Mine 'Til Monday

by Ruby Laska

  “Oh! But I’m terrible. I’ve only played a few times.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m just a duffer, and besides that’s not exactly my criteria. Last year I got hooked up with a guy who sold industrial-strength air fresheners for a living. Had to hear about it for eighteen holes. Hey, you’re not planning on anesthetizing me with work talk, are you? Because I take my weekend relaxation pretty seriously.”

  Matt barely paused to grab her bag. Effortlessly, he pulled it along side his own, and began walking over to the area where everyone was gathering. Dorothy loped along to keep up with his long strides, relaxing a bit and making a mental note to thank Miranda later. So it wasn’t a set-up—or at least, Matt didn’t seem to think it was. Just her luck to end up with yet another guy who melted women’s hearts—and looked right through her.

  At least he seemed to have a sense of humor. And he didn’t seem to mind lugging her bag. So that meant if she could just get through the afternoon without any confrontations with Mud, she could return home having done her duty. And maybe then Miranda would give up hope of getting the two of them reunited.

  Give up hope. Just as she ought to.

  Before she realized what she was doing, Dorothy was scanning the crowds, nodding and forcing a smile as Matt chatted on. A platform was set up not far from the clubhouse, decorated with colorful streamers as well as a huge artist’s rendering of the new memorial. Dorothy could spot reporters, men and women in suits—she was pretty sure she saw the mayor—but there was no sign of Mud.

  Great—that was great. She could breathe more easily.

  But instead, she felt her heart tug a little.

  Of course he was around here somewhere. But it was important that she see him first. That way she could get a grip on her emotions, put a cool smile on her face, think of something clever to say.

  “Dorothy.”

  Mud.

  Dorothy wheeled around. He was there, not two feet away. Speaking her name, he managed somehow to telegraph uncertainty, determination, and something like longing, all in that one word And he was with her again, springing full-formed in her heart, their entire history suddenly filling her mind so she couldn’t think of a single intelligent response. He was familiar and right and she wanted to reach out to him and wrap her arms around him, burying her face in the familiar soft chambray that smelled of him and drink him in.

  Except he wasn’t wearing chambray. He was in a suit.

  Dorothy backed up half a step, bumping into Matt, who’d turned and rested an arm on their equipment. He extended his hand and grinned widely. “Matt Wellington,” he said.

  Mud shook hands, but he never took his eyes off Dorothy. She took in the crisp cotton shirt, perfectly pressed despite the wilting heat. The fine navy gabardine, outlining his broad shoulders. The fresh haircut, the faint scent of after-shave, the black shoes shined to a gleaming patina.

  “Mud,” she breathed weakly. “What a surprise.”

  At that, he managed a ghost of a grin. “Had to show. It’s kind of my gig and all. Mud Taylor,” he added for Matt’s benefit.

  “Oh, you’re Taylor. I wanted to meet the guy behind this,” Matt effused. “Had an uncle in ‘Nam. This thing you’re doing—well, it’s a good thing. Glad to get behind you.”

  “Thanks.” Mud managed to acknowledge Matt’s enthusiastic words without wasting more than a glance or two in his direction. “I wonder if I could borrow Dot here for a few minutes.”

  Dorothy glanced back and forth between the two men, a mixture of fear and giddiness sending her heart tumbling. Stay with Matt, she thought, trying hard to listen to her own wise counsel—even as she involuntarily took a step toward Mud.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “Well, a minute won’t hurt,” Matt said, “but it looks like they’re lining ‘em up. Course, I guess since we’re dealing with the guy in charge, you can probably get us set up right?” He gave Mud a companionable clap on the shoulder before turning to follow the crowd’s interest, watching the various politicians and journalists assembling on the platform.

  “Alone,” Mud said. He really wore a suit well, Dorothy saw, though he stood ramrod straight, as if the expensive fabrics were a body cast.

  With a pang she realized that she preferred the denim and the old tennis shoes.

