let her smile betray her foolish heart any more than necessary, “I guess you should tell my yoga teachers ‘thanks,’ because that’s where it comes from. I mean, yes, I walk a lot too, but that’s where the sculpting part comes from.”

  “Really? Yoga?”

  “What, never heard of Yoga Butt?”

  “Mmm, no. But I’m appreciating the hell out of it.” Which made her feel even better.

  “Three times a week or so. Drop-in, whenever I can make it. In fact, Saturday evening is one of the times I usually go, because it isn’t as crowded. You know,” she added with a little laugh, “just the lonely boys and girls going with Plan B.”

  “And you want to go tonight,” he guessed.

  “Well, yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I’d be back by seven, so we could still do something after that, if that’s not too late.”

  “No, I’m fairly sure I’ll still want to do something.”

  “I mean, dinner.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Dinner too. But why don’t I go
with you? You can show me what it’s all about. If they let men in, and if you don’t have to wear special yoga clothes made of weird stretchy stuff. I don’t look too good in tights.”

  “Men go. It’s not ballet class.” Really? He wanted to go to yoga with her? That was new. “And it’s not fancy, it’s Yoga to the People. You put your donation in a Kleenex box at the end. Shorts, and shirts are optional.”

  “Wow. I’m definitely going. Topless yoga girls? I am so there.”

  That time, she giggled. She never giggled, but she did it now. “No, sports bras. But I wear a tank top.”

  He sighed. “Well, that’s sad, but I’m coming anyway.”

  “We should be discreet, though,” she warned. “It’s on Mission, lots of techies. And you don’t exactly blend.”

  “Out of context,” he pointed out.

  “Still. You, the show . . . and, well, let’s face it. You. Discreet. No kissing me.”

  “All right,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll just save it up.”

  “You do that.” Boy, he made her smile. “And it’s a 90-minute class,” she realized. “That might not be the best for your first time. We can do a different one if you’d rather, earlier in the afternoon. The others are only an hour.”

  “Hey, I’m in shape. I work out almost every day.”

  “I know you are. I’ve been watching you chop wood with your shirt off on TV, remember? It’s a little different, though. Different muscles, and you’re using them in different ways.”

  “Desiree. It’s yoga. It’s stretching. How hard can it be?”

  A half-hour into it, he would have laughed at those words, if he’d had enough energy left to do it with. An hour in, and he was holding on purely out of pride, hoping that he could finish the class, that he wasn’t going to collapse in an ignominious heap on top of the puddle of sweat that had collected on his mat.

  “Lower halfway,” the instructor was saying now in a soothing voice that was rapidly getting on Alec’s last nerve. “And hover in your plank. Move your right palm so it’s centered under your body and turn onto the outer edge of your right foot, stacking your left foot on top of your right.”

  Alec figured it out, mainly because he could follow the girl next to him, shifted so he was supporting his weight on his right palm, the side of his right foot, slowly straightened his right arm. Put his left foot precariously on top of the right and wobbled more than a little, but he was doing it.

  Except that it wasn’t over. “Lift into your hip, and now, if you choose, raise your left hand to the sky,” suggested the syrupy voice. “You might want to raise your left leg as well, find some variation in your pose.”

  Or you might just want to stay right here, Alec decided. All right, the 22-year-old next to him, the one with the tattoos snaking over her shoulder, disappearing under the brief coverage of her sports bra, and emerging again to continue down her back, was doing it. Because she was clearly some kind of freak of nature.

  But then they were on the other side, and Rae was doing it all, both arms in a graceful line, one long leg lifting into the air at a full 45-degree angle as if it were no problem at all. And he was sweating more than ever, and wondering who the hell thought this was a fun time.

  Desiree came slowly out of the depths of her shivasana, opened her eyes, wiggled her fingers and toes, then turned onto her side. A few class members were quietly rolling up their mats, preparing to leave, but she took her time, enjoying the moment. The 90-minute class was her favorite. She always emerged relaxed and rejuvenated.

  The tinkling instrumental music stopped for a moment as a song ended, and she heard another sound amidst the rustles and shifting. A snore. She pushed up onto her knees and looked to her left.

  Alec was on his back all right, and yes, he was relaxed. In fact, he was asleep.

  Another snore, and she giggled. Put a gentle hand on his shoulder, gave him a little shake.

  “Alec,” she murmured, leaning close. “Sweetie. Wake up.”

  “Huh?” He raised his head with a start, looked at her above him. The startled look turned to a smile. “Uh . . . what?”

  “You fell asleep,” she told him.

  “Oh. Guess it worked.” He got up, moving pretty slowly, she couldn’t help but notice, hung his rental mat on the ballet bar that ran along one wall. It dripped onto the hardwood floor, and she felt another giggle rising.

  “OK,” he sighed when they were outside again and walking to his car. “Consider my ass kicked.”

