Kitchen Matches

by Marianne Arkins

  “I don’t like dogs.” She dropped her aching head into her hands and peeked through her fingers to watch as the man dragged the dog a few feet away. Spike stared at Liv with droopy brown eyes for a couple moments before he turned and trotted into the apartment complex. Thank heavens.

  “Look, you can’t sit out here by yourself. What if you have a concussion and pass out?” The man squatted beside her. “Do you live nearby? I could take you home.”

  “I don’t live anywhere around here.” Heaven forbid. Liv waved off his offer with a flip of her hand. “I just need a few minutes to gather my wits.”

  “I don’t feel right just leaving you here. Maybe you could go to my neighbor’s? Daisy is a pretty harmless woman—at least if you’re not a man—and from where I’m sitting, it’s obvious you’re no man.”

  “Daisy?” That was impossible. What were the odds?

  “Yeah.” He grasped her elbow and helped her stand again. Despite the grease and calluses, his hand was oddly gentle and comforting. “I bet you’re seeing double, and you can’t drive in that condition.”

  Annoyed he was right, and interested in checking out where the competition lived, she reluctantly agreed. They walked side-by-side into the complex, each step making her head throb more.

  “I’m Mike, by the way. Mike Peck.”

  She looked up at him, really seeing him for the first time. He was unbelievably tall, well over six feet, and wore some kind of gray coverall that had his name embroidered on the patch affixed to the front.

  She squinted at the smaller lettering above his name. Doug’s Import Auto Shop. Saved by a grease monkey. How exactly right for her day.

  They say you’ll know when you’re in love. What if you don’t?

  Slightly Foxed

  © 2008 Jane Lovering

  Alys, a single parent and certified romantic disaster area, is always falling for unattainable men—the latest one being the dead author of a “borrowed” book of poetry. When she reluctantly returns the book to its rightful owner, she meets Leo. He’s very much alive, very much attracted to her and, well, it’s love at first sight.

  Isn’t it?

  After all, she’s a single mum with a boring job in a bookshop and, as her daughter puts it, gravity’s not going to hold off forever. Leo’s got the financial stability she’s been craving and he looks like an aftershave advert. So it must be love.

  Mustn’t it?

  Then there’s Piers, whose spontaneity draws her like a magnet. But is it love she feels, or just his infectious love of life? Before she can choose, an unexpected source threatens to lay bare the lie she has been living for the last sixteen years.

  With happiness close to slipping out of her grasp, Alys is forced to ask herself whether she’s ever really been in love at all.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Slightly Foxed:

  The flat turned out to be the whole top floor of a Bonded Warehouse right on the river. Huge metal pillars supported the roof, but apart from that it was one long, empty space with the bathroom a very visible corner behind stylish glass bricks.

  “Well?” Piers stood in the middle of the room, hands in pockets. “What do you think?”

  “I think it would make a great rollerblading rink. But a flat? I don’t know. It is very you though, Piers.”

  “How, me?” He rocked back on his heels watching me intently. I wasn’t quite sure why.

  “Very cool, very trendy. Very exhibitionist. I mean, if there was anyone here with you, you wouldn’t even be able to scratch yourself without them seeing.”

  “So, you reckon I’m a cool, trendy exhibitionist?” His eyes were glittering.

  “No, you’re—” But I stopped myself.

  “What do you think of me, Alys?” He came a little closer. “I mean, am I a nice guy or a psycho, or what? Y’see, you never say what you think, you keep it all locked away, up here—” He reached out to touch my forehead but, disturbed for no reason I could think of, I shied away and waved a hand to indicate the bare brick walls.

  “Can you imagine curling up in here with a video and a pizza and listening to the rain outside?”

  “Er…Alys…” Piers held his hands out in front of him. “Twenty-one. Male. Too fucking cool to live. I do not sit in with pizza.”

  I had a sudden flashback to last night, my birthday night, sitting in front of the TV, cheese stringily dripping onto my lap whilst Mr. Depp strutted his sizeable funky thing for my delectation. My sole conversation had been with Mrs. Treadgold who’d rung to make sure I’d enjoyed the cake. “If all you want is a sexy address, this will do you fine. But if you want a home—this will never be a home, Piers.”

  “That was straight from the heart anyway.” Piers looked the place over, with a sigh. “But I guess you’re right. It’s a little municipal.”

  I instantly felt contrite. “But the view, the view is lovely.” Bobbing away down the Ouse were the houseboats and the tourist craft. On the far bank were the riverside pubs and clubs. “Very urban.”

  “Noisy, at night.”

  “Yes, but lively. And handy for the station and the shops.”

