Dear Cupid

by Julie Ortolon

  “What do you think?” he asked, holding the tie to his chest.

  Willing her heart to quit pounding, she stared at the tie. It suited him so perfectly, he’d be downright irresistible wearing it. “You absolutely cannot buy that tie.”

  ‘What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s a Tasmanian Devil tie.”

  “Yeah, isn’t it great?” Grinning, he held out the end to study it upside down. With his head tipped to the side, she noticed his hair was blonder at the ends, and needed trimming. She curled her fingers against the temptation to run them through his hair. “This is the perfect tie to wear when we go to the alliance patty.”

  “We?” She blinked. “What do you mean we? I’m not going.”

  “Of course you are.” He gathered up the ties he’d picked, ignored hers completely, and motioned for the clerk, who had followed them from sportswear. “You don’t even trust me to pick out my own clothes, so surely you don’t trust me to pick up a date at a party by myself.”

  “Good point, but since you don’t take my advice, it’s not exactly a valid one, now is it?”

  “Hey, I bought the size pants you suggested.”

  “I’m still not going.”

  “Why not?’ he asked with that directness to his gaze that unsettled her.

  “Don’t you think taking a date on a wife hunt would sort of hamper your style?”

  “You wouldn’t be my date, precisely. You’d just be tagging along as my ... consultant. You know, in case I get tongue-tied and need a coach.”

  “Consultant?” She fought the urge to laugh. The man oozed confidence. No one could possibly need a dating coach less. “Come on, Mike, you’re a big boy. I think you can handle an evening of mingling and flirting all by your lonesome.”

  “Scared?” He cocked a brow in challenge.

  “Of you?” she scoffed. “Hardly.”

  “Then come with me.”

  She hesitated, far too tempted by his offer.

  A smile tugged up the corners of his mouth, making him look boyish and sexy. “Come on, you’ll have fun.”

  Fun. The word pricked a hole in her resolve. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done something just for fun. “Oh, all right. I’ll go. But only if you understand I’m not your date.”

  “Certainly not. Now, how about something to eat? My treat.”

  “On one condition.” She narrowed her eyes. “I get to pick the restaurant.”

  “Fair enough.” He shrugged, then seemed to have second thoughts. “As long as it’s not one of those pretentious places that puts weeds on a plate and calls it a salad.”

  “I thought you California types liked sprouts and field greens.”

  “Scurrilous lies and vicious slander.”

  She laughed. “In that case, you’re going to love this place.”

  Chapter 7

  “YOU’RE right, I love it,” Mike said over the din of noise the minute they stepped into Paddy’s Pub. Dark paneling and a green coffered ceiling gave the place the feel of an old Irish pub; a long, mirror-backed bar took up most of the back wall.

  As Kate led the way between the crowded tables, she greeted several waiters and customers by name. The woman operating the gleaming brass beer fountain looked up and smiled.

  “Kate!” the woman called, then laughed when she sloshed beer down the front of her Paddy’s Pub T-shirt. “Hang on, I’ll be right with you.”

  “Take your time,” Kate called back and motioned toward an empty booth in the corner. “We came for lunch.”

  “I take it you come here often,” Mike said as they slid into the corner booth upholstered in a faded cabbage-rose brocade. A stained-glass window beside them illuminated the scarred, wooden table.

  “I have to. My cousin Mary Pat is the owner.” She nodded toward the woman behind the bar.

  “Well, your cousin has a great place.” He looked around at the coat of arms over the unlit fireplace, the posters of Ireland, and pictures of people in famous locales around the world wearing Paddy’s Pub T-shirts. If he didn’t know they were in Texas, he’d swear they were in some neighborhood bar in Dublin. “Very authentic.”

  “It ought to be,” Kate said with pride. “Most of it comes straight from London—paneling, bar, and all.”

  “London?” He raised a brow. “I would have guessed Ireland.”

  “My mother and uncle grew up in Ireland, but they both moved to London when they were in their early twenties.”

  His curiosity perked up at the mention of her family. “Oh? What took them to London?”

