Life in a Rut, Love not Included (Love Not Included series Book 1)

by J. D. Hollyfield

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” I begin, but he hushes me with his finger over my lips. Without breaking eye contact, he leans in closer and touches his lips to mine. His breath hits my lips like a warm summer breeze. His lips are soft and gentle and inviting. I sit there a bit tense and shocked at his bold move, but I quickly relax in his embrace. He slowly caresses my lips with his own until I feel my hands move upward to wrap around his neck. Giving him the green light, he intensifies the kiss while smoothly opening my mouth with his tongue. Tasting and feeling and brushing his tongue, his lips continue to crush into mine. I feel my grasp around his neck tighten. Before I start to choke him, he breaks away from me and both of us gasp for air. I just stare at him. He speaks first.

  “I’m so sorry. I should not have done that.”

  Umm . . . That’s not what I was hoping he would say.

  “Oh,” I say. No doubt he is seeing the hurt in my facial expression. No hiding that one.

  “No, that’s not what I meant . . . I meant . . .” Before he can finish, I push him back and attempt to stand.

  “No, it’s cool, buddy, no hard feelings. I know how that stuff goes, get lost in the moment feeling sorry for the girl.” I feel my anger quickly rise. I try to push him further away from me but he catches my wrist.

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” he says. “Look at me.” He holds my wrist firmly in his grip, waiting for me to stop fighting his hold and make eye contact with him. This just isn’t happening to me. “Sarah, look at me,” he says again, and at the sound of my name leaving his lips I turn and look. I see scorching gold eyes burning right into mine. Intense emotions drain out of his eyes and pour into mine. “I didn’t kiss you because I felt sorry for you. I kissed you because I haven’t stopped thinking about kissing you since I first saw you on the street. Then the second chance I got after you walked into my office all bent out of hell to drive me insane. I haven’t slept a good fuckin’ night since I slammed my mouth on yours two weeks ago. What I’m sorry about is that I took advantage of you in a vulnerable moment. It was wrong of me.”

  Oh, for the love . . .

  “Excuse me?” is all that comes out of my mouth because my brain isn’t really working anymore.

  “I said I can’t stop thinking about how it would feel to have my mouth on yours again, ever since that day in the garage.”

  Holy mother of holy. “Is this really happening?” I have to ask it. I have to know if in about two seconds he is going to whisper in my ear that it’s not me . . .

  “I think it’s my turn to say, excuse me?” he responds in a confused but humorous way.

  I’m not sure if it’s the vermouth or the way my whole body is tingling, but boy does this guy have me speechless. I can’t even think of anything to retort back. But whoever made the decision, it is now set. Without blinking, I swing my arms out again, around his neck, and crush my lips to his. He wraps his arms around my waist and our bodies slam together. He swops me up from the chair, then he stands holding my weight effortlessly and presses my body into the wall next to where I was just sitting. His mouth is so hot and inviting to the touch. His taste, oh boy, he tastes good. I can’t get enough. Will I ever get enough?

  Just as he starts to work his way down my neck, I hear the back door open and slam against the wall. Jack drops me from his grasp and we break apart faster than lightning speed to swiftly turn and see my mother walking in with two large paper bags full of groceries. Thank the gods above, they are so full she can’t even see over her bags.

  “Honey, is that you? Thank goodness. Please help me with these bags. I about bumped into every wall making it into the house.”

  I back away quickly from Jack and grab a full bag out of her hands. Once her vision is clear she takes in the scene before her. “Oh hello, Jack. I didn’t see you there. Is everything OK?”

  I respond with force before Jack can say anything. “Yeah, Mom. He was just coming in for a glass of water.” I look at Mom then look at Jack who seems to be a bit caught off guard, not to mention winded.

  “Oh, that’s nice of you dear.” As she sets the other bag down on the counter, she turns around and looks at us both, assessing. “Well honey, aren’t you going to get him some water? I’m sure he has work to do.”