  “Whatever you need to say, you can say here,” she said, forcing her voice to remain neutral. “I’ve been alone near a phone quite often in the last few weeks, so if you had needed to speak to me in private, you had ample opportunity.”

  Matt turned sharply, his handsome features arranged in a questioning expression. “Hey, look, take a few minutes,” he said. “I can go check out what’s going on over there.”

  “Stay right where you are.” Dorothy shaved a little edge of panic out of her voice, but she couldn’t help clutching her fingers to her palms.

  “Come on, Dot—”

  “I’ve got only a couple of minutes, Mud. I don’t intend to keep my companion waiting.”

  Mud colored, his eyes flashing inky sparks. “Don’t make me do this, Dot,” he murmured quietly.

  “Make you do what? I don’t believe I could make a man like you do anything at all,” Dorothy said, hurt welling up inside. “You seem to be ruled by little more than your instincts, if I recall.”

  Mud stiffened, then jammed his hands in the pockets of his pants. “Not true,” he said softly. “Not true. I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since I walked away from Miranda’s that Sunday.”

  “Oh, good. So at least you remember walking away. Because it was you who put the distance between us, which you seem to have forgotten now that you have something to say to me.” Dorothy’s breath came in quick gasps, even as her resolve wavered. She’d been on his mind. That was good, that was very, very good, right? Or was it bad? They were through, so wouldn’t it be better if everyone kept their minds on—what?

  As thoughts swirled through Dorothy’s mind, she wavered on her feet. No breakfast. And had she remembered to eat last night? Not likely...seemed like most nights she came home from work and collapsed before she had time or interest to fix anything to eat.

  Thinking straight was out of the question. In fact, standing straight was proving a little difficult. Dorothy swayed, held out a shaking hand for balance—and found herself in Mud’s arms.

  “I love you,” he whispered fiercely, pulling her close against him, burying his face in her hair. “Damn it, Dot, I love you. You love me. Let’s fix things.”

  His words joined the melee in her mind. Dorothy shoved against him, propelling him away. She shook her head to clear it, backed up. He had just told her he loved her. But how was that possible? Despite all the opportunities he’d had, when they’d made love, drunk deep of love, he’d never spoken it out loud.

  “You do not,” she challenged him. “You just—you feel guilty. You think I’m fragile. You’re running around with somebody else and you have a case of regrets. Well, let me tell you, Mud, I don’t need your sympathy. I’m doing fine. Fine.”

  Dorothy glanced at Matt, to avoid Mud’s intensity as much as for support. He was regarding the two of them with mild horror, edging slowly away.

  “This sounds important,” he said. “I can wait. I’ll find a cup of coffee or something.”

  “Come with me,” Mud said, closing his hand on Dorothy’s arm.

  “Why? So you can—can—”

  Break my heart again, Dorothy thought, but she swallowed the rest of her sentence just as tears pressed hotly against her lashes.

  Mud said something in reply, but all Dorothy heard was a jumble of crowd noises microphone tests, a radio station broadcasting from the course, as she spun around and lurched several steps before getting her balance and breaking into a sprint.

  Put him behind her. She threaded her way between the few people who blocked her path, the unfamiliar sensation of her golf shoes challenging her balance. Put Mud behind her, get away from him, because when she was safely ba
ck in her home she could lock the door, lower the blinds, take the phone off the hook. Change her phone number if that was what it took to feel...safe again.

  And she would be safe again, even if it meant shutting down her heart, locking it up tight so no one else would ever have a chance to hurt her. Even if she never went on another date as long as she lived.

  Never let her gaze drift in spirals into his deep blue eyes.

  Never felt that delicious tightening whenever he called her Dot.

  Never heard him cry out when they made love. Words that weren’t words, but demands mixed with promises, when their love exploded and sent them tumbling over the edge of ecstasy.

  “Miss?” The uniformed gentleman holding open the door of the clubhouse looked at her in alarm.