  “Well now,” she said, taking on an Irish brogue, “Uncle Paddy would be having a bit of wanderlust, wouldn’t you know? And me ma, dear young lass that she was, fancied a better selection of suitors for herself than the lads back home.”

  He stared at her, enchanted. She was so fresh and animated when she let her guard down; and he realized this was the first time she truly had around him. “Is that where your parents met? London?”

  “Yep,” she said. “My father’s a professor of medieval history at UT. He met Mom while he was in England working on his doctoral thesis.”

  “When was that?”

  She cocked her head sideways. “Are you really interested in all this?”

  I’m interested in everything about you, he longed to say. Every single detail from the day you cut your first tooth to the name of every boy whose heart you broke. I want to know your favorite food, what music you like, and how I can make you scream with pleasure in bed. Most of all, I want to know who put that wary look in your eyes and what I can do to take it away.

  He shrugged as he took a menu from between the bottles of malted vinegar and Tabasco sauce. “I figure, as long as we’ll be working together, we might as well get to know each other.”

  “Makes sense.” She shrugged. “Although I think it’s more important for me to get to know you than the other way around, if I’m going to help you pick out the perfect wife.”

  “All right,” he agreed amiably. “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about this movie you’re working on?”

  “Ooo, dangerous topic.” He leaned back with his palms flat on the table.

  “Why’s that?”

  He narrowed his eyes. “First you tell me you don’t like men who are compulsive workaholics. Then you ask me the one question that is sure to keep me talking about my job for hours, bore you to tears, and convince you I’m a total lost cause.”

  Her laugh surprised him. “Then I’d say it’s the perfect topic, since I’m trying my best not to like you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “No reason.” She withdrew, her eyes haunted by old hurts.

  Cocking his head, he tried to tease her back to him with a smile. “Is it working?”

  “Maybe,” she said with a reluctant grin that told him she liked him in spite of her efforts not to. But then, he already knew that. He could feel it in the electricity that arched between them each time their eyes met. “So are you going to tell me about your movie project or not?”

  “That depends. Are you asking about the movie, or the project?”

  “Is there a difference?”

  “A huge difference,” he said. “The movie is just what people see up on the screen. The real story is what goes on behind the scenes.”

  “What is your part of the production?”

  “The best part.” Enthusiasm shot through him as it always did when he talked about his work. “The movie is titled The Seekers. It’s a sci-fi Western, sort of a Terminator meets the Wild West.”

  “Terminator meets the Wild West?” She laughed.

  “Yeah.” He leaned forward, folding his forearms on the table. “See, the seekers are these robots from the future that come back in time and kidnap women to help repopulate the planet. The main character is a woman from the present who is taken forward in time, then she escapes and tries to return home. Only, she overshoots her own time period, and winds
up back in the Old West, where she meets up with the owner of a Wild West show.”

  “Does the robot go after her?”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “There wouldn’t be a smash hit without lots of danger and suspense, not to mention a few hair-raising chase scenes, some mind-blowing explosions, and a few million dollars’ worth of special effects. And that is where I come in.”

  “You create the special effects, right?”

  “Not all of them. They have whole teams of people working together on this flick.” He rocked forward on his elbows and lowered his voice as if relaying a secret. “But I get to create the robot.”

  “Really?” She raised her brows playfully. “That is impressive.”

  “Yeah.” He held her gaze, enjoying the way he felt simply sitting with her like this, talking. If only he could lift a hand and run a fingertip lightly over her cheek. Her smile faded slowly as if she read his mind. Rather than turn away, she went very still and her breathing turned shallow. Tension coiled deep in his belly. He opened his mouth to speak, not sure what he meant to say. “Kate, I—”

  “Hey there, stranger,” someone said from behind him, breaking the moment.

  “Mary Pat!” Kate jumped, then rose with a nervous laugh to embrace her cousin.

  Stifling his frustration, Mike stood as well to greet the bar owner. Though taller and slimmer than Kate, she had the same copper-bright hair, which she wore in a short, spiky style around features that reminded him of an inquisitive fox.