  Oh yeah, water . . .”Right.” I turn and trip over my own foot as I stumble to the sink. I open the cupboard and grab for the nearest glass, and two others come falling out at me. I’m completely staying cool right now . . . Not. I ignore my mom’s curious glances and continue my task. While filling the cup, I stare at Jack’s reflection in the window. While Mom turns her head to put away groceries, I notice him adjust himself. Whoa . . . Did not expect that. Sexy McKiss-a-lot seems a little affected by our make-out session. I mean, who wouldn’t though, making out like teenagers in my parents’ kitchen?

  More interruptions. “Hey, boss.” A tall attractive blond sticks his head in through the back kitchen door. “We could use a hand with the shutter boards,” he says.

  Jack pulls himself together. “Yeah, sure, I’ll be right there,” he says, then he turns to me and says, “Thanks,” and he walks out the back door.

  Wow . . . I simply think while I proceed to chug the glass of water in my hand.

  “Honey, wasn’t that for Jack?” my mother asks in complete confusion. I just continue drinking.

  WHELP, WHERE TO GO from here? I will admit that I have a whole new burst of energy, because I most definitely do. But it’s also dinner time and I have a martini hangover starting to invite itself into my scull. I debate going to bed in hopes of finishing that little episode with Jack in my dreams. But how about we take a step back first and figure out what the hell just happened in there. I mean, one minute I was sitting there crying like a pathetic loser, and the next minute I was embraced in Jack’s arms playing tonsil hockey with him. And possibly the best game I’ve ever played, may I add. I can’t deny the sparks that seemed to electrocute my senses while we kissed. I can still feel my swollen lips tingling. I touch my fingers to my lips while replaying the scene in my head. Somehow, I make it up to my room without bumping into any walls since the only thing I see is my own homemade movie playing in front of me. I shut my door and lean against the cold wood. Sigh.

  Double sigh.

  I notice banging and shuffling of tools and equipment out back, and peel myself off the door to walk towards the window and take a peek. I spot Jack immediately and watch as he talks while pointing to some of the equipment, instructing his men on what to do.

  I stand leaning on the window while I watch him work. The way his strong muscles stretch and firm while maneuvering his equipment. The way the sun hits his face and sweat gathers over his forehead. I watch him wipe away a bead of sweat dripping down his face, and grab for his tools with extensive force. Holy mother of hotness, what kind of man is this?

  I can’t stop watching him work, and admire his skills for the job. His strong rough hands maneuvering heavy materials. Lifting wood boards half my weight with such ease. Steve didn’t have rough hands at all. I think Steve had softer hands than I did, in fact. Growing up with money, and having everyone care for him, I don’t think he had ever even lifted a finger of his own.

  Jack moves out of my line of vision and like that vermouth, I simply cannot get enough. Trying to get a better look, I climb over a few boxes and adjust myself to get into a perfect lean-into position between the dresser and box tower. Just watching him is making me sweat. He’s using his hands in ways I wouldn’t mind having all over me like that. Maybe we can turn this into a little ‘you touch yourself, I touch myself’ demonstration. I ponder this idea while I attempt to get a bit more comfortable against the ledge, debating how well I can adjust my hand movements while hanging halfway off a window ledge. Then, just as I start making the simple attempt of skimming my fingers down my belly, Jack stops. He lifts his shirt just over his navel to wipe off the sweat above his lip, revealing—

  “Oh mother of abs!”

&nb
sp; SPLAT!

  And . . . man down.

  If a 125 pound, semi-intoxicated, totally turned-on human could have made a bigger commotion while slipping off the dresser and taking a face tumble five feet to the ground, I would be impressed. I even manage to knock over my box tower all while kicking the lamp into the window, causing it to shatter, and of course, I end my fall by splitting my pants straight down the rear on the way down.

  Such is the life of Sarah Sullivan. May we take a short commercial break while I ponder 101 ways to disappear?

  I hear people scurrying around downstairs, most likely to come to my aid. Maybe if I just keep my eyes closed they will assume that I am sleeping. People sleep in odd positions, so why would this be any different?

  “Sarah, oh my, what happened!?” My mother rushes to my side. Followed by Aunt Raines, dear old Dad, and I believe, Jack. At this time I refuse to open my eyes.