  Dorothy swallowed hard and pushed at her hair. She looked at the man’s chest, rather than risk letting him see the pain in her eyes. He wore an immaculate jacket bearing the insignia of the club along with a gold pin engraved “Cornelius Burton”.

  “I’m just, um, not feeling well, Mr. Burton, and I think I’ll be calling it a day. Would it be possible for someone to retrieve my bag?”

  “Of course. May I call a doctor?”

  “Oh, no, that’s hardly necessary.” Dorothy eased past him into the darkened old building, breathing hard, and blinked several times, trying to locate the hallway to the locker rooms in the mahogany-walled foyer.

  “My bag is rather distinctive looking. Gold...I don’t suppose there are too many like them. I left it back where the players are gathering, near the registration table.”

  The gentleman followed her across the foyer, taking two steps to each of her strides. “As soon as I can, Miss, though it might be just a little while to round someone up, what with the tournament and all.”

  Dorothy paused, her hand on the door to the ladies’ locker room, and looked at her benefactor for the first time. The gaze Mr. Burton returned was the essence of dignified propriety, his curiosity all but hidden behind his concern.

  “Then...I believe I’ll change clothes.” She didn’t dare emerge from the locker room until a fast getaway was possible. “If it’s all right,” she added, swallowing, “perhaps someone could come for me? When you’ve found my things?”

  Mr. Burton didn’t even blink. “Of course. One of the ladies on staff will be happy to assist, I’m sure.”

  He gave a fraction of a bow before hurrying off to his post.

  Dorothy allowed herself a sigh as she half-leaned against the door, entering her sanctuary. Burton was perfect. The club was perfect. The day, the blue skies, the enthusiastic crowds...and Mud himself, looking like the cover of GQ.

  “Perfect,” she murmured wistfully.

  But not for her. None of it was for her. She didn’t belong in the glamorous throngs that somehow found Mud even though he never sought them out. The woman from the phone...she was out there, no doubt, even now raising a perfectly sculpted brow in concern as Mud rejoined her. She would have been checking and re-checking her gold watch, Dorothy imagined, her lips molding a pout as the minutes went by without Mud beside her.

  But now he was back, was reassuring her that his absence had been regrettable but unavoidable. Now, though, he could devote all his attention to the day, to the tournament...to her.

  Even as Dorothy put the finishing touches on the scenario in her mind, a part of her wondered if it wasn’t so. He’d said he loved her. Loved her. Those weren’t words that came easily for Mud Taylor, Dorothy knew. Was it possible?

  But she wasn’t the woman who was going to find out the answer to that question.

  She sunk down onto a gleaming wooden bench and shut her eyes for a moment before slowly beginning to unlace her shoes.

  Dorothy had to have gone into the clubhouse. Mud had lost her in the crowd, several times thinking he’d spotted her far ahead, but each time was a dead end and he’d circled back. He was vaguely aware of his name being broadcast over the loudspeaker system, of people milling about, curious about the unexpected delay. But no one gave him a second glance, even as he finally broke into a run.

  He made it to the club in minutes, felt the perspiration break out on his brow. Impatiently he gave his tie a hard tug, popping the top button of his shirt in the process. A uniformed doorman looked at him suspiciously.

  “A woman,” Mud panted. “Pretty. Short, up to here.” He gestured at his chin. “Dark hair, brown eyes. She here?”

  “She...well, she might be,” the old gentleman said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “May I ask what she is needed for?”

  “No,” Mud shot back, impatience and determination besting his reserve.

  The doorman stood a little straighter and frowned.

  “I mean, I need to talk to her.”

  “The lady is indisposed.”

  “Indisposed where?”

  No answer, just a further tightening of his mouth. But Mud noticed that the man quickly glanced down the hallway to the locker rooms.

  “Locker room? That where she is?”

  Mud knew he’d guessed right when the man’s face screwed up another notch until it looked as though he’d bitten into something terribly unpleasant.

  “Thanks, pal,” he called over his shoulder, racing down the hall.