  “How’ve you been?” Kate asked.

  “Busy, as always,” Mary Pat sighed. “About time you came by, though. I never see you since you moved out to the lake.”

  “Oh, pa-lease.” Kate jokingly rolled her eyes. “You sound like Mom and Dad. Besides, it’s not like the road only goes one way. You could always come see me.”

  “If only I had the tune.” Mary Pat glanced toward Mike and her eyes twinkled with curiosity. “So, are you going to introduce me?”

  “Sure.” Kate turned to Mike. “This is Mike Cameron.”

  “Cameron?” Mary Pat said as she offered her hand. “A good Gaelic name if ever I heard one.”

  “As Scottish as they come.” Mike winked as he shook her hand. “Though the blood’s thinned a bit since my grandfather sailed out of Glasgow as a deck-hand on a cargo ship.”

  “Oh, and a sailor too.” Mary Pat looked delighted at that.

  “Mary Pat.” Kate laughed. “We’re here to eat, not watch you drool.”

  “Well then.” Mary Pat grinned. “The special today is bangers ‘n’ mash. You like pub grub, Mike?”

  “Absolutely,” he answered.

  “How about ale?” She narrowed her eyes in a way that reminded him very much of Kate.

  “Are you kidding?” He grinned to let her know the answer was yes. “I prefer brown over blonde it you have it.”

  “Well, all right then. Have a seat.” She hollered their order toward the kitchen, then turned back. “You two enjoy your lunch. I’ve got to get back to work. And Kate, next time you drop by, bring that handsome man of yours, Dylan. I haven’t seen him in a gnat’s age.”

  Dylan? Mike’s mind stumbled over the name. Who the hell is Dylan? “I like your cousin,” he said absently as he took his seat.

  “Thanks.” Kate chuckled. “I kind of like her too. Most of the time.”

  “So ...” He drummed his fingers on the table. Dylan couldn’t possibly be a husband, could he? No, he dismissed that notion. If Kate were married, she surely would have mentioned it by now. A boyfriend, then? That would certainly explain her insistence that they not become involved. “So,” he started again, trying to sound casual. “Who’s Dylan?”

  “Hmm?” She glanced at him. “Oh, my son.”

  “Your ... son?” His head dropped forward as his brain tried to function around that bombshell.

  “Yeah.” Her expression softened with pride. “He’s seven, and the smartest kid in his class.”

  “Seven,” he repeated numbly. He wasn’t sure whether he felt shocked or relieved to learn Dylan was her son, not her lover. “I, um, take it the father is no longer in the picture?” He regretted the question instantly as he watched the wall of wariness drop back over her features.

  “Of course Edward is still in the picture ... when he cares to be, which isn’t often. We’re divorced.”

  “I see.”

  She eyed him with cool detachment. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “No, no problem. I just didn’t picture you as having a kid.” At least not one that isn’t mine. What an egotistical and ignorant assumption, he realized, as if she’d spent her whole life simply waiting for him to show up. God, he felt like a jerk.

  She leaned back in her seat. “I take it then that you don’t like children.”

  “No, I do,” he assured her. “I love kids. In fact, I’d like to meet him,”

  “No.” She shook her head slowly. “Definitely not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mike.” She folded her hands on the table. “I think we need to get one thing straight. I am working for you, temporarily, because, quite frankly, I have no choice. My personal life, however, is my own. Understood?”

  “Certainly,” he assured her, even as the words “have no choice” repeated in his head. How could he have been so stupid as to blackmail her into working for him? He debated how to fix that blunder without her walking out on him. He had to say something, though. “Kate, I, uh, have a confession to make.”

  “Oh?” If possible, her expression became even more guarded.

  “I ... lied, yesterday, when I said I’d bad-mouth your friend’s business if you refused to work for me.”

  She studied him a long time, then nodded slowly. “I already figured that out. You’re not cold-blooded enough to follow through with something like that.”

  He frowned in confusion. “But if you knew I was bluffing, why’d you say you had no choice about working for me?”