  Piers just looked at me, steadily. “You hate it.”

  “Well, yes, but it’s not for me, is it? Do you like it, that’s the question. What about your girlfriend, does she like it?”

  Piers turned away abruptly and leaned on one of the windowsills, gazing out across the rooftops of York. “I’m—kinda between women at the moment.” There was a peculiar tone in his voice and I wondered if I’d put my foot in a monumental great hole.

  “Are you gay?” The question came out rather faster, and more breathlessly, than I’d meant. I’d heard all about his penchant for young girl model-types who left not one inch of him uncovered with lipstick praise, mostly in scathing terms from Florence. But maybe they’d been symptomatic of a struggle with sexuality.

  Piers seemed unoffended. I suppose, looking the way he did, all hair and rings and androgynously sexy, it must be something he got asked a lot. “No. I’m not. There is someone, but it’s all kinda difficult at the moment, you know?”

  I stood beside him and together we looked out of the window. “Life, eh?” But I had to admit that he made me feel a tiny bit better; he might be beautiful and well connected, but he still wasn’t happy. I could manage to be miserable without any of those advantages. “Better get home. Grainger’s been a bit off-colour lately and he’s not too hot with the litter tray, so I don’t like to be late.”

  “You won’t come for a drink, then? Maybe some food, say thanks for coming to look at this place?”

  “Wellll, all right, Grainger can cross his little furry legs for a bit longer. But you are absolutely not to order any wine, okay?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Piers executed a very smart salute. His mood seemed to have switched from forlorn to cheerful in nanoseconds.

  “And we can only go somewhere that won’t mind my jeans, I haven’t got anything to change into. Oh, and Piers, have you got anything to put on over that T-shirt?”

  “Yes, ma’am, sure thing, ma’am. Why?”

  “Oh, nothing, it’s just that every time you move it’s distracting.”

  “Yeah?” Slowly and deliberately Piers stretched his arms upwards, straightening out his spine and rolling his shoulders backwards, until his T-shirt moved up his torso, over the waistband of his jeans revealing, inch by inch, bare flesh studded with dark hair.

  “Piers, you are such a poser.” I turned away quickly so he wouldn’t see that I was enjoying the show. “Come on, stop flaunting yourself and let’s go.”

  “Sure thing.” Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Piers led the way out of the flat. We ate in an Italian restaurant and chatted until they closed the place around us. I was surprised by just how much I enjoyed myself.

  Next morning I woke up with the feeling that I’d done something I ought to regret. I padded out of the bedroom with my towel, heading for the bathroom. At least it was early enough that I cou
ld have a shower before work.

  As I passed Florrie’s bedroom door, I heard Grainger give one of his plaintive murp’s on the far side of it. Somehow, and I could be almost positive I’d left the door open, Grainger had become shut in.

  I flicked the door and Grainger ran through my legs. To check that he hadn’t already downloaded last night’s Whiskas onto Florrie’s duvet, I put my head around the door, only to pull it back so fast that I nearly got friction burns from the air molecules.

  Piers. His T-shirt and jeans were neatly folded on the floor, the boots he’d worn were propped up near the door. He was sprawled face down, and very obviously naked, across Florence’s bed.

  Oh bloody hell. Now I remembered what I’d done. Piers and I had been laughing hysterically coming up the stairs, recreating a scene from an old TV sketch show that we’d both treasured. He’d asked if he could stay over to save himself the drive home, and I, desperate for the loo and the comfort of my duvet, had agreed.

  I peered cautiously into the bedroom again. I was so used to seeing Florrie, duvet tucked up to her chin, that seeing Piers angled, arms above his head, one leg bent and the duvet—well, it certainly wasn’t covering much of his body, put it that way—was very strange. As I watched he stirred, one hand twitched and he made to roll over, at which I withdrew very smartly and went and had a very noisy shower. With singing. There was going to be absolutely no chance of him still being spread-eagled nude when I came out of that bathroom.

  There’s more to life than playing make believe.

  The Role of a Lifetime

  © 2008 Jennifer Shirk

  Sandra Moyer has a good reason to distrust actors. She was once married to one who left her and her child. However, she’s desperate for publicity to help her struggling preschool. Hollywood playboy Ben Capshaw’s request to access her classes to prepare for a role is an offer she can’t refuse.

  Sandra second guesses herself on that decision until she sees Ben in action with the children. Her apprehension turns to wonder, and then to feelings she’d thought were closed off forever. Yet how can she trust that what she’s seeing is real?