  “I think she knocked herself out,” I hear my father say, while Aunt Raines chimes in.

  “Poor baby girl, did you split your pants?” Remind myself to kill her while managing to take myself out, too.

  “Honey, say something. Are you OK?”

  I am not sure how much longer I can play dead for, but I plan on giving it a try. I can feel all the shadows hanging over me. They should get bored of the scene soon enough and move on with their day.

  See? In no time, I can sense them moving and the light peering over my closed eyelids. Finally . . . Oomph. What the hell? “What the hell?” My eyes fly open to witness Jack . . . scooping me up in his arms!

  “Honey.” My mother’s voice again. “What were you doing in here that you knocked over all those boxes and broke your lamp shade?”

  Just then I witness all their minds spinning in unison, along with Jack’s, and it seems they all put two and two together at once. Slowly Jack turns to me, still in his arms, grinning.

  “Did something catch your eye, Sarah?”

  Oh god, did it.

  “No,” I say, not at all convincingly.

  Jack carries me to the bed and gently lays me down, his fingerprints burning into my sides. I can see my mother looking out the window. “Honey, what were you looking at?” Oh god, just kill me!

  “Nothing, I’m fine! Everyone get out!” Two more seconds with him this close to me and everyone in the room is going to get more than what they bargained for. Jack included.

  “Well I hope you are OK, dear. Looks like you took quite a tumble.”

  Still holding me, Jack leans in. Feeling his breath on my neck, I hear him say, “Are you sure you’re OK?”

  I try swatting his hands away from me. “I’m fine,” I say quite breathlessly.

  As he lets me go and adjusts himself upward, everyone else takes that as a cue to begin their exit. Jack gives me a wink as he turns to exit my room.

  “Honey, well at least since your pants are ruined you may want to wear something more . . . yourself?” My mother smiles at me and walks out. Avoiding it until now, I look down and see that my comfort zone pants are ruined. Split wide open and revealing a nice pair of purple underwear. Well, at least there’s that.

  I decide to lay low for the rest of the evening. Not that I am hiding from anything, or anyone, in particular. I decide it is safer for everyone as well as for my own self-esteem to stay in my room for the rest of the night.

  After waking up to pounding and sawing the next day, I begin to sort through boxes and lay some folded clothes in the dresser. Once I was done making some room, I was going to have a burial for my comfort zone sweats. I grab the piece of paper sticking out of the pocket and unfold it. My list. I open it and run through the list of alcohol-induced life expectations for myself. Number one—Make a list. Smart, Sarah. Good one.

  I really do need to start making plans though. As much fun as I am having hanging out with Aunt Raines and face-planting into the floor every night, I need to get back on track. I guess I just felt that by sitting around wallowing all day and night meant I was letting them all win. Not that I hoped they thought about me. Well maybe a little. Let’s be honest. I was secretly online searching witchcraft spells so I could get into both their inner thoughts until they were sick to death with guilt. Since I haven’t heard from either of them, I’m going to assume the website was a hoax. I remind myself to get my money back for that. In the end, I realize I have been sitting around waiting for them to contact me with guilt and complete remorse. I mean, I thought it might take some time, but four months? It may be time to admit that ship has sailed, without me on it. I need to move on.

  First things first, I need to find a job. I just don’t know where to look. All the great firms are in the city, and a small part of me fears running into my past there. Knowing it’s time I put my big girl pants on, I vow to make today a success. Since I have to start with the basic attire, I search for an outfit. Nothing screams ‘I have my shit together so hire me’ like Armani slacks and my sheer white Donna Karan blouse. Add a pair of strappy heels, a bit of rouge and some hair primping, and voila! We have ourselves a first-class working girl. I look at myself in the mirror and approve. I have to admit, the silk against my skin makes me feel elegant and feminine. It’s that or the fact that, for once this week, I actually showered.