  “Honestly?” Her expression turned thoughtful. “Mostly because I need the money.”

  “Oh,” he said, not particularly liking the answer. He’d prefer she spent time with him because of the attraction between them, not because he was paying her.

  Their lunch arrived, and Mike spent the rest of the afternoon contemplating the possibility that the attraction wasn’t mutual. Maybe it was all one-sided, and he was setting himself up for a huge belly flop. By the time they returned to his house and parted company, he was more confused than he’d ever been in his life.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Mom?” Dylan said that night as he settled into bed. “Am I ever going to see Dad again?”

  Kate straightened from her task of picking up toys in the loft. “Of course you’ll see him again, sweetie. Why wouldn’t you?”

  Dylan’s narrow shoulders shrugged beneath his Winnie the Pooh pajamas. “Tomorrow’s Friday, right? The third Friday of the month?”

  “Oh, Dylan.” She came forward and sat on the bed facing him. She’d completely forgotten which weekend was coming up. In the two years since their divorce Edward had so rarely taken advantage of his visitation rights, she’d even stopped expecting him to call. A self-preservation measure, she supposed, to lessen the debilitating floods of anger. Reaching up, she brushed a black curl off Dylan’s forehead. “I know it’s hard, but you can’t take these things personally.”

  She nearly scoffed at her own words. How could a child not take it personally when a parent forgot they even existed?

  His mouth twisted to the side, and her heart twisted with it.

  “Dylan, I know I’ve told you before, but it really isn’t your fault Daddy would rather work than spend time with you. He just ... well, he just doesn’t know how to have fun. Not like you and me, eh?” She tried a smile, but felt it slip away. Somehow, the mention of fun made her think of Mike. She realized she’d enjoyed being with him today—and that she hadn’t enjoyed a man’s company in a long time.

 
“I guess.” Dylan covered his mouth and coughed.

  She tipped her head to study his face. He’d looked tired and pale since she’d picked him up from school. “How’s your chest feel?”

  “Okay.” He coughed again, making her wince at the deep, gravelly sound.

  “You think you need the nebulizer tonight?”

  Rather than argue, as he usually did, he nodded. She tried not to show alarm at his easy acquiescence as she prepared the small machine that sat on the nightstand. Flipping the switch, she handed him the breathing tube and watched as he placed it in his mouth like an oversized straw.

  “Which book do you want tonight?” she asked. From the time he was little, long before he could understand the words, she’d read to him while he inhaled the medicated mist.

  “The Rabbit Book,” he said around the tube, referring to one of his favorite books, Guess How Much I Love You by Sam McBratney.

  She retrieved the worn volume from the jumble of books on the rickety shelf and settled against the headboard beside him. The Mickey Mouse lamp enclosed them in a small circle of light. With the quiet hum of the nebulizer playing in the background, the rest of the world faded away as she read the words she knew by heart. Dylan’s small, warm body leaned against hers as he lost himself in the story. He smelled of bruised grass and little-boy sweat and the soap he’d used in a halfhearted effort before climbing into bed.

  At last she heard him sigh and felt his body go slack. The tube slipped out of his mouth. She checked her wristwatch to mark the length of his treatment. Fifteen minutes. Perfect.

  Closing the book, she quoted the last line as she kissed the top of Dylan’s head: “ ‘I love you right up to the moon—and back.’ ”

  She turned the machine off and sat in silence, absorbing the stillness of the cabin. With her son’s comforting weight against her, she should have felt content and full of life, and yet, she felt ... a void.

  She knew this emptiness all too well. It had started as a small ache that had widened into a bottomless chasm during the years of her marriage. Toward the end, she and Edward had merely gone through the motions of being married, living in the same house, sleeping in the same bed. They fell into a rhythm of him working sixty-plus hours a week and her frantically chasing an endless To Do list: managing the house, taking care of Dylan, and keeping up with her column. All things that Edward resented as taking her energy away from him. Looking back, she realized Edward had seen her as more his personal assistant than his partner in life. His needs had always come first, while hers didn’t even register on his radar.