  As a boy, Ben learned that acting was the answer to everything. The role he’s up for now will enhance his career and, he’s sure, secure his happiness. But spending time with Sandra and her daughter stirs up emotions that—for once—aren’t pretend.

  Ben’s ready for a lifetime role as husband and father—if he can convince Sandra not to typecast him.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Role of a Lifetime:

  Ben had the nerve to pop his head in her office exactly two hours later. “Uh, do you mind if I wait in here while the parents pick up the kids?”

  Still angry with him—and herself—Sandra didn’t bother to look up from writing at her desk. “You mean hide in here while the parents pick up their kids?”

  He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I mean hide,” he said with a trace of defeat.

  She finally put her pen down and lifted her head. Ben was doing one heck of a personal repentant show for her, hovering in the doorway with wide eyes and his hands folded. She practically saw the halo hovering over his golden-brown head. “Okay,” she said. “Then no, I don’t mind.”

  “Great. Thanks, Sandals.”

  She looked at him sharply as he stepped in. Five seconds had barely gone by and he already had her back on the defensive. “That I do mind. My name is Sandra—not Sandals.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t figure you for a nickname type of woman,” he agreed, looking pleased with himself.

  “Good.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against her door. “Ah, but you need to loosen up. That’s why I’m going to call you Sandals.”

  “You know, typically a nickname is shorter than the given name.”

  “Is it?” he asked in mock seriousness. “Oh. Well, tell you what, you can call me…”

  She waited several beats, thinking of more than a few unkind examples. “I can call you what?” she finally asked.

  “That’s it.” He shot her his bone-melting smile. “You can just call me. Anytime.”

  She rolled her eyes, refusing to give in to the smile that threatened. “That sounds like a line from one of your movies.”

  He shot her a triumphant look. “Ah, ha! I knew you were a fan.”

  “Please. Don’t flatter yourself. I just meant that it sounds like a very generic line from a very generic movie,” she lied.

  “Ouch.” He played wounded and made a show of sticking in and taking out a pretend knife from his gut.

  She’d seen better performances by him.

  “You know, it’s okay to admit the truth,” he told her. “It means you’re human.”

  “I know I’m human, thank you very much.”

  He chuckled. “Okay, if it makes you feel better, I’ll give you a truth. That’ll show you I can be human too.”

  “I doubt one piece of trivia will accomplish that enormous feat.”

  “Come on,” he cajoled, undaunted by her attitude. “It’ll pass the time while we wait for the kids to be picked up.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean, like that twenty-questions game?”

  He shrugged. “I was thinking more along the lines of truth or dare, but okay. We can play whatever game you like.” His gaze traveled over her body, slow and thorough, giving her an idea of where his thoughts were going.

  A mixture of curiosity and excitement had her swallowing hard. But she hid her emotions with an amused huff as she stood and walked over to her filing cabinet. Ben was worse than Hannah, always wanting to play games. She didn’t have time to entertain his childish whims, even if they did seem…a little enticing. But she needed to find the number of a handyman. The building was falling apart, and a coat of paint might gloss over the many imperfections of it. Unfortunately, she was so intent on finding an old invoice, she didn’t notice Ben come up behind her until his hands braced the filing cabinet on either side of her, caging her in.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” she asked, feeling her heart slam up against her chest so hard she jerked forward.

  “Waiting to find out what game you want to play,” he whispered in her ear.

  She felt a shiver and whirled around. “I…uh…Game?” She couldn’t think—or even breathe. He was standing so close he seemed to snatch up all the air around her, and for a split second, she almost felt faint because of it.

  He smiled, and her throat constricted even more. “It looks like I’ll have to pick for you,” he said.

  “I don’t—”

  He kissed her then.

  She couldn’t believe he kissed her. And what a kiss it was.

  Feeling his hands travel up her arms and cup her face created an unfamiliar sensation she wasn’t prepared for. That’s why she kissed him back. It had nothing to do with the man himself. Or the incredible scent of his skin. Or the addicting taste of his mouth.

  He pressed his body—the one she’d been so preoccupied with lately—against her, hard and firm, and she nearly died. His arms dropped and wrapped around her, holding on to her as if he were dangling off a bridge. He felt so good. It didn’t matter that she was kissing a famous movie star or what he must be thinking at that moment. Their tongues touched briefly, and it was all she could do not to open her mouth further. So she did.

  How could she resist that kind of blatant physical hunger? It had been so long since she had felt or incited that kind of reaction. She found herself wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing herself further into him, enjoying his response. If Ben was just acting again, he was doing a fine job of it. Maybe too fine. However, she gave in to this small, reckless moment of a kiss anyway, willing her better judgment to take a short hike—for once.

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