  I leave my cave and venture downstairs. It is safe to say no one is home. I am also Jack-free since I don’t see his truck out front. Not that I’m looking. I grab the newspaper and my laptop and head out, because I have to start somewhere. I don’t need a fancy job in a high rise. There are plenty of places for me to find work and be completely satisfied. This is good, I mentally coach myself. I smile and pick up my list. I take my pen and cross off number twelve—Be my own therapist. Things are looking up.

  I spend the whole morning at the Ma and Pop coffee joint down the street. Not my first pick, but they have free WiFi and it is guaranteed to be free of ex co-worker run-ins. I spend a few hours revamping my resume and then sending it out to local companies.

  Sifting through the potential options in the paper that sadly may or may not scream “my future career” I email out a bunch of resumes. Three coffees later, four potential job scores and a positive vibe, I set out to personally drop off some resumes to locals businesses. I figure since they are close, it wouldn’t hurt to take a peek into what may be. You can always tell what kind of company you’re getting yourself into by the type of people they hire to be the face of said company. But then again, Hamilton Corp had Becky Longhorn, so . . . Moving on.

  Good thing I’m learning that nothing lasts forever, because after entering three offices, it seems the only thing they took from me was my good mood. No resume. No interview. The day is getting late and I am quickly losing my mojo. My motivation to become employed is draining fast. I figure if I head home right after my last stop, I can make it in time to meet Aunt Raines in the kitchen for happy hour. Then again, I may want to take the day off from that. My track record after time spent with Aunt Raines has not been looking good lately.

  I reach my final destination and park the car. Pressing down the growing wrinkles of my pants from the long drive across town, I head towards the office. I turn the corner and realize that the company is based on the upper level lofts, located exactly above one of the newest Macy’s suburban stand-alone boutiques. I stop for a moment and stare at my past. Literally. I stare at the beautiful window display featuring the outside signage and marketing scheme, all perfect and elegant. Just as I had planned it. The last big thing I gave to Hamilton Corp before my blowout was the marketing plan for the new Macy’s boutiques that were expanding from the Michigan Avenue stores to the nearest southwest suburbs. Now the thought of that day is so dreadful it makes me ill.

  I remember stepping out of a two-hour sales pitch and locking down the new Macy’s boutique proposal. I could feel my body radiating with adrenalin. For weeks I had worked on this project and perfected it exactly to what the clients had been asking for. Their vision in words was my image on paper. No detail missed, a
nd all my bells and whistles attached, I easily landed the signed deal. Shaking hands with the Macy’s marketing board, and walking them out of the office, the restraint not to skip and jump all the way back to my office was strenuous. Things couldn’t have gone better. Not to mention the hefty bonus that came along with making Macy’s extremely happy. I strolled over to Steve’s office, which was down the hall, closest to the presidential suites. Being the son of the president gets you a pretty fancy office and view. His secretary stopped me in front of his door.

  “I’m sorry Ms. Sullivan, but Steve is out of the office. Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Hi Becky. Is Steve in the building or in a meeting?” I wasn’t aware that he had any client meetings offsite that day.

  Becky scrambled up the Post-it note collection on her desk in a nervous fashion. Unsure what her restlessness was all about, I took a peek into Steve’s office and I could tell he had not been in at all that day.

  “Um yes, I’m sorry, Steve is not in. He has a meeting offsite today. He is not expected in until later. Is there anything you want to leave for him, or a message in case he calls in?”

  “No, that’s OK. I can call his cell. Everything OK?” I asked.

  “Yep, thanks. I’ll let him know you came by when he gets in.”

  “Thanks, do that.” I nodded and stepped away, heading back to my office. Not that Becky was ever that cordial but something was up with her today. I brushed her off and went to my office to make celebration plans. This night was going to be huge. First, I made reservations for two at our favorite upscale Fusion Japanese restaurant. This treat was going to be on me due to the extravagant bonus coming my way. Next stop was a department store, because my shoe collection was in major need of a new pair of Manolos, and because nothing says ‘congratulations, you’re awesome,’ like Mr. Blahnik.

  With the Macy’s contract signed, I decided to call it a day. I let Jillian, my assistant, know I was leaving for the day and to forward any important calls to my cell. Then I headed out and spent the next two hours adopting the most beautiful new pair of shoes.