She's Just Right (A Fairy Tale Romance)

by Diane Darcy

  "So, shall I stay home?"

  "No, I need you to come with me.”

  “Fine.” She blew out a breath and the cold air changed to mist between them. “Do we need to ask someone to move their car?” She gestured toward the Wakely’s house. “If so, I want to make one thing clear. Just leave Matt alone, okay?”

  His mouth dropped open. “Leave Matt alone? Why don’t you ever worry about Matt leaving me alone? How about a little wifely support?”

  She crossed her arms, pursed her lips and stared fixedly out the window.

  He gritted his teeth. They’d never get out of here at this rate. Shoving his hands into his overcoat, he glared toward the neighbor’s house. If he asked Matt to have the car moved, their big-mouth neighbor would no doubt start an argument, and that would take too much time. Besides, Sam would get the blame for it. He grimaced. Some day he needed to kick Matt’s skinny butt, once and for all.

  But not at this moment. He didn't have time for any of this. He considered his mother-in-law’s BMW across the street. He could have Emily ask her mom if they could take her car. It was even nicer than his. But he didn't want to go back inside.

  He sighed. "Have you got your keys?" At her nod, he grimaced. "All right, let's just go." He'd deal with Matt Wakely later.

  Sam yanked the frozen passenger door open and Emily climbed inside the car. He scraped the snow off the windows. What a piece of junk.

  After he’d cleared the car, he eased his tightly clothed body behind the steering wheel and glanced at Emily. She sat stiffly, eyes forward, arms crossed, obviously ticked. He needed to talk her into a better mood.

  He cranked the ignition and the engine turned over a few times before the car finally started. He flipped on the defrost, then the windshield wipers, before angling himself toward Emily. He'd better sweeten her up before they arrived. What did she want to hear?

  "Look, I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings or anything, okay?" He watched her closely. No reaction. Forcing a smile, he leaned over as much as his clothing allowed and tried to hug her stiff body. "I'm sorry."

  She drew away. "Look, fine, whatever. If we’re going, let’s just go.”

  Pulling back, he studied her in the dark interior. Fine. As long as she acted like a loving wife once they got there, she could act however she wanted now. After turning on the headlights, he backed the car out of the driveway and onto the freshly plowed road. Tonight needed to be perfect for him, and she’d better not screw it up. He let out a pent up breath. What he wouldn’t do for a cigarette.

  ***

  Arms crossed, Sam watched from his position against the wall as Carl Thurman veered to grab a glass of champagne before pushing through the crowd and making his way over. At thirty-eight they were the same age, and at six feet the same height, but the similarities ended there. Sam noticed Carl’s scalp through his thin blond fuzz and ran a hand through his own dark hair, thanking good genes for its thickness. No baldness in his family. On the other hand, Carl had a reed-thin body that owed nothing to counting calories or exercise.

  Carl reached him, took a huge gulp of champagne, then turned to survey the room. “What’s wrong with Emily tonight?”

  Sam searched the crowd, finally catching a glimpse of his wife before she turned the corner in the L-shaped rec. room. She'd ditched him the minute they'd arrived, and he’d hardly seen her all evening. Not that her behavior was a big surprise. Lately, she'd been acting like he carried a contagious disease. As soon as this tenure thing worked out, he'd spend a little time making up with her.

  He sighed. With Jared, too. When he had tenure, then they could all be happy. He picked up his soda from the side table, and shrugged. “Who knows? All I ever get from her anymore is blank stares or attitude.”

  “You’re married. What do you expect?” Carl’s avid gaze continued to roam the room. “Ouch, look at that.”

  A long-haired blonde in her twenties wearing a red miniskirt flirted with the man beside her. Then the crowd shifted, hiding her from sight.

  Carl sighed. “I want one of those.”

  “You’d better watch it. Never say things like that with your wife in the same room.”

  Carl grinned. “Are you kidding? That just makes it more fun. So, have you had a chance to chat with Jeff yet?”

  “Not yet. But I will.” He glanced around the crowded room. “What did they do, invite everyone they know?” The party was being held in the basement, but people were also touring the huge house, so a constant flow of people continued up and down the stairs.

  Sam appraised the tastefully decorated room, with its leather furniture, plush carpet, artwork and toys. It couldn't be called a house. It was a mansion. “Being head of the History Department must pay a lot more than I thought.”