  “You can’t—you mustn’t—”

  But Mud could and he would. He’d come this far, and he wasn’t about to lose her now. He spotted the “Ladies” sign painted in elaborate script, put his shoulder to the door and burst through.

  And found himself face to face with the woman of his dreams, wearing nothing but a few wisps of ivory satin. Dorothy made a choking sound and snatched a towel, awkwardly trying to wrap the it around herself, but not before Mud had a chance to drink in the sight which had haunted his dreams and his every waking hour.

  Dorothy’s burnished golden skin, taut and flawless, against the satin. The delicate lace edges at her hipbone, the swell of her breasts. Even as the image burned his vision, Mud felt the stir of longing more powerful than ever.

  “I found you,” he murmured.

  Dorothy tugged savagely at the corner of the towel, twisting it into a makeshift caftan. Still, she felt as exposed as if she stood naked in front of him, and crossed her arms protectively across her chest.

  How had he found her? Oh, but Mud never failed to find what he wanted, did he?

  “Go,” Dorothy managed, her voice nearly toneless.

  “No. I can’t. Not without you. Dorothy—” Mud took a step toward her, and for a fraction of a second Dorothy understood how easy it would be to meet him, to close the distance between them and melt into his arms, his life, his promises.

  She wavered, and Mud took another step. He knew. Just by looking at her he somehow knew. It was like he could see into her soul, Dorothy thought, and she shivered involuntarily.

  It should feel like trespass, like violation, to be regarded as he was regarding her. But somehow...it didn’t.

  Dorothy was conscious not of the near-nakedness of her body but of her thoughts, her desires.

  And she wasn’t sure she wanted to hide them anymore.

  “Dot...” Mud’s voice was husky. “I mean Dorothy...”

  Her eyes widened hearing her name, her given name, come haltingly from his lips. They widened even more as he cleared his throat and made a vain attempt to straighten his tie, looped now below his skewed collar.

  And then he knelt before her.

  “Dorothy, I realize I don’t deserve to ask this of you,” he murmured.

  It felt like one by one the threads holding her body upright were loosening, and Dorothy sank to the bench. Her face was nearly level with Mud’s now, and only inches away. He lifted his eyes to hers and held her gaze, and all uncertainty melted away leaving passion, raw, burning passion.

  “...but I want you to marry me. I want you to be my wife. Will you? Say you will, darlin’, Dot—I mean Dorothy—I give you my word that I’ll work hard to be the man you deserve.”


  Mud swallowed hard but didn’t look away. Dorothy was aware vaguely of knocking on the door, of voices in the hall, of a faucet dripping steadily nearby.

  Marry him?

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” He held something up then, a small something, a sparkly something. Glints of green and gold flashed as he took her hand and slipped a ring on her finger, a ring not so unlike the last one he’d given her, yet very, very different indeed.

  “The real thing, this time,” he said.

  “Oh,” she breathed. Yes. Yes. Somehow she couldn’t quite form the word, but he must have seen it in her eyes, because the next second she found herself deftly scooped up and swept into the air.

  Mud gave a whoop of joy. “Yeah!” he shouted, spinning her once full around before planting a kiss that left her breathless.

  She allowed herself a smile then. A grin. An ear-to-ear, all-out, lovin’-life kind of a grin.

  “I’ll marry you, Mud, if you promise me one thing.”

  “Anything, sugar, anything!”

  “Don’t ever call me Dorothy.”

  Mud threw back his head and laughed. Then he arranged his features into a solemn expression just long enough to promise.

  “All right, Dot,” he murmured solemnly before giving her another memorable kiss for good measure.

  About Ruby Laska

  Ruby Laska grew up in the heart of rural Arkansas, the youngest of four sisters who shared a passion for state fairs, Vince Gill, and the local library. Now she lives and works in the not-so-small town of Little Rock, where she and her husband share their home with three rescue greyhounds. When not writing, Ruby loves to bake in her restored 1952 Chambers oven, and won a blue ribbon for her lavender shortbread last year at the Pulaski county fair.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About Ruby Laska