  She laughed out loud. “A little harder than you expected?”

  “As always, Desiree,” he told her, “you’ve outclassed me.”

  Meeting in the Conference Room

  Desiree found her attention wandering, jerked it back to the speaker again. It was Alec who was doing it to her. Leaning back in his chair at the head of the table, one ankle crossed over the other knee, one hand lying casually across his thigh, the other hanging at his side. He seemed keyed up despite the relaxed posture, and when she looked more closely, she could see his fingers drumming a little on the dark fabric of his trousers.

  She’d seen him in those pants before. In fact, she’d taken those pants off him before. Just a few nights ago, on the pale area rug that covered the floor of his equally pale living room.

  She’d unbuckled the smooth black leather belt first, pushed its tongue slowly out of the nickel-plated loop, pulled it back to free the hole from its fastening prong, tugged with both hands to separate belt from buckle. And then had worked on his top button, pulled the zipper slowly down. She could almost feel the little metal tab she’d held delicately between her fingertips, the finely woven dark woolen fabric just barely abrasive where she’d grasped a handful to give her purchase.

  But that was only part of the memory that had her staring at the strong, clever hand resting on his thigh. It was mostly the fact that she’d been naked at the time. And kneeling at his feet.

  She realized with a start that his fingers had stopped drumming, and that his eyes were fixed on her face, his expression intent. And now he didn’t look relaxed at all.

  Probably wondering why she wasn’t paying attention. She shoved away the awareness of the tingling in her breasts, between her legs, wriggled a little to settle herself into the plush leather chair, and turned her gaze resolutely to Mark, the sales manager for Advent PR, who was still droning away about his company’s proposed campaign to an audience of Alec, Joe, and Brandon. And, this time around, Desiree too.

  Alec thought she could contribute some insight to AI’s marketing efforts, she reminded herself, and that was both a compliment and an opportunity to expand her work horizons in a way she’d never anticipated. He wasn’t going to keep inviting her to these things if she couldn’t even focus, let alone contribute.

  “Everything you’ve talked about so far has been B to B,” she said when Mark had finally made his latest point. “Going to the consumer is going to be the challenge, though, in terms of cost-effectiveness. Do you have a plan for that?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” he said, and she smiled a little inside. Mark had taken Question-Answering 101, it was clear. He shuffled papers a bit, clicked ahead a few slides, and began the next topic. On which she focused.

  Until she felt the quick vibration of her phone under her hand and realized she’d been stroking it, rubbing her fingers along the raised plastic edges of its case. And how embarrassing was that?

  She glanced down at the screen, and froze.

  You’re on this table tonight.

  Her gaze flew to his face, and he stared impassively back at her for a second, then back at Mark again. He’d scooted his chair in a bit, and she couldn’t see his hands anymore. Because they were under the table, texting her.

  She could feel her heartbeat picking up, realized that her tongue had come out to moisten her lips.

  Damn him. How was she supposed to pay attention now?

  She couldn’t help it. She sneaked another peek. Raised her eyeb
rows a little at him. Picked up her phone, scooted closer herself, and did her own stealthy thumb-typing.

  You and what army?

  She wasn’t even pretending to listen anymore. She was just waiting for the buzz against her palm.

  No army. Just me.

  Ha, she texted back. Think again.

  I am thinking. Haven’t decided.

  Startled, she shot another look at him. He was giving up that easily?

  A smile barely touched one corner of his mouth, then he was looking at Mark again. It was an endless minute before she felt the buzz.

  Which way you’ll be facing.

  And that was when she completely lost her focus.

  She told herself that she was hanging around because she had a lot to do. Went through her list, item by meticulous item, checking each one neatly off as she completed it. Heard the big space outside slowly emptying, and couldn’t stop the drumming of her heart, or ignore the tingle that had long since become a steady thrum.

  And still she didn’t hear anything, or see Alec. For all she knew, he could have left already. He’d probably just been messing around today, passing the time. That had been a boring meeting.

  She hadn’t said that, not exactly. But when Mark had left and they’d all been sitting around the table afterwards, after Brandon had given his enthusiastic endorsement of his candidate and Alec had asked her what she’d thought, she’d been honest.

  “It all looked professional enough,” she said. “But if he’s the best they’ve got, and he couldn’t even hold my interest in this room, and I’m the client, what does that say about their ability to reach out and grab the prospect?”

  “I agree,” Alec said, his face betraying absolutely nothing. “Anything that’s not grabbing you, Rae, isn’t good enough. And he couldn’t hold my interest either. I kept finding myself getting distracted.”

  Which was all true enough, and had probably meant no more than exactly what he’d said. Besides, they’d been nothing but careful in the office these past weeks, for the excellent reason that they needed to be. Their fantasies were just that, fantasies. And knowing he had the same ones she did . . . that was a nice thing to think about, on the nights he wasn’t with her, and that was all it was. So she should just stop.