  Carl shrugged. “Jeff’s wife has a lot of success selling art in her gallery.”

  “Hmm.” Sam tugged his too-tight tie. “Since when is formal wear required to play sports?” Sam gestured to where a crowd stood watching two men shoot baskets on an electronic machine. Others were playing ping-pong or shooting pool, while others stood in groups or gathered at the buffet table at the far end of the room.

  Carl chuckled. “You’re just mad because your clothes are too tight.”

  Sam ignored him and took a sip of soda. He looked at all the arty, flaky types with their long hair, wild jewelry and heavy make-up. Even some of the men wore make-up. “What was Jeff thinking to get these two groups of people together?”

  Carl grinned. “I don’t know. History professors and artists are definitely an unusual combination. I had one of them hit me up to buy a painting.”

  Sam snorted. “I’ve been avoiding communication. I don’t know them and I don’t want to know them.”

  Carl glanced at Sam’s drink. "Are you drinking soda? Come on, this is New Year’s Eve. Live a little. Let me get you a glass of champagne. It'll give you courage."

  Sam glared at him. "I have plenty of courage."

  "Maybe it'll loosen you up a bit.”

  "No, thanks."

  Carl smirked. "Do you think Jeff liked your book?"

  At his expression Sam sighed. Why did he hang around with Carl? Did he like to be abused? "I don't see why he wouldn’t.”

  “Are you still sending it to that publisher in New York?”

  Sam shifted his feet. He’d told everyone he had a publisher interested. The truth was, he hadn’t actually talked to an editor. A secretary told him to send it. She had said they’d take a look. He met Carl’s gaze and smiled. “When Jeff hears about it, he'll probably beg me to accept tenure."

  Carl grinned. "Right." He tilted his head. "It’s guys like Randall that get offered tenure. Not guys like us."

  Sam skimmed the crowd until he found Randall Barton. With his short hair slicked forward and his trendy square glasses glinting in the light, he actually looked like he fit in better with the artists than the professors. "Brown-nosers, you mean."

  Carl snickered. "You've got to admit, he shows a certain talent for butt kissing."

  Sam shrugged. "The two books and five articles he's published in the last three years haven't hurt."

  "Well, you've planned conferences."

  "So has Randall. Do you realize he's only thirty-four? That's four years younger than me."

  "Is that why you wrote your text book? To compete with Randall?”

  Sam made a sound of disgust. “Of course not.” As he continued to stare, he watched as the elusive Jeff walked up and clapped Randall on the back. Randall spoke, and Jeff’s sandy, graying head tilted back as he laughed. Sam’s stomach clenched and he straightened. “Do you see that? They look cozy don't they?" His lips tightened. "Don't you just hate office politics? If you’re not best friends with the boss, you can forget about getting anywhere."

  Carl shrugged. "You’re headed in the right direction. You've got your new history book written. Jeff has to respect that." He drained his glass then set it on the side table. "By this time next year maybe yo
u'll even have tenure."

  Sam continued to watch Jeff and Randall, his insides twisting. "Respect. That’s what it comes down to, isn’t it?" He glanced at Carl. "When I got here tonight Jeff patted my stomach and said 'hey Sam, only bears need to store up for hibernation.'" Sam glared at Randall. "Randall runs the St. George marathon every year. I'll bet Jeff respects that."

  Carl laughed. “I have to admit I've been wondering why you wore a tux that’s too small." He reached out and tugged the lapels together. "Why didn't you rent one that fits?"

  Sam jerked away. "Just shut up, okay?" He grimaced at Randall and Jeff. "What burns my butt is that this is the third university I've worked for. I'm thirty-eight. I like Utah and I want to stay here. Emily wants to stay here." He turned his glower onto Carl. "But if you don't perfect the fine art of butt kissing you're never offered tenure. And if you don't have tenure, you don't have job security." He gestured in a circle with his drink, almost spilling it. "So what am I supposed to do?"

  “Pucker up?” Carl laughed and when Sam scowled at him, held up his hands in self-defense. "Come on, you're getting too serious." He pointed over at a group of professors. "Let's go mingle."

  “No.”

  “Come on. You’re not going to get any chances standing over here by yourself.”

  Sighing, Sam set down his drink. Carl was right. “Okay.” He looked around for Emily, didn’t see her, then vaulted away from the wall. “Let’s go.”

  As they approached, laughter exploded within the circle of men, and even Randall’s simultaneous arrival didn’t stop the smile tugging at Sam’s lips. He could ignore Golden Boy. Hopefully socializing would take his mind off his problems for a while. "What’s so funny?"

  Dr. Mark Friedman, a large man in his late forties with a shock of faded red hair and a booming voice, stepped back, widening the circle so they could join in. He lifted one enormous paw to Sam’s shoulder. When Sam smelled alcohol on his breath, he tried not to recoil.

  "Sam, Carl, Randall, come here, you'll like this." Glancing down at Sam's tuxedo, Mark raised a brow but didn't comment. He gestured with his drink to a man Sam didn't recognize. "This is Pete Saunders. He's collecting New Year’s resolutions and we've all been sharing ours."

  Pete was about the same height, age and coloring as Sam, but the similarities ended there. His slightly hooked nose, sharp, almost black eyes, and shoulder length hair gave him a harsh appearance. A gold earring glinted on his left ear, and his lean, tuxedo-clad frame looked almost dangerous. He appeared successful, sophisticated, and intense. He definitely seemed out of place among professors.

  Suddenly, Sam realized Pete was assessing him just as throughly and something uncomfortable prickled at the back of his neck. His eyes flickered and he swallowed, then shook the hand Pete held out. Sam cleared his throat. "Are you from around here? I don't believe we've met."

  Pete held onto his hand, squeezing. Startled, Sam met his gaze squarely, and only then did Pete let go. He smiled. "Actually, no. I'm just passing through Salt Lake. I was lucky to be invited to the party." His voice was deep and rasping, his smile amused.

  Sam’s spine straightened and he breathed in through his nose. Was Pete laughing at him? His mouth tightened. He wasn’t going to let some weirdo intimidate him. His lip twisted as realization dawned. Pete was one of the artist weirdos. “So, you’re an artist?”

  “No.”

  Sam lifted his chin. “Then what do you do?”

  Mark interrupted, slurring his words slightly, "He collects New Year’s Resolutions." He leaned forward. "Gary, tell Sam yours." Shaking his chubby, bearded head, Gary smiled. "Jeeze Mark, I don't know why you thought it was so funny." Glancing at the newcomers, he shrugged. "I have two. I want to get an article published in University Press, and exercise for as much time as I spend eating." He patted his huge middle, laughing along with the group.

  Forcing a smile, Sam sucked in his stomach. He knew what was coming, and didn't have long to wait before Carl spoke. "Sam you ought to make the same resolution." He reached over, patted Sam's stomach and set everyone off again.

  Bunch of drunks. "Ha, ha." Sam glared at Carl briefly before turning to the others. Everyone was smiling except Pete. "For your information, I don't need any help making New Year’s resolutions. I already have a few of my own." He glanced at Randall, then away, before staring straight into Pete’s eyes. His intense, animated gaze startled Sam. What was with this guy?

  Phillip Moseley leaned forward, his bald head gleaming in the light. "Well, what are they?"

  Sam eyed his co-workers. "Tell me yours first."

  Phillip smiled. "You already know Gary's. I'm thinking about reading a book this year. Mark wants to take his wife to Hawaii. Roger wants to try river rafting, and Pete wants to accomplish goals without any outside influence." He grinned at Pete. "Whatever that means."

  Sam studied Pete. Was the guy on drugs? An alcoholic? Maybe he wasn't as successful as he appeared. And why was he so interested in everyone's resolutions? Pete’s head swivelled, his piercing eyes moving to Sam again. Sam turned away. Definitely drugs.

  Phillip grinned at Randall. “What are yours?”

  Randall’s full, girly lips tilted into a cheesy smile. Mr. Smooth with his slicked forward hair, and his tuxedo that fit to perfection. Dork.

  “I want to run the St. George Marathon again, finish the text book I’m writing and begin rereading Shakespeare.”

  Sam rolled his eyes.

  Pete turned. “You’ve run the St. George Marathon before?”

  Randall’s overlarge head nodded in a supposedly modest way. Smug jerk.

  “Have you ever written a book?”

  “Yes, several.”

  Pete nodded, then moved his attention to Carl. Everyone followed his gaze. "What about you?"

  Carl shifted his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets and grinned. "Hmm, I've already mastered female anatomy so I guess that's out." His grin widened when everyone laughed. "I don't know, I could probably eat better. My wife keeps nagging me about my high cholesterol, so maybe I'll watch my eating habits this year. It'll make her happy, anyway."

  Pete folded his arms, his eyes drilling into Carl’s. "What would make you happy?"

  Carl shrugged and Sam had the impression Pete was frustrated. Obviously the guy took this seriously. Or maybe he just needed a fix.

  "I don't know." Carl smiled self-consciously. "Maybe that's my problem."

  When Pete turned his gaze to Sam, his chest tightened. This whole conversation felt way too deep. "What about you? If you could have anything you wanted during the next year, what would it be?"

  Sam tried not to squirm. He tried to think of a flippant answer, but was suddenly overpowered by bitter self-hatred. Anything he wanted? Yeah, right. His life was half over, he had nothing to show for it, and he knew it.

  His brows pulled together. But if he could have anything he really wanted? He glanced at Randall, then beyond him, spying Jeff talking to a group of ladies, then down to his straining tux. His gaze turned to his co-workers, none of whom ever took him seriously or gave him the credit he deserved. Fierce, all-consuming desire gripped him. He lifted his head, gazed directly into Pete’s eyes, and opened his mouth. "I want everyone to respect me and I want the body of an athlete."

  Silence. A horrible dead silence. Then huge gulps of air, and laughter, hard and uncontrolled. Carl slapped Sam on the shoulder and Sam fell against Mark. Mark spilled his drink, Gary held his stomach, and Phillip threw back his head and howled while Roger clung to his arm. Laughter and more laughter. Even Randall, mister calm and controlled tried to bite back a smile. Sam didn’t look at Pete. Couldn’t.

  Heat crept into his face, swift and unrelenting, but he smiled tightly. They thought he was joking. Fine. Why had he said anything? And what had made him say that? Why tell these bozos anything, let alone his innermost desires?

  Finally, he turned to Pete. He wasn't laughing. If anything, his expression was more alive, more vivid.<
br />
  Pete smiled, nodded as if in approval and leaned forward to speak.

  Carl slapped Sam on the back again, Sam blinked, and the moment was gone. "Good one, Sam." Carl pointed across the room. "Look who's talking to our wives." Sam’s head shot up to see Jeff with Emily and Cheryl. Carl bent to whisper. "Come on. This might be your chance."

  As they left the group, Sam followed Carl through the crowd. Glancing back he saw Pete staring after him and a chill ran up his spine. What an oddball. He turned away, and tried to concentrate on what to say to Jeff.

  Reaching Emily, he slipped his arm around her waist and she stiffened. He kissed her cheek. "It's just me, Honey." Did she want to screw this up for him?

  He glanced at Carl, who took the hint and wrapped an arm around his wife, pulling her away. "We'll see you two later." He winked, then whispered to Cheryl as they made their way through the crowd.

  Facing Jeff, Sam took a deep breath. "I've been meaning to talk to you.”

  Jeff placed both arms behind his reed-thin body in his customary position. His sandy-gray head tilted back and he smiled, causing his eyes to nearly disappear behind his half- glasses. “Are you having a good time?”

  “Yeah, sure. Great party.” Sam cleared his throat. "What did you think of my book? Did you get the chance to read it?" He smiled and tried not to seem anxious.

  Jeff glanced at Emily and then back to Sam. "We’re in the middle of a party. Don't you think we should talk about this after school starts?"

  Sam’s stomach clenched. "Well sure, but I just thought you could give me your initial impression of the manuscript. What did you think?"

  Jeff’s eyes flickered to Emily once more, then he sighed. "Well, to tell you the truth, Sam, the book is pretty much like a lot of other Civil War texts already out. I think it could really benefit from some changes. Spice it up. Make it more original. Why don't you do that, then let me see it again?"

  Sam’s throat tightened and heat crawled up his chest and into his neck and face. His stomach twisted and he inhaled. "But I’ve already talked to an editor about it. They want to see it." His voice was thin, reedy. He